My upper lip curls in disgust, and a hatred unlike anything I've felt before consumes me. It's so potent that the only way for my body to process it is to shake violently.
It's not just wrath.
It's pure fucking murderous rage.
To sell me is one thing.
But to sell a baby?
I have no words for how fucking evil that is. No words to describe how decrepit a soul must be to condemn a child so willingly in such a horrific way.
My vision grows spotty with fury, and I set Layla down in the crib as calmly as possible. She lets out a cry of protest, raising her arms and squeezing her tiny hands for me to pick her up again.
“I'll be right here, baby. It's okay,” I assure her gently, even though my words tremble.
That doesn't soothe her. But more than anything, I need to get this vile man away from her.
She doesn't deserve to witness what I plan on doing to him. No child should ever see that.
“Let's go downstairs and discuss this. Otherwise, I’ll call Rocco myself and tell him you kidnapped me back.”
He scoffs out a laugh. “You think they'll believe that?”
“You're right,” I agree mockingly. “You're too stupid. I'll tell them I escaped, and you tried selling me off to another fucking pedophile ring. They'll still take us, then they'll kill you, too.”
Suddenly, his mouth twists into a scathing snarl. He glances up and down my form, his muddy brown eyes filled with loathing. Silently, he jerks his head toward the hallway, then stalks off toward the staircase.
“I'll be right back, pretty girl,” I murmur absently, white noise flooding my brain.
There is no clear thought in my head, just a loud ringing. Woodenly, I follow him, gently shutting Layla's door behind me. I'm not sure if she can climb out of her crib or not, but she's still too little to reach the doorknob. She won't be able to get out.
I reach the top of the steps and stare down them blankly, understanding that he's waiting for me and what this discussion is going to come down to, yet unable to find a conscience to stop myself.
I exhale and make my way down the stairs, finding my dad waiting in the kitchen. He's leaning against the counter, sipping out of the same mug he's always drank out of. Coffee and a shot of Jack Daniels.
“Your mom used to make me lunch for work. Gotta admit, I miss 'er for that, at least,” he comments casually, finishing with a chuckle.
He's pretending that we will be engaging in a civil conversation, but he's as tense as I am. He thinks he's going to win, and for the second time in my life, I'll wake up in the back of a stranger's van.
This time, with my baby sister beside me.
“What is it you think you're goin' to do, hm?” he questions, amusement glimmering in his dead eyes. “You think you can hurt me?”
He laughs while I edge toward a tiny round table in the corner of the room, where Mom used to sit every morning, smoking a cigarette and drinking her own coffee and whiskey.
“I think I've faced men far scarier than you and survived.”
“You sure about that?” he challenges.
His smile dims, and his gaze slides over to the scar beneath my eye. The very one he gave me when I was ten years old.
I remember that night vividly. Back then, he still had teeth, and he lost his mind to whatever drug he injected into his veins.
He left them all over my body when he raped me.
He, on the other hand, has no recollection of it. If it wasn't for my mom bearing witness to it, he'd be convinced it was someone else. She was also drugged and too delirious to stop him.
Afterward, when Dad attempted to deny it, that was the only moment Mom stood up for me by screaming at him for hurting me. Not because I was assaulted, but because she'd have to explain the bite on my face to the school. The others covering my body could be hidden, just not that one.
Later, she spit on me for trying to steal her husband. As if he wasn't my own father.
Ultimately, it became the result of a play date gone wrong with a nonexistent cousin who had aggression issues. Despite that, it didn't look like a kid's bite; the school believed them, and it was never addressed again.
I cock my head, leaning against the table behind me and resting my linked hands on top. “Do you think a bite to the face is the worst thing that's been done to me? I've lived through so much worse, Dad.”
He sets his cup on the crowded countertop, and his features slacken into a monstrous expression. Chin dropped, mouth hanging open, and an evil glare beneath his eyebrows.
“Not yet, ya haven't,” he threatens darkly.
He edges toward me casually, as if he isn't planning my death. Not by his hands, of course. But by the highest bidder's. While he snorts, smokes, and injects the only form of happiness he's ever felt. Until escaping reality becomes eternal.