Page 2 of Salvation (Clover-Hills #1)

Blake

“ I said shut up, you little bitch!” My father barked, bringing the back of his palm across my face, striking hard.

“You’re just fucking like her!”Again, and again, and again.

It didn’t matter that cry after cry tore its way out of my already swollen and bruised throat. His hands are merciless in their assault, and I know well enough that he’ll only stop when he’s satisfied. If he even chooses to stop.

I’m usually so careful when he’s drinking.

Knowing when to retreat to my room, when to lock the door, when to keep my mouth shut.

And it’s never this bad. Never physically, at least. He usually doesn’t leave bruises where anyone will see them.

But tonight, something inside me snapped.

I was angry at myself for letting this go on, at him for his brutal assaults, at my mother for being gone, and at everyone else around me for not seeming to notice his unchecked anger.

I could no longer stomach the hits, the harsh words, or anything else from the man that holds no resemblance to the father that was once the center of my entire universe.

“This is why she left you!” I screamed, spitting in his face. I screamed as loud as I possibly could, as if someone could hear. As if anyone could hear.

Again, and again, and again.

Maybe this time will be it. Maybe I won’t wake up this time. Maybe this will be the last time he can hurt me.

Again, and again, and again.

But that line of thinking only forces me to see the faces of everyone who will miss me. And I promise myself that if I survive this, I’ll tell Mama. I will tell her everything. Maybe Wes, too. If only I survive.

Again, and again, and – “ Again, thank you for flying with us today, and welcome to Clover-Hills.”

I jolt awake, the pilot’s voice cutting through the overhead speakers.

I murmur an apology to the older gentleman I spooked and try to blink the sleep from my eyes and steady my breathing.

My neck is drenched with sweat, and my palms are clammy with nerves.

I must have slept the entirety of the flight, which I no doubt can thank my hangover for.

I sigh as I open the window, pressing my pounding head to the cool glass, willing the pain to fade.

I can still hear that crack from his hand, the sound rattling in my bones and echoing in my heart.

I haven’t been home in years. Which means I haven’t had a dream in at least the past three, yet the minute I sense where I am, all the progress I’ve made seems to fly out the window.

Rubbing my temples, I recall the moments that led up to such a ridiculous decision.

The last thing I’ve ever wanted to do was return to this crappy little town, but after leaving my job, boyfriend, and getting roaring drunk with Vivienne, I woke up to a packed bag (courtesy of my best friend) and a non-refundable one-way plane ticket to my hometown that I must have purchased after the second bottle of wine. Or maybe the third.

“Ma’am, did you need help with your bags?”

I pull my face from the window as a petite blonde dressed in a deep, blue uniform leans over the row of seats before me.

“Uh, sorry?” I say, blinking hard and trying to shake off that dream.

“Everyone else has deboarded. Did you need help?” she asks again.

“Oh, no. Sorry. I guess I’m still waking up,” I respond quickly, embarrassment flooding my system.

The flight attendant gives me a weird look but nods and walks back down the aisle without another word.

I gather all my things and follow. I’m certain that if anyone was standing close enough, they could hear the booming thud of my heart against my ribcage.

I clutch my bag tighter and force myself to step off the plane and back into Clover-Hills.