Page 17 of As the Rain Falls (Sainte Madeleine #1)

I hear him shove a chair, probably because he can’t hit anything else. The scrape of wood on tile rings out, the sound uncomfortable.His next words are quieter, more controlled.

“You told me to look after her. To be a good brother. That’s all I’ve been doing. I’m working hard to take care of her, making sure she is around good people.”

“Working hard?” Dad scoffs under his breath, sounding more condescending than anything else. “I’m busting my ass off every damn day, Nathaniel. Real hard work, that’s what I’m doing. But you? You don’t care about that. You don’t care about hard work.”

I place a loose strand of hair behind my ear, breathing through my nose. Watching the fight unfold, my father rehashing the same points we’ve already discussed a thousand times, is exhausting. I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore.

“You don’t care about going to school or getting a job, not since you’ve had your way with her. You’re only wasting my time, boy. That’s what you’re doing.”

“Will you ever stop holding everything about that night over my head?” Nathaniel groans, raising his voice again like a child that’s about to have a tantrum. “What about her? What about what she did? I was drunk, but she was right there, Dad. She didn’t try to stop me!”

That’s another lie, my brain screams it.

He is lying about how you felt, and you know that .

“Keep. Your. Voice. Down!” Dad stops him by slapping him again, sounding venomous. “Have you lost your mind? Do you want our neighbors to hear you talking about this?”

“You hate me for what I did,” Nathaniel concludes, his voice shaking. “You really fucking hate me.”

“That’s because I see right through you, boy. Your biggest mistake is believing that I don’t,” my father laughs, cold and humorless. “You’re just like your grandfather, Nathaniel. You only want what you cannot have, and I can see you want her. She’s your own sister, goddamn it! You’re a sick fuck!”

Stop fighting.

Just stop fighting.

I hate it when people fight.

“You can cuss me out all you want, but we both know the truth. She let it happen, Dad,” Nathaniel spits out, his voice more dangerous than before. “She could’ve pushed me off, screamed at me or yelled for help, but she didn’t. It’s what makes it worse for you, isn’t it? That she didn’t.”

I wait, desperate for my father to defend me, to take my side in this because he knows Nathaniel is not telling the truth.

I wait for him to say something.

Anything at all.

I didn’t want to.

He knows I didn’t, right?

Nathaniel’s statement is met with silence.

My heart immediately shatters in my chest.

“Don’t you ever wonder why?” Nathaniel presses, sounding more confident with each second my father spends quiet. “Why don’t you go ahead and ask her? Stop blaming just me. Your favorite daughter is washed up at this point.”

Washed up .

That’s a new one.

His words sink deep, attaching themselves to me like a second skin, and I register their meaning in my mind and in my heart, waiting to be somewhere quiet to think about this again.

I close my bedroom door behind me and lock it, choosing to squeeze my eyes shut and pretend nothing is happening downstairs because really, nothing is happening.

“Washed up,” I try saying it out loud as I walk to the bathroom. “I’m washed up.”

My reflection in the mirror is a distortion of blurry lines, and I eye the shower box and the shampoo bottles, trying to keep my breathing even through all the ache.

“Am I really that bad?”

I’ve heard Nathaniel call me worse things over the years.

There was a time I used to try to defend myself, especially after he came back from the clinic my parents sent him to. I always felt really angry, back then. But really, I stopped caring somewhere along the way; I can’t remember when anymore.

I’m now too convinced trying to defend myself is a lost cause. He gets too angry too quickly, and I don’t have it in me to insist. I can’t keep fighting him. At least, not alone.

I don’t think my parents believe him, but I also don’t think they believe me entirely, either. I don’t blame them; I don’t even know what to do with myself. One minute, I’m scared for my life. Next, I’m blaming myself for everything .

I know Nathaniel is guilty, but what if I am too?

He destroyed our family, but maybe I didn’t fight hard enough. Maybe I broke us, too. Maybe I’m selfish, egocentric, and focusing on my pain only.I was lying on that bed, and it’s what Dad said: Nathaniel had his way with me.

What about his guilt?

What about our mother?

What about…

Everybody else, really.

Everybody else but me.

If I push it down, I can pretend it didn’t happen. If I turn it into something so small and insignificant in my heart, I might become dignified again. Someone who is not washed up. A girl who is not a whore or a slut. Maybe I…

You’re lying to yourself.

“I’m not!”

Yes, you are.

I’m not… I just feel sad, but the tears won’t fall, and the sob won’t come out.

Worn out, I bite down on my lip until it bleeds.

Everything feels itchy inside of me, and my head hurts.

It throbs so bad.The lights are too bright, and the noises coming from downstairs are too loud.

I can’t tune them out anymore. The ringing in my ears grows louder, forcing me to kneel against the toilet.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?”

I feel weird.

It’s like I’m rotting from the inside out.

I feel sick.