I don’t know how to cook. No one cooks with regularity in this house. Sometimes my mother does it, grudgingly. More often Randall orders in, or we scrounge leftovers out of the fridge.
After rummaging frantically into the cabinets and the fridge, I decide on spaghetti.
Before I’ve even filled the pot with water, Randall is already barking criticism at me from the kitchen doorway.
“That’s not enough water.”
“Why isn’t it boiling yet?”
“No salt? Perfect—assuming you want your spaghetti bland as plaster.”
“Don’t break the noodles, are you fucking stupid?”
He doesn’t tell me what I should be doing. How am I supposed to make the noodles fit into the pot when they’re too long and apparently can’t be broken? Desperately, I poke them with a spoon, trying to get them to sink beneath the bubbling water.
The noodles bend and I’m able to close the lid of the pot. Moments later, it boils over, dousing the stove top in foaming pasta water.
“You fucking idiot!” Randall roars.
He yanks the lid off the pot, turning the heat down.
I want to scream at him to do it himself if he’s such a culinary genius. Because I want to keep my head on my shoulders, I bite my lip until it’s bleeding, hiding my face in the fridge as I search for the shaker of Parmesan cheese.
Randall has lapsed into sullen silence, furiously wrenching the lid off the jar of sauce and dumping it into the pot so hard that it splashes out on the kitchen tiles.
“Clean that up,” he orders.
I have to get down on my hands and knees to mop up the sauce with a damp paper towel. I can feel him watching me crawl around, wiping up every last spatter.
I have a horrible feeling that he’s angry enough to tip that pot of boiling noodles onto my back. As quickly as I can, I finish cleaning and throw away the paper towels.
I set the table for three, hoping, praying, that my mother is on her way home.
My throat is too tight to eat. Randall takes one bite and then spits the noodles out and shoves away his plate.
“Tastes like fucking play-dough,” he snarls. “How much salt did you put in there?”
“I don’t know,” I sob miserably.
He glowers at me, his pale, piggy eyes almost disappearing beneath the heavy shelf of his brow.
“You’re as useless as your mother. The only thing on this earth she’s good at is sucking cock. Did you know that, Mara? Did you know your mother is a world-class cocksucker?”
There’s no answer to this that won’t enrage him. All I can do is stare at my plate, guts churning, hands shaking in my lap.
“How do you think a woman gets good at that?” he demands.
When I remain silent, he slams his fists against the table top, making me jump.
“ANSWER ME!”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly.
“Practice, Mara. So much practice. I should have known the first time she put my cock in her mouth, looking up at me, smiling like a professional. I should have known then she was nothing but a whore.”
The thought of Randall’s wrinkly old cock brings me to the edge of vomiting. I have to swallow down the bile, my eyes fixed firmly on my plate. This is the only form of resistance now—staying quiet. Ignoring him. Not giving him anything that will justify what he actually wants to do.
He knows this, too.
Now we’re at the part of the night where he will do whatever it takes to break me.
He stands up, stalking over to me, looming over me. Invading my space, breathing on the top of my head.
“Is that your plan?” he grunts, each breath coming out in a hot puff that stirs my hair, that makes my stomach churn. He’s heavy and his breathing is even heavier. I can hear it all over the house, anywhere he goes. “I’ve seen your grades. You’re not gonna be a doctor, or a lawyer. I doubt you could bag groceries right.”
He’s leaning over me now. Trying to force me to move or make a sound. Trying to get me to crack.
“No, there’s only one career path for you.” His chuckle is cruel, sending spit flicking out onto my cheek as he bends even closer. “You’ll be sucking cock, morning, afternoon, and evening. Just like your mother.”
He puts his finger in his mouth and wets it with a loud pop. Then he jams it in my ear.
That’s what makes me snap.
I leap out of my chair, already screaming at him, “DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOUUUUUUUUU!”
My scream is cut off by Randall’s hand hitting my ear in a slap that sends me flying into the wall just like he did to my mother at their wedding breakfast.