Tell me why I like to treat you like this.
“Tell me why you want me to hurt you, when your fucking mother does enough of that for you.”
Tell me why I want to hurt you.
“Tell me why you’re fucking starving for attention.”
Tell me why I am, too.
“Tell me why you want to get out of your fucking head, Ella.”
Tell me it’s for the same reasons I do.
“You hate yourself that much, huh?”
Tell me I’m not alone.
“You fucking hate your life? You wish you were someone else? Anyone else? You wish you hadn’t done what you’ve done? You wanna start over? You want to be someone somebody could love?”
I twist around, throw the knife across the fucking room, a strangled cry coming from somewhere deep inside of me. The knife clatters to the floor. I grab her by the throat, jerk her into me and smooth back her hair as her eyes fly open, locking on mine.
Malachi was running, because she was coming after him next. He was running, and my mouth was dry. My stomach hurt. I was…empty. My eyes adjusted to the bright lights outside of the closet, and my pants stuck to me, wet and cold. She was laughing, and I heard their footsteps on the stairs.
I couldn’t hear him, save for his quick little feet.
Just her.
She’d thrown the closet open after I’d been in there for so long, the day had slipped into night and then morning. I could see it, the sun rising outside of the bay windows of my parents’ house.
I pushed myself to my feet, feeling woozy.
Malachi.
I ran after him, even though the world was spinning. I sprinted up those steps so fast my shaky legs were burning, but I saw her. Saw her maid outfit, the black hem of her skirt just above her stout ankles. I saw veins in her calves.
I heard her laugh again and I wanted to die.
But she wasn’t going to hurt him. She wasn’t going to get to him. She wasn’t going to put him in that closet.
I flew under her arms, and she tried to grab my shirt, but she got a hold of my shorts instead. She screamed, feeling how I’d soaked myself in that closet, and she let go, and I kept going.
I saw his blonde head, his little legs churning as fast as he could, but she was still after us.
“Keep going, Mal!”
He looked back, and there was a slow grin on his face as he saw it was me. His big brother. I’d come to save him.
But he listened. He pumped his arms, his striped shirt loose on his small body, and he kept going. He skidded down the hall, into my parents’ room. I watched as he threw open the balcony, and I glanced back.
She was only a few feet from me, her eyes bright with joy.
Joy at our fear.
I turned back around, kept running.
Malachi was on the balcony, his back against the railing as he stood on one of the wicker chairs from the patio set my parents had their breakfast on every morning they were here.
“No!” I screamed. “Get down!”
But I kept running.
And she kept running.
And when I reached the balcony, I felt her fingers grasp my shirt, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t let her take him, too. Not again. I couldn’t listen to his screams in that closet. Listen to his little fists beat against the door. His feet kicking against the wood while she laughed.
I couldn’t.
I didn’t stop running.
I didn’t push him.
But I didn’t stop running.
“Maverick!”
Someone’s arms are wrapped around my back, gentle against my bare skin. I’m on the floor in the kitchen. I see the knife at the far end, underneath the lip of the cabinet.
“Maverick.” Her voice is softer this time, my head against her shoulder, her hair tickling my face.
I squeeze her tighter, my arms around her, too. “Ella.”
“Maverick,” she whispers, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to look at my face.
“Ella,” I say her name again, and breathe her in, pulling her into my lap. She straddles me, leaning against my chest as I hold her. And she holds me, too.
My body is hot, uncomfortable. I want to crawl out of my own skin but I force myself to stay where I am. To not move. Not fidget. I remember throwing the knife. I remember getting on the floor, too. Remember pulling her to me. Holding her tight.
It wasn’t a flashback.
What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?
It was just me. Reliving it. So I never forget.
“I’m sorry.” The words sound strange. Feel strange. But I mean them.
She shakes her head against my shoulder. “No.”
I frown, but don’t argue.
She exhales against my shoulder, her breath warm against my skin. She feels so good in my lap, just like this. I meant what I told her.
I do own her.
But right now, she owns me, too, and it’s gonna hurt like hell to give her up.
“Tell me, Mavy. Tell me a secret.”
What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?
“I killed my brother.”
She goes still in my arms. I close my eyes, holding her tighter. Don’t get up. Please don’t get up. Please don’t leave.
She doesn’t. She doesn’t speak.
“Please don’t ask me questions.” I can’t tell her my other pleas. I’m not that brave, so I stick to this one. “Please don’t. Not now.”
Slowly, she nods, but doesn’t say a word.
“And you?” I prod her, hating the silence, not wanting her to ask. Not wanting to tell. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, baby?” I stroke her hair with one hand, keep her pressing against me with the other as I lean back against the door of the oven, still warm from the cookies inside.
She takes a deep breath. Exhales. “I fell in love with my mom’s boyfriend.”
“Is he the one that hurt you?”
She tenses in my arms.
“It’s okay.”
She doesn’t speak.
“Did he hurt you, Ella?”
Silence.
“I got hurt, too. By my…nanny.” My throat feels thick, scratchy. I’ve never said that out loud. “It’s okay, Ella.”
“More than once. And I wanted it,” she blurts out.
I keep stroking her hair, squeeze my eyes shut.
“I wanted it,” she whispers again. “When Mom was out. I wanted him to. But he was…” she trails off.
I hug her tighter to my chest.
“He was rough.”
“I’m rough.”
“Does that make me…wrong?”
I almost laugh. I’m the wrong person to be asking about that. “No, baby. It makes you…a product of psychology.”
She pulls away from me, and I see tears gleaming in those green eyes. Tears, and a smile curling on her lips. Then she cups my face, bursting into laughter. “A product of psychology?” she mocks me.
I smile back at her.
The timer for the cookies goes off, and I inhale the sweet, warm scent.
She stares at me, and I don’t move.
A tear falls down her freckled face.
I brush it away with my thumb, the timer still bleating behind us. “If we’re gonna keep talking about this, we need to eat first, so I can be sure to puke my guts out at the thought of anyone else ever touching you like I do again.”