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John stares up at me, unfazed. He’s only seven years older than my mother, but he’s lived hard. Lines crease the skin around his eyes and forehead, he perpetually needs to shave, and his hair is always greasy. But it’s still black. He’s not fat, and he has a job, so in this neighborhood he’s considered a catch.

“Where are his drawing pencils?” I demand.

But he just laughs, emptying a beer can. “I think you’ve got bigger worries right now, girl.” He reaches over, setting the can down on the table at his side. “Get out of here.”

And I can’t stop it. Fire spreads up my neck, heating my face, and I’m sick of everything the way it is. I hate him. I hate all of this!

I swing the hammer, bringing it down over my head and right onto his hand.

If I’m going, I’m going. I’ve been wanting to do this for years. I grab the gun he has sitting there, drop the hammer, and cock the weapon.

“Motherfucker,” he growls, wringing out his hand, and I see his middle finger bleeding. He glares up at me, suddenly very sober.

“This isn’t your house anymore,” he tells me. “You got nowhere else to go, do you?”

I will fucking sleep on the streets. It wouldn’t be the first time. But I know I can’t take them with me.

“You’re dead.” A sick smile curls his lips as he tries to catch his breath. “You know you are. I’m all you’ve got. That’s why you came back.”

My hand shakes, whatever pain I caused gone from his eyes and a calm settling as he closes in. “I’m all you’ve got,” he whispers.

I was a year younger than Bianca the only time he ever tried something with me. Half of his earlobe is missing as a result, but I was the one removed from the house, arrested, and psychologically evaluated for weeks before finally discovering that my mom didn’t want me back. It was the second time I was removed from her house. Neither were my fault. I just fucking reacted when she didn’t.

In the end, she chose the one who could pay bills.

I don’t really hate her for it anymore. I honestly think there was a time when she loved me. I remember it.

I just think with some parents, after the kid isn’t cute or little anymore, they realize it’s a huge fucking job, and a huge expense and for what? What do they get out of it? I mean, really? A dog is cheaper and it doesn’t talk back.

I don’t hate her for myself. But I do hate her for having two more kids she has no intention of raising.

John rises from his recliner and approaches.

“Go into the garage, Aro.”

I stare at his chest, the letters on his T-shirt swirling together until I can’t actually read them.

“Her mom will be home soon,” his buddy says off to my side.

John keeps his focus on me. “Her mom knows she’s old enough to start earning her keep.”

Not sure what he means, but I’m certain it involves the only thing anyone thinks women are good for.

It’s all my mother thinks she’s good for until she’s too old to work at the club, and it’s all Bianca is learning she’s good for right now.

I exhale as he takes my hand with the gun. He tries to pull the weapon, I meet his eyes, and I squeeze the trigger.

Fuck it.

A pop fills the air, I jump, and he flies back, a flash of red spilling from his hand. His friend scrambles from his seat, the shot echoing through the house and making my ears ring.

Screams sound from upstairs, his friend runs, and a sting registers on my right arm. I look down, seeing blood and spot the hammer I had in his hand now as he crashes into the wall and collapses. His hand is covered in blood—not a fatal wound, but enough to send me packing for a few years.

It’s over.

This is how I end. It’s almost a relief.

I just worry about Matty. Bianca will understand all the shit that will happen to her in life. Matty still just wants hugs. He won’t understand why no one wants him.

“Aro!” I hear my sister cry. “Aro, what are you doing?”

She stands in the hallway, staring between our stepfather and me, my brother behind her looking like he’s about to cry.

“Aro!” someone else calls.

But I can’t focus. I fall back, slamming into the wall, sliding down until I’m nearly seated.

“Oh my God!” I see the blur of my mother sweeping in, dropping to the ground near my stepdad and sobbing. “What have you done?” she screams over her shoulder at me. “Get out! Get out now! How’s he going to work now?”

How’s he going to work? I almost laugh.

But then there’s another voice. Deeper. “Get the kid outta here,” someone orders.