Prologue
The feeling of the wooden pole cracking his soft back, had me giggling in pure joy. The asshole had tortured me for half a decade, and I was over being scared. Have you ever been so mad at someone you imagine using the Jaws of Life on their actual jaws? Ripping their skull off and using it as an ashtray for your after-sex cigarette with a man that can actually give a real orgasm... Just me?
I was a woman possessed after being pushed into doors and dressers and having phones and half-empty beer bottles thrown at my head... I couldn't stop swinging that pole if God himself stood in front of me and said to. He would just have to look on in envy. I was getting my pound of flesh from this fucktard one way or another.
So, there he lays, drunk and high after a few days on a bender. Going in and out of consciousness, either from lack of sleep or the drugs leaving his system. My sorry excuse for an ex. We had been together since I was eighteen ... five long years.
It wasn't bad in the beginning. He was older, and I thought he was more mature. It didn't take long for the drinking and drug use to become an issue. I would try to leave, and he would cry. He needed me. He was sorry. He would do better.
Then came the other women. I would soon become emotionally numb to that after the first few times I got pushed down on the floor for asking questions. Later it became normal to be held hostage in a bathroom or closet if I tried to leave or disagreed with him. I cooked his meal in a way he didn’t like. That deserved a drink in my face. I questioned where he was going? Got me locked in the closet for a few hours.
One day, five years after my hell on Earth started, he came in drunk, a common occurrence with him. Walking was almost impossible, much less putting up a fight. He fell on the bed, demanding food and sex. That was the last straw. It was like my psyche just snapped, and it wasn't me anymore... It was the crazy-ass, blood-seeking woman I knew I had to be. I found the wooden pole that he was going to use to prop the air conditioner up in the window. If you didn't know, some people live in trailers where the air conditioner is in the window and held up with a pole. That way, the whole window doesn't come crashing down on the air conditioner. Those things are expensive as fuck! It was long and sturdy with little give. It was like the best present I'd ever received. A sign from the universe that his time had come.
So, I just did what everyone wanted to do. I didn't kill him, but I'm sure he wished he was dead. I beat every single inch of him till he was nothing but a purple splotch on the bed. I didn't stop till the pole broke. He was lucky I didn't shove that stick right up his small dicked ass. Then, I grabbed the handful of clothes I was allowed to wear, got in the hatchback, rolled down the windows, and drove till the sun came up...
That's how I got here. I’m starting over, but not somewhere new. I’m going back to where it all started and where my next life will begin.
Chapter One: Ayida
Stepping up on the porch of the old Victorian-style house is like stepping right back into my childhood. I haven't been home in five years. Mom passed away six years ago. I didn’t want to come back here, but where else do I have to go?
I steady my nerves and knock on the heavy door. I hear the shuffling and muffled words right before it swings open. Bright green eyes now sit in heavy wrinkles. He has aged hard.
"You sure have changed. You gonna come in or just stand there, letting the cold out?" That's my dad, straight to the point. Ex-Navy SEAL and still lives by the code. The smell of starched shirts and menthol cigarettes rush back to me like an old friend.
My mom had been my best friend. My only friend. When she died, it put so much pressure on Dad, and he tried to step up. It wasn't his fault he didn't know about teenage girls or children in general. He was in his 70s when Momma passed. He did the best he could, but I was a wayward teen anyway. It didn't take me long to run when he got his new "friend" to help around the house barely a year after.
So here I am now. "Hey, Dad. How is the RV business going?" My dad might be ex-Navy, but he could sell ice in the Arctic. It's not that he is nice or even friendly looking. The man is scarier than anything Freddy Krueger could come up with.
"It's going. Why ya asking? Writing a book?" Aww, he is being so sweet, definitely going better than I thought it would.
"Nope, just wondering. How about Trish? She still stealing checks and gambling away her disability checks?" That earns me a chuckle. Said chuckle about knocks me over in astonishment.
"Hell, if I know. Haven't seen that nasty cunt in a few years." He still cusses like a sailor, I see.
"Well, what are you here for? I know it's not just to see my pretty face. Did you finally grow a pair and leave that shit head? What's his name again?"
"Robert, Dad, and yeah I left him alright. Left him beaten and bleeding in the bed." Without any warning, I get a slap on the shoulder.
"There is that Underhill blood coming out! I knew it would eventually. So, was he breathing when you left, or did you finish him the way your Old Man would?”
Did I mention my dad had also been in prison? Nothing violent, just money laundering for the Mob in the 70s. His violent crimes never even saw a courtroom. He didn't leave enough evidence. Believe it or not, it's easier to cover up blood and bodies than it is dirty money. "Dad, he is alive and probably very sore... I just had to escape. That's why I'm here. I didn’t know where else to go. I know you have ways to keep him away, so I never have to see him again."
I'm doing my best imitation of a 7-year-old me. He was my hero my whole childhood. I didn't know about all his extra activities until my mom passed. He would ride me on the lawn mower, and we’d share a bag of peanuts while sitting by the pond on the back of our land. We would watch the ducks, and he would play the harmonica and smoke a menthol. It was a perfect childhood. Now he is standing in front of me, hunched over from old age and a bad back. He’s giving me that stink eye he gives people on the fence about buying an RV.
"Are you done this time? If I take you in and teach you everything I know, you can't go back. This is your final chance to start new. Make sure this is what you want." He rubs his big hands over his face and turns towards the kitchen. “Have you eaten? I was going to make some fry bread if you want some?" Talk about bringing back childhood memories. I stand at the island in the kitchen, and it's like I'm sucked back to 1999.
My dad, flouring the surface and getting ready to roll out the dough, gives me a toothy smile. Smells and sounds make my memories come to life. Have you ever smelled bread dough frying in a pan? It's fucking magical. It's also part of my dad's Native American heritage. He doesn't talk about it much, but his grandmother was Choctaw, and his grandpa was straight French Cajun. That helps explain how we share the dark wavy hair and his green eyes. The most significant difference is our skin tones.
Where he is like old leather, tan and wrinkled, I'm pale and pink. I guess that's the one thing I got from my mom beside her small nose. My aunt says that side of the family was mostly French and Irish. Lots of pale skin and blonde hair. I'm snapped out of my thoughts when a plate drops in front of me. Delicious fry bread covered in butter and syrup. Dad takes his heritage lightly. I think the Navy taught him to put enough sugar on something, and it'll be good. I’m shoveling it in my mouth faster than a whore getting paid by how many ounces she can swallow. Let me tell you a determined woman can take a lot of cum if the price is right.