Page 35 of Property of Brute & Axl

Finleigh

Waking up this morning was like being trapped in Hell. Everything flooded in like a dam bursting. The self-doubt and insecurity I’ve carried my entire life were there to remind me of all the callous things my parents have said to me over the last few months.

“I didn’t raise a slut!” My mother, when I wouldn’t tell her who the father of my baby was.

“You’ll marry him, or you’re cut off.” My father, when I refused to marry Shawn Reynolds the first time.

“How could you let this happen to yourself?” Mother’s anger was surprising.

“A whore. We raised a damn whore. You couldn’t just keep your legs closed?” Dad's harsh words chipped away at my soul, and when I went home, a fresh blade awaited me.

From my early teen years, the criticisms I endured were harsh, cruel, and soul-crushing. I remember the first time I intentionally cut myself. It was absurd and could have ended badly, but the relief of the sharp blade in my skin, the warmth of the blood sliding down my thigh and pooling on my bed, staining the sheet and mattress, was addicting.

I enjoyed it for years, after every berating word. All the hurt I endured at their hands made each meticulous cut so much easier. The insides of my thighs are a mess of scars—hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny, little lines mar my flesh. There was a time when I’d researched where and how deep I’d have to cut to reach an artery after the first time my father slapped me across the face when I tried to defend what he called a failing grade.

The B+ I received from a paper I wrote on elitist nature from my lived experiences was good, but apparently not “real enough” for my tenth-grade English teacher. My father agreed and then grew angrier when he realized it was about our family. My sisters giggled at the references and accuracy when they proofread it for me.

I never got less than an A after that day. However, nothing else was ever good enough for him. Not when it came to me. Nicole and Bridget never faced the same harsh realities of the monster our father had become.

They tried to shield me when they were home, but they had their own lives, college, and figuring out their futures. Hiding the worst of it from them became easier as they grew busier. By the time I left for college, choosing to stay in the dorms instead of at home, I thought I could outrun my demons, stop the cutting. It never worked.

Learning that I was pregnant slowed the craving that forced my hand most of the time, but still, the desire has lingered. Even now, staring at my nude body in the mirror, seeing the proof of the baby I’m carrying, the scars call to me. My fingers itch to search for a blade of any kind and feel the sweet relief it brings.

I will not finish this pregnancy by causing harm to my child, so I force the need deep down, and instead, slip into my clothes while Brute and Axl sleep in the other room. I quickly brush my teeth and put my hair up before heading downstairs. The silence is both eerie and welcoming.

A craving for a pepper and bacon omelette is what I’m after. Rummaging through the fridge, I find the ingredients and get to work, being as quiet as possible so I don’t wake anyone up.

“Morning.” Viking’s sleep-roughened voice makes me jump and nearly lose the spatula as he appears from the back door.

“You’re too big to be so quiet.” I glare at him, and he grins.

Of all the men here, Viking is the one who isn’t afraid to be himself around me. He’s upfront about what he feels, doesn’t filter his thoughts, and will glare anyone down who makes me uncomfortable. He’s a confusing man because I can tell that my presence also freaks him out.

“Making enough for me?” His hand reaches over my shoulder to grab the bag of coffee in the cupboard above me, and I try to move but stop when his other hand lands on my shoulder. “Relax, I’m not about to get tortured because I was dumb enough to make a move on my Prez’s girl. They’d fuck me up good.”

“Probably,” I tease, as he steps back, shaking his head and getting the coffee going. “Could you turn the kettle on for me, please?”

“Gonna share?” he asks again, flicking the switch for the kettle.

“I suppose. It is rather large, isn’t it?” The peppers, bacon, and cheese really expanded its size. Getting another plate down, I flip the omelette over and wait for it to finish cooking when Viking hands me a cup of hot chocolate. “You’ve been paying attention.” Shock colors my words.

He shrugs, not making a big deal about it. “It serves me well to know everything happening around here.”

Cutting the food in half, I slide a slice on each of our plates. Heading to one of the tables in the middle of the room, I expect Viking to leave as quietly as he came, but he surprises me this time, sitting across from me.

We eat in silence for a few minutes before I say, “They came back.” He pauses with the fork halfway to his mouth. “I woke up, and it was all just there.” Sipping my drink, I sprinkle some salsa and hot sauce onto my eggs before taking another bite.

“Do they know?”

My head shakes as I chew. “They’re still sleeping. I needed some time to figure it all out. To work through the trauma and sift out memories that won’t send me into a blind panic.”

Viking sits back in his chair, his food nearly gone, as he takes a gulp of coffee. “So you know what happened to you?”

“I know.” My voice is barely loud enough to be heard.

“Do you remember who did it?” My eyes gradually slide up to meet his cool stare.

“Their faces, but I never knew them. Never seen them before.” Picking at my food with my fork, I ask the question I hadn’t wanted to last night. “It’s where they were, right? Last night.”