As I enter the kitchen, I find that it is in an even worst state than the remainder of the house. What looks like a city dump in the living room is a full-on explosion of garbage in the kitchen. Every inch of the counter is consumed by dirty dishes and rotting food. The stench is a solid mass that hits like a blanket smothering your face as you plummet into the stench. There are mice feces all over the counters, and I’m suddenly very attuned to the scurrying sounds that surround me. I approach the file cabinet ready to hold my breath and dive into one more disgusting filth pit, but as I tug on the dusty old handle it doesn’t budge. Awesome. Locked. Of course it’s locked. I let go of another inanimate object tirade before completely throwing in the towel, and as I storm back into the living room still cursing, I walk right into the meanest man in the world. He looks more demon than man at the moment, and given the virtually empty whiskey bottle in his hand, I’m guessing he’s beyond the point of any sense and reason.
As I stumble backward into the kitchen, he grabs me with one hand around my throat and virtually throws me back into the living room. I hit the side of the recliner and fall over it to the ground. I’m on the opposite side of the chair from him, but trapped in the living room with no way to skirt around him quick enough to get out the front door. As I pull myself up from the floor, he moves around the recliner and grabs me by the throat once again. He squeezes tight, and I’m suddenly overcome by images of myself being choked to death. The sting of the constricted air passage sets my brain to panic mode, and just when the pulsing vibrations of hypoxia start to take over my brain, he punches me hard on the temple. The very best thing I can say about being punched is that it forces me out of his suffocating death grip.
I fall back, hitting my head hard on a wall shelf behind me, but not hard enough to knock me out completely. I’m almost upset I’m not unconscious at this point. I thought people weren’t supposed to feel pain when their bodies were in fight or flight mode. Instead, I can feel every last ache and throb. My eye feels like it’s outside of my socket, the back of my head feels like it’s going to explode, and my throat is still burning with fire. As I fall to the floor on my knees, grasping the back of my head, his foot makes first contact with my gut, and what little breath I’d regained from being nearly choked to unconsciousness is forced back out of my lungs, leaving me gasping loudly and desperately for air. And before I can regain any use of my lungs, the next kick lands in nearly the same place.
I now crumble to the floor, unable to support my body any longer. As kick after kick lands, I continue to beg my body to take in air, but with every second I’m losing a fighting battle, and what little air I manage to gulp down is horribly expelled from my chest every time his foot makes contact with my abdomen. With every kick, I’m getting further and further away from consciousness. And as my consciousness fades, so, too, does the pain, and I’m only slightly aware of the thudding sound that his foot makes as it meets my body.
Suddenly the dull thudding stops, and I can feel myself being pulled by my ponytail across the carpet. The carpet is burning my face, and I’m losing hair in ripping clumps as he pulls me along. But every sense is dulled, and while I know what I should be feeling is excruciating, I’m struggling to feel anything at all at this point. And a very sad and defeated part of my mind is resigned to the fact this likely means the end must be near. Logan’s face comes to the front of my mind, and as my father’s torment continues I focus on Logan. I know now I won’t see him again, and I regret in a way that is nearly unbearable that I ever let him slip away. But relief is coming soon.
Death will take me and end the pain and sadness I feel for my loss, and I’m thankful the suffering will be over soon. I hear the zing of scissor blades as he pulls me by my ponytail upright. I’m hanging limply from my ponytail, the hairs tearing from my scalp as the weight of my body is too much for the thin strands to bear. And as I wait for the stab of the scissors, wondering where he’ll mutilate me and how he’ll kill me, I hear instead the scissors releasing me from the hanging force of my ponytail. Once he’s cut through my ponytail, shearing off my long hair, I collapse back to the floor. In my numb haze, I wonder why he cut my hair off. Perhaps he wants me as ugly and repulsive as possible in my casket.
He throws the scissors against the wall, yelling every awful thing he thinks about me. He then returns to me and pulls me to an awkward sitting position by the remaining hair of my head. My arms are slack at my side, and I can’t even move them. There is a warm burning in the lower part of my diaphragm I’m sure is bad news. And as I gaze foggily up into his monstrous face, I block it out and focus on Logan. His smile. I will miss it above all else. This will be hard on him. I can feel his anguish already. He’ll feel responsible, and I won’t be here to reassure him he’s not. As my father’s face comes back into focus, I hear him call me a particularly ugly string of epithets before backhanding me across the face so hard my head sails into the very same file cabinet I was kicking mere minutes ago.
My vision is blurring with every passing second and darkness is crowding in from the periphery of my sight. I crave the darkness, the end, and I spend the last of my consciousness remembering my favorite parts of life—my mother, meeting Sara, the day I found out about my scholarship, Grand Haven, and every other amazing night I spent with Logan. And as I drift off to the dull incessant thud of my limp body being kicked repeatedly, the pulsing electric buzzing in my brain returns, and my world fades to black.
Chapter 26
I’ve been immersed in pre-trial research on a fairly high profile case for the better part of the past few weeks, and it has been a relief to keep busy. My life revolves around work, and I leave no time for anything else because everything else means misery. Work at least gives me something to focus on other than Rowan.
One of the partners has become determined to set me up with her daughter, and while I dodge the question as often as I can, she doesn’t seem to be taking the hint. I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before I’m ready to meet people, date, or even start a relationship. The idea of being with anyone but Rowan right now is offensive and sickening, but at some point that feeling must go away. At some point I have to get past this, don’t I? But not yet. Not even close.
I sit in my office overlooking the skyline of Denver and zone out, thinking about her for a while. Immersion in work only gets you so far. Sometimes she enters my mind, and I’m powerless to do anything but give into it and enjoy the memories—even if only temporarily. But the joy of her memory ends when reality creeps back up on me, and it is then the depression hits the hardest. But this Rowan memory spell is interrupted as my phone rings, jolting me back to reality. I pick up, resenting the asshole on the other end of the line who has interrupted my fantasies.
“Hello.” I fight to keep the irritation from coming through in my voice, but I’m sure it does.
“Hi Logan.” The voice is choked up and emotional—exhausted even. It’s my mom.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Is Sara okay? Where’s dad?”
“Logan, it’s Row. Something’s happened. She’s in intensive care. Yesterday afternoon … I should have called sooner. I’m sorry, it’s just … it’s just been so hectic. It was touch and go last night, and Sara is so upset and won’t leave the hospital. Um…”