“Pack your shit. I want you gone by the time I get home from work,” Dad spat, unchaining the door and tossing the rusted padlock on the lawn. “If you ever step foot on my fucking property again, I will blow your nuts off with my forty-four.”

I could barely open my eyes, partly because I’d been crying, and partly because it was so bright outside. I shielded my face and felt the sun’s warm rays on my too-dry palm. ‘The Box’ had been so cold I’d spent most of my days curled up in a fetal position. Now that I could actually stretch my limbs out, white-hot pain seared every muscle, bone, and tendon in my body like a branding iron. I slumped forward and army-crawled toward the garden hose, which curled up like a shriveled snake at the edge of the pool. My knuckles were so raw from pounding on the door that I could hardly unfurl my fingers to turn on the tap. When sweet, cool water dribbled, then exploded from the end of the hose, I greedily tried to swallow every drop. The end result? I choked on the water so hard it came out of my nose and numbed my achy sinuses. Coughing and gagging into the grass, I heard his footsteps before I saw his shadowy figure loom over me.

“Get up.”

I tried to push myself up, but my arms were too weak. I thought the water would make me feel better. After all, the only thing I had drunken over the past three days were droplets of rainwater that had beaded on the wooden slats of the toolshed. If not for the rain, I probably would’ve died from dehydration. Yet, no matter how much water I drank, it was never enough. My thirst could never be slaked because it went beyond physiological need. I thirsted for vengeance and retribution. Thirsted for Dad’s suffering. I wanted him to feel a hundred times worse than me. But I had no idea how. Even if I did, I would have no means to do it. Thomas Ainsworth was the wealthy, Ivy-league educated senator of Oregon, and I, his scrawny son with anger problems and a history of drug abuse. Who would the corrupted courts believe?

“Get the fuck up,” Dad repeated, kicking my ribs. I heard him cock back the hammer of his .44 Magnum, a click I was all too familiar with.

I coughed again and somehow managed to stand up. My shoulders hunched, and the ends of my long hair dripped on to my dirty sneakers. When Dad took a step toward me, I automatically cowered like a bullied dog. “P-Please. Don’t.”

Dad swung the revolver at me, and it connected with my right ear. A distant ringing…then, “Go pack your shit. You should thank me for my generosity, you ungrateful cunt.”

“Th-thank you.” I knew that if I didn’t thank him and do what he said, there was a good chance he’d shoot me.

“I want you to disappear, you understand, boy? Never show your face here again. If you call the cops, try to find Nica, or do anything to jeopardize my career, I will destroy you. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” I grunted.

“You know what I’m capable of. Don’t test me.”

“I won’t.” He’d threatened me with half a dozen different weapons over the years. Almost blew my left foot off once. I knew he was volatile, and I wasn’t stupid enough to challenge him.

Without ever meeting his gaze, I wandered back to the house, as if in a dream. Everything still looked the same as it had three days ago, but I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. I’d ruined everything. My life. Nica’s life. Dad’s life. I trudged upstairs and caught a brief glimpse of the master bedroom. The king-sized bed was neatly made and the floors spotless. Had Nica come home? Had she asked about me? I wondered if Nica’s things were still in the closet. Nica. What did Dad do to her while I was locked up? Rape her? Beat her? Torture her? I wanted to know, so badly, but I was too afraid to ask.

If he laid a fucking finger on her…

I heard Dad’s Range Rover pull out of the driveway, its wheels crunching gravel.

Just like that, I was free. But I didn’t feel free. I would never be free again, because Dad’s voice, his scent, and his anger would haunt me everywhere I went for the rest of my life. There was no way he’d just let us go that easy. He was ready to stab us both. He was not one to forgive and forget. So if he didn’t kill me, he must’ve done something to Nica.

What did he do to my woman?

I rushed into my bedroom and rustled through my backpack, desperate to find my phone. It was gone. Of course it was. Luckily, I had Nica’s number memorized by heart. I stumbled downstairs and dialed it using the landline. It rang once. Twice. I hung up after five rings. I went back upstairs and looked for my laptop. Also gone. In fact, it soon dawned on me that most of my possessions were gone. Dad wanted to kick me out, and he made damn sure there was nothing left in the house I could pawn to make some quick cash. Where the fuck was I supposed to go? I’d turn eighteen in about three weeks. I should’ve had this shit planned out already. But I’d been so focused on my feelings…on Nica, that I didn’t think about the future.

The apartment. Maybe Nica had escaped, and she was waiting for me at the apartment we were planning to lease. But it was still occupied. The current tenants weren’t scheduled to leave for another two weeks. So where was she? At a friend’s place? Her parents lived in Alaska, so there was no way she’d flown there…especially since Dad was in charge of all the household finances and never gave either of us more than a hundred bucks a month in spending money. Credit cards were out of the question. And he made damn sure neither of us found jobs. It was his way of controlling every facet of our lives.

I stumbled into the bathroom, desperate to take a leak in a proper toilet for the first time in forty-eight hours. What I saw made me retch immediately. My stomach was empty of solids, so all I managed to vomit out was the water I’d gulped down fifteen minutes ago.

My Jack Russel. Cora’s stiff body was shoved head first into the toilet bowl. Her blood was splattered all over the pristine porcelain.

I stumbled out of the bathroom, nauseous, terrified, disgusted, enraged.

I. Couldn’t. Stop. Fucking. Shaking.

He’d kicked Cora around before and once threatened to kill her, but this time, this time he wanted to make sure I got the message.

I crashed against my wardrobe, fighting back exhaustion and tears. I needed to get out. Get far, far away. Someplace safe. Someplace he’d never find me.

After I filled a duffel bag full of clothes, I did a final sweep of the house, looking for something, anything I could take and sell for a quick buck. Nothing. The bastard had left behind nothing. Nica’s things were all gone. I prayed that meant he’d kicked her out too. If she was staying with a friend or family member, I could eventually track her down, and we’d finally be together. But something told me Dad wouldn’t have just given up his wife like that. Something told me he’d punish my stepmom first, in the cruelest way possible. He got off on others’ pain. Torturing and separating us would’ve given him the ultimate satisfaction. I ignored the sickened dread in my stomach and prayed I was wrong.

Once I was outside, I bade a silent farewell to my childhood home, one filled with unspeakable horrors and unimaginable pain. My childhood ended the day my mom died. The moment we lowered Mom’s casket into the ground, I knew that Dad would blame me and hurt me and use me for the rest of my pathetic life. And I was right. Dad was a father in name only. His behavior at home showed us the type of man he truly was: controlling, manipulative, abusive, and psychopathic. Worse still, he was an excellent liar and an even better actor. I just wish I’d seen through his deception sooner. I wish I’d spoken up to someone, anyone, about the things he did to me. But my silence, my obedience, fueled him, until his power became too great. Each time I chose to stay, each time I chose to swallow my suffering, I gave him permission to do it all over again. So he did.