Between Never and Forever by Brit Benson

3

I slipout of Levi’s house as the sun starts to come up. Quietly, so I don’t wake up his kraken of a mother.

She’s such a jerk. She thinks I’m going to corrupt Levi or something.

My lips twitch and I laugh softly. I mean, she’s not wrong, I guess. I did just climb out of his bedroom window after sleeping over. I’m back in my soaked jeans and t-shirt, but just a few minutes ago I was wearing Levi’s pjs, too.

But still. What’s she think I’m gonna do? Have sex with him? Use him as a human sacrifice? Brainwash him into joining a satanic cult?

No, thank you. None of that interests me.

I kick a rock on the sidewalk. I hate that she hates me. But I hate it even more because she’s probably right to hate me. I just wish it didn’t make it so hard to be friends with the only person I can tolerate in this stupid freaking town.

I kick another rock and try to ignore the way my shoes squish with each step, and how I can feel blisters forming on my heels. I shouldn’t have been out in the storm last night, but I really didn’t have much choice.

Screw up my only pair of shoes or stay at the house for worse.

No shoes are worth it.

I cross town in silence, moving from smooth pavement, sidewalks, and streetlights to dirty grass, cracks, and darkness. It’s crazy the difference a mile can make. The houses get smaller, the weeds taller, until I reach my block of single-wides. I step off the road and cut through a few of the neighbors’ yards. It’s getting lighter as the sun rises, and I don’t want to be seen.

Not that I will be. They’re probably passed out. If I was a lucky person, which I’m not, they’d both be dead.

I slow my steps to a crawl as I enter the yard of the house next to mine, tiptoeing carefully so I don’t scrunch the grass. I check the front of the house and note that there are no extra cars at the curb, which means Terry hasn’t brought any of his friends over. I hold my breath to listen, and when I’m met with silence, I pick up my pace until I’m at my window. Slowly, I push it open until I can fit my body through. Lifting myself over the ledge hurts more than usual, my side throbbing with heat and pain, but I don’t stop until I’m crouching on the floor of my bedroom. I pause again to listen, waiting to see if anyone heard me come in.

Still silence.

I move quickly, stripping out of my wet clothes and changing into dry ones. My heel is bleeding, so I put on two pairs of socks, and I stifle a groan as I slip my feet back into my wet shoes. Then my stomach rumbles. I try to remember the last time I ate. Definitely not yesterday.

I tiptoe to my door and put my ear against it. It still sounds quiet, so I turn the knob and push it open just far enough to peek through the crack.

The scent of cigarettes, stale beer, and something chemical hits me immediately. The smell always seems stronger after I’ve stayed the night at Levi’s or The Pit, and it takes me a minute to adjust. The curtains are pulled shut over the windows and there isn’t a single light on in the house, but I can hear snoring coming from the living room.

The living room I’d have to walk through to get to the kitchen.

I pull the door shut again and rest my forehead against the wood. I can’t risk it. I’m screwed if he wakes up because I can’t run fast with my side all beat to hell the way it is. My stomach rumbles again, the hunger ache mixing with the pain from my side, and I blow a harsh breath through my nose.

Three more years.

I just have to make it three more years.

Then I’ll be eighteen with a high school diploma, and I can tell my mom and her skeezy, asshole boyfriend to fuck off. I’ll never have to see either of them again.

I can do this for three more years.

I stalk toward my bed, pull my backpack out from underneath it, and crawl back out my window into the early morning. The bus won’t be at Levi’s stop for a couple hours, but I don’t want to be in my house. At least it’s not raining anymore.

I consider walking the few blocks to the river but decide against it.

Instead, I cross the street and walk to the small neighborhood park that’s about halfway between my place and Levi’s. I sit on one of the rickety swings, and my wet shoes squish as I push off the ground. My hands grip tightly at the chains and my legs pump hard until I’m soaring high. I close my eyes, feeling the wind whooshing over my skin and through my clothes.

I get high enough that when I reach the farthest point, my butt comes off the seat just a little before the swing arcs back toward the ground. My stomach does a flip, and I can almost forget about the hunger pains. I can almost ignore the constant ache from where Terry kicked me. I can almost make myself believe I’m free.

I wonder what would happen if I let go.

If I just kept my eyes shut until I reached the highest point and then released my grip on the chains.

I’m not stupid. I know I wouldn’t fly. I wouldn’t continue up, up, up like a sparrow. I’d plummet to the ground like a damn frozen turkey. But would I break my neck? Would I die? How long would it take? Would it be instant? Would it hurt much?

No.

I’d probably bust my leg and then be stuck on crutches. I’d end up weak and defenseless. If I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be at the hands of my mom’s stupid fucking boyfriend. If I’m going to die, I want to have some say in it.

* * *

I sit down at the cafeteria table across from Levi, and he silently pushes a sandwich toward me.

He hasn’t spoken to me all morning. He gave me a granola bar and then ignored me the whole bus ride, and it’s really ticking me off.

I take a bite out of the sandwich he handed me, then speak to him with my mouth full because I know he hates it.

“What the hell did I do this time?”

His forehead scrunches but he doesn’t answer me, so I reach across the table and punch him in the shoulder.

“Ouch!” He swipes back at me but misses. “Why the heck did you hit me?”

“Why the heck are you ignorin’ me?” I slap my half-eaten sandwich on the table. “You been a jerk all day.”

“I haven’t been a jerk.”

“Yeah, you have.”

“I gave you food,” he argues, and I scowl.

“I don’t want your charity if it comes with your attitude, Leviticus.”

“Stop freaking calling me that!”

“Stop bein’ such an asshole!”

“I’m not being an asshole!”

“Yes, you are. You’re bein’ an asshole, and you know it.”

We stare at each other. His teeth are gritted, and his nostrils are flaring, and I can tell his heart must be beating wildly. The way his jaw is clenched makes the dimple in his chin look deeper. Levi is never angry. Irritated, yes. Almost always irritated with me. But angry? Never. My stomach clenches, and when I speak, it comes out quieter than I want.

“What did I do?”

I wince because I sound like a wimp, so I straighten my shoulders and try to school my face into something less bothered.

“Just freakin’ tell me.”

“You need to go talk to someone,” he says firmly, repeating what he told me this morning.

I glance around to make sure no one is listening.

“Shut up,” I whisper, but he shakes his head.

“Savannah, I’m serious. This is too much this time. This is worse. You need to tell someone, and if you don’t, I will.”

Fear sparks through me, like spiders on my skin, and my eyes narrow with a threat.

“I swear to god, Levi, if you tell anyone, I will never forgive you. Ever. I will never, ever speak to you again. I swear it.”

The silence between us stretches, and our eyes stay locked. When he finally opens his mouth, his voice is a sad whisper.

“I’d rather you never talk to me again because you’re angry than you never talk to me again because you’re dead.”

I want to argue, but I can’t. He stands up and leaves me sitting at the table before I can even get a word out.

I spend the rest of the school day hiding out in the bathroom, then I walk home instead of taking the bus, because I don’t want to see Levi right now.

He’s wrong. Talking to someone about Terry won’t fix anything. It will make it worse. I can’t get sent to some messed-up foster family, or one of those shitty group homes. I’ve heard stories about how nasty they are. I’m better off just laying low until graduation.

The kick was my fault, anyway.

I got in his way when I knew he was messed up and looking for a fight. I should have just stayed in my room. I should have climbed out the window and peed in the yard. I should never have been in the same room with him, and when he started in on Mom, I should have kept my mouth shut.

My side aches with each step, and I breathe through the pain. At least it’s dulling by the day. It will be healed soon.

It won’t happen again. I’ll keep my head down next time. Levi’s wrong. Terry isn’t going to kill me. He won’t even touch me again.

I swallow back the impulse to throw up.

It’s only a few more years.

There are no extra cars on the street, so I creep up to the corner of my house. I hold my breath and listen for a few seconds. When I don’t hear anything, I walk up the cracked sidewalk, grab the rusted knob, and let myself into the dark, dirty house.

I’m halfway down the short hallway when the door to my mom’s room swings open, and Terry steps out, halting me in my tracks. He’s wearing just a pair of boxer shorts, and he has a beer can in one hand and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. The pain in my side intensifies as every muscle in my body tightens.

I should have waited a little longer before coming in. I should have climbed through my window. I should have crept around the side of the house and listened outside Mom’s bedroom window first.

“You’re late,” Terry sneers, the scent of alcohol on his breath. “You got chores.”

“Leave her alone,” my mom calls from somewhere inside the bedroom.

I don’t look toward my mom. I don’t take my eyes off Terry. You don’t let your guard down around a coiled pit viper. If I act scared, he’ll strike. If I act cocky, he’ll strike. I try to gauge his mood based on his tells, but he just looks angry.

“I didn’t take the bus,” I say clearly, making sure my voice doesn’t shake. “I’ll do ‘em now.”

He takes a step toward me, and I grit my teeth, but I don’t flinch, and I can tell immediately that I messed up. My lack of reaction pisses him off.

I should have flinched. I should have cowered.

Before I can fix it and act terrified to feed his ego, Terry swings on me, cracking my cheek with the back of his hand. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s nothing compared to what I know he’s capable of, so I play it up. I cup my face with my hand and whimper, staggering backward a step as my mom yells from the bedroom.

“Don’t start in on her again,” my mom slurs. “Come back to bed, baby.”

When I glance in her direction, I notice a second body in the dark room with her, and my fear spikes. I didn’t see any extra cars out front. Did I miss something? Was I too distracted to notice? I try to avoid the house at all costs when Terry brings his friends over.

What he lets them do to my mom...What he makes my mom do...

It makes me want to vomit, and there’s always that terrifying reality that it could be me next. Would she let Terry’s friends pay for me? Terry would do it. No doubt. But would Mom allow it?

I always put myself between her and Terry when he’s beating on her, but she never does the same for me. Usually, she’s already passed out or otherwise occupied. She’s never stepped in to try and protect me before. Why would she start now?

I hate her. I hate her more than I hate him, even. It takes all my strength not to scowl in her direction. She’s such a shit mom. This is all her fault.

I hope they all die.

“Your daughter’s lookin’ real pretty, Sharon,” the man in the bedroom with my mom says. I don’t recognize his voice, but it’s hard to hear much with my heart pounding in my ears.

“I’ll do the chores now,” I repeat quickly.

I’m so busy panicking inside my own head, keeping one eye on the bedroom, that I miss Terry taking another step toward me until he is gripping my hair by the root and shoving my body into the wall.

“Don’t talk back to me, you ungrateful little shit.”

He yanks my hair again, and I suck in a sharp breath. I know he wants me to cry out, but now I refuse. I shrunk back when he hit me. I whimpered like it hurt. It didn’t make a difference. He wants my tears? He’s not going to get them.

Instead, I grit my teeth and I stare right into his bloodshot, dead looking eyes. Milky blue and sickly, with yellow tinged around his irises. I looked it up once. The yellow means there’s something wrong with his liver. I used to hope it would kill him but now I think he’ll never die.

My nostrils flare with the thought, and his eyebrows narrow at my defiance.

Levi thinks I have a death wish. Maybe I do. Or maybe I just refuse to bow down to the devil.

“You got somethin’ to say, girl?”

The way his breath slithers over my skin makes me want to vomit. The place where his hand is fisted at my scalp burns like a thousand ant bites. My stomach churns with the absolute hatred I feel for this man. For my mom. For this house.

I should kill him in his sleep. I should wait until he’s passed out with a needle in his arm and then set the whole damn house on fire. It would be doing the world a favor.

There are so many things I want to say to him, but instead of responding, I bring my knee up hard into his balls. He grunts and doubles over while his fingers stay clenched around my hair, and he yanks hard enough that I can feel some strands get ripped from my scalp.

I hear my mom screech from somewhere behind Terry’s hunched over, growling form as I use my elbow to jab upward into his face. It hurts like hell, a shock of pain shooting from my elbow up through my shoulder, but I manage to get him good. He screams fuck, and releases my hair, falling backward a step before lunging at me.

“Fuckin’ cunt,” he shouts, and I scramble backward. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you little bitch. You little fuckin’ cunt.”

My hip slams into the small table next to our couch. Glasses and cans clank together, some crash to the floor, and I reach behind myself blindly and wrap my hand around the thick neck of a liquor bottle, just as Terry closes the distance between us.

I don’t think. I just swing.

The sound of my mom’s yelling blends with the strange thudding sound of the bottle connecting with Terry’s head. The way the impact ricochets from the bottle, up my arm, and down my legs is something I know I’ll never forget. The way his blood feels as it spatters my face is something I hope to god I do.

To my horror and disappointment, Terry doesn’t drop immediately to the ground. He staggers and sways. Brings his hand to his head and covers the ugly gash. Blood gushes through his fingers and flows quickly down his face. When he sneers in my direction, it paints his teeth and lips red.

I don’t wait to see what happens next. I just turn and run out the front door and down the block. I ignore the shooting pain in my side and the throbbing at my scalp, and I don’t stop running until I’m hurling myself into one of the bathroom stalls at the park and shoving my body between the toilet and the wall.

Then I start to cry uncontrollably.

I can’t stop, and when I realize I can’t stop, I start to laugh. It’s maniacal and terrifying, a sound that makes me burst into goosebumps and cry harder. My fingers are cold and shaking. When I wipe tears off my cheeks, my hands come back stained with blood, and I turn my body just in time to vomit my pathetic lunch into the toilet. I heave until nothing comes up but bile, until my throat burns the same way my scalp does and the pounding in my head doubles.

I hate this.

I hate this life. I hate Terry and my mom. I hate Levi’s mom. I hate this pile of shit I was born in. It’s not fair. I’m not bad. I’m not evil. None of this is my fault. I hate that everyone treats me like it is. I hate that I’m starting to think I deserve it.

I hate everything.

Will I survive three more years? Is Levi right? Will Terry kill me?

Do I even care?

I pull myself onto the toilet seat and drop my spinning head between my knees. I try to slow my breathing. Try to stop my chaotic, strangled sobs. I don’t know how long it takes before I finally calm down, but I don’t move from the position until my body is no longer shaking, and then I sit up slowly.

I run my clammy hands up and down my thighs, bringing feeling back into my fingers, and then I stand. I let myself out of the bathroom stall and step in front of the grimy mirror. My eyes well back up with tears when I see Terry’s blood smeared on my face, but I don’t let them fall. Instead, I focus my attention on the nasty bruise that’s forming on my cheek and the way the swelling makes my eye squint. Without looking away from the bruise, I pull a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser, wet them with water, and scrub my face clean.