Page 17 of Ready Or Not
“Awww baby, come here.”
I stand, frozen. Every time I go there, he makes me feel good, but I feel like I did something wrong.
“Rachel,” Papa says with that soft voice. “It’s not nice to disobey. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
I clench my fingers. I want to tell him that I don’t care if I hurt his feelings. But I don’t.
“I’m going to count to three. If you don’t come here, I’ll tell your mom what a bad girl you’re being.”
I swallow. I don’t want to be a bad girl. I always try so hard to be good. Slowly, I creep over to his armchair.
“Come here, sweet girl.” Papa reaches out his hands. As soon as his hand closes over my arm, I feel the touch everywhere. It’s overwhelming, and it hurts, even though he isn’t squeezing.
“Show me where it hurts.” Papa brushes his other hand down my hair. His hands are rough and calloused. He says it’s from all the hunting and skinning he does. Momma likes it, says we have to go grocery shopping less, but I hate it. I hate seeing the dead carcasses left in our backfield to rot. The poor animals are stripped of their life so cruelly. Sometimes, I keep and cleanthe skulls, then line them up along the back of the house. Feels better than to let them rot.
“Rachel.” Papa’s voice is soft, and he tips my chin up to look at him. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can feel the green corduroy of the chair against my legs, and it makes me want to scratch my skin off.
“Tell me where.” His hands roam down my arms.
“My head.” I still don’t open my eyes.
“Poor baby.” He scoots forward, pulling me up on his lap. I go stiff, hating the smell of old smoke. Hating how gentle he is. He’s always gentle, but everything still feels wrong.
“Let Papa make it better.” His hands start roaming softly.
“Medicine,” I choke out.
“What do you feel?” Papa’s hands roam lower, and he kisses the top of my head softly.
My tummy hurts. I dig my fingertips into my palms. The little bit of pain helps me. Helps when I’m confused.
“Tell me what you feel,” Papa demands.
“Sad.”
“Poor baby. I’ll kiss it better.”
When his hands brush down under my PJ bottoms, I dig my fingers in deeper. He always makes it feel better. But then I feel worse.
8
Invincible - Adelitas Way
Manson: Thought I could get a little more use out of your pet.
The text is sent with a picture of Manson pointing a gun at Rachel. She’s looking with those big doe eyes at the camera.
I shoot up from my chair. “What in the ever-loving fuck?” What is Manson doing? Before I can think, I throw my chair across my garage, and it clatters into the wall with a crack.
Manson is messing with my toy.Mytoy. I told him to kill her, not fuck with her.
Rage—the only true emotion I feel—flows through me. I don’t feel most things. Haven’t since I was a kid. According to society, that’s made me do some fucked up things. Fuck society. They’re a bunch of group-thinking morons. The things I’ve done have always had a purpose. Even if that purpose was to kill my never-ending boredom.
But Manson? Manson is another beast entirely. He’s extreme, even to my standards. Especially when it comes to me.
Me: You’re pathetic.
My hands shake. Always. He always has to butt his way into every single part of my life. If there’s one emotion I feel every day, it’s hatred for Manson Kennedy.