Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
I lunge. All of the pent-up anger and pain roars out of me like a freight train wholly directed at Henry Shaw.
“You fucking piece of garbage,” I spit as my hands encircle his neck. I’ll squeeze the fucking life out of him for talking about Mom, for saying shit about Kat.
Henry fights back like he’s been waiting his whole life to hit me. His fist catches my temple, and I let go, but I rebound quickly and land an uppercut to his jaw.
Henry kicks my shin like we’re two seven-year-olds in the schoolyard, and I land another on his insipid face, right in the mouth. Teach him to speak ill with Kat’s name on his tongue.
“What in the world has gotten into you two?” Mr. Shaw bellows from the doorway.
We both lower our fists, and Henry looks at the floor, where his blood drips down onto the white tiles.
I make eye contact with Shaw, unashamed of my actions. “He’s talking shit about my mom before the dirt’s even settled.”
But I know as soon as the words leave my lips that it’s no excuse for fighting in a household where my position isn’t secure.
“So walk away, boy. Don’t engage in this nonsense. Dogs fight to establish social standing. You’re both better than that. And as for you, my son, perhaps the funeral was triggering. But don’t take it out on your brother, for Christ’s sake.”
I see Henry’s reaction to the word “brother.” A slight furrowing of the brow, a cringe that registers in his jaw. He’d just as soon renounce his Shaw name than accept me as part of his family. Henry’s blood runs blue, and he’s disgusted by the very idea of having to share a title with a plebe who hasn’t got something material to offer. Henry doesn’t waste his time on people he doesn’t think won’t help him get ahead.
We are fundamentally different. To him, life is an opportunity to seize. To me, it’s a gift.
“Go on upstairs, Henry, and check on your sister. I’ll try to find a punishment suitable for Heath,” Shaw muses.
“Send him back to where he came from,” Henry glowers.
He’s got a hand towel to his lip which is progressively growing fatter. I want to growl that distancing myself from him would be a pleasure and not a punishment, but I’m already afraid that’s coming, so decide to say nothing.
“Son, I cannot have the two of you fighting,” Shaw says. He shakes his head in dismay.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I say.
“I used to take a belt to Henry when he was young. That was the only recourse I had to keep him in line.”
“I know how to take a beating, if you must,” I tell him bravely.
I’ve been hit in the face plenty of times, but I’ve never had a spanking. There’s a first time for everything, and no reason why that first time shouldn’t be the day you bury your mother.
Maybe the physical pain will release some of my torment. My adrenaline rushes as Mr. Shaw reaches for his belt with a buckle that bears the family insignia.
I lean into the kitchen island in preparation. If I’m a Shaw, it means one hundred percent, and I’ve got to accept whatever they dole out. Beggars can’t be choosers or expect to escape punishment.
“I’m not going to beat you on the day we laid your mother to rest,” Shaw tells me.
“I deserve it. I was out of line. It’ll make us both feel better,” I encourage him.
I tear my t-shirt over my head to show him my submission. Mr. Shaw sighs and then undoes his belt.
I close my eyes and see Mom’s smiling face leaning over the tub when I was a toddler. She’d bop my nose with her finger, grab my chin, and gaze into my face before landing a kiss on my lips. Her hair was auburn and curly, her eyes a deep cerulean that looked like the sea on a rainy day.
“Fuck!” I moan, and spittle flies out of my mouth with the force of the blow.
I wipe my lips and brace myself for the next. Getting hit with a belt is no fucking joke. Shaw grunts with his work like he’s under duress from the sheer physical labor of beating my ass. No wonder Henry is stubborn and hateful. I count four blows and hold my breath, hoping his end goal is five.
Each strike hurts progressively more, building on the tender and torn flesh.
Five! Shaw tosses the belt to the imported tile, where it skids across the floor. It takes everything in me not to turn and knock my benefactor out with a blow straight to the nose.
“Lesson learned,” I choke. “It won’t happen again.”
Shaw is so red in the face he looks purple, and his chest heaves in exertion. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but he waves me away because the moment is too awkward.