from wood. The initials M. D. S. are engraved in the hilt. Michela Di Santo.
When I close it, it fits in my hand. I should be able to hide it in a pocket easily. As long as he doesn’t search me, that is.
I get up to turn out the light in the room, take the bottle of whiskey, and sit back down, facing out the enormous window. I don’t want anyone who might be outside to see me in here, so I need to keep the light out.
Liam is right. I need to be strong. I can’t give up, not if I want to survive. I can’t let them break any other part of me.
I take a long sip from the bottle, having to force the burning liquid down. My fingers trace the pattern of the wooden hilt absently as I stare out into the dark night. I want to know what’s out there in those woods. Both Damian and his brother know about whatever it is.
Did Damian know what would happen tonight? Did he know about the little welcome party? About the bloody sheet being shown to them all.
God, the humiliation.
And the little boy. Bennie? I glance back at the wrinkled, discarded drawing on the bed. I didn’t even look at it really. How afraid must he have been tonight to see his uncles at each other’s throats. To see me as I was.
Does he wonder about the skin of his mother’s back? He’s too young. He wouldn’t know, not yet, but he will ask when he gets older. What will she tell him? That his uncle is responsible?
Did he whip her? That’s the only way to get those lines, I think.
I need to be careful with him. If he’ll do that to his own flesh and blood, what would he do to me?
I squeeze the knife in my hand.
Michela didn’t need to tell me to use it if I had to. I won’t hesitate.
I grin, drink, and listen to whiskey slosh in the bottle as I remember that I’ve already stabbed Damian once. And his punishment was four spanks. He told me I was getting off easy, but four spanks compared to what I saw on Michela’s back is more than easy.
And I realize something.
He won’t hurt me like that. I don’t know why I think that, but I do.
The wind rustles the trees outside. I stand, go to the window, and look down at the garden. There’s a pool in the distance. It looks like it’s been covered over for years. Somehow, I don’t see this family lounging out by the pool on a hot summer day. I can’t see them relaxing together at all.
The overgrown garden has not been maintained for a long while now. I can’t see the path we took to the church from here, but the grass was overgrown there too.
My mind wanders to Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. How the house crumbled down around the family. How, as the family died off, so did the house.
I shudder, then take another drink. I drop the switchblade on the bed and walk to the closet to get dressed. I’m naked but for the robe and my hair is wet. I know I should stop with the whiskey when I stumble just as I reach the closet door. I haven’t eaten since lunch.
I set the bottle down and switch on the light in the closet. I look around at all the clothes. My clothes. He bought these things for me.
He has a weakness for you.
Does he?
I spy his sweater on the floor in the corner. I’d tossed it in there after he’d left it behind that first night. Or was it the second night? I can’t even remember.
Picking it up, I bring it to my nose. It’s soft. Cashmere wool blend. And it smells like him.
For reasons I can’t understand, I slip off my robe and put his sweater on. It’s huge on me, comes to the tops of my thighs, and I keep having to push the sleeves up. It feels good on, though. Comforting somehow. Like he’s holding me.
I inhale deeply. I like his smell. I smell like him now.
Christ.
I shake my head because maybe I have a weakness for him, too.
Taking the bottle, I go back into the bedroom. I drink some more as I rummage through the drawer of underwear. He likes lace.
I pick a bright red string with a triangle of lace at the front.