Page 15 of Violent Little Thing
Head Above Water
DELILAH
S tars dance against the backdrop of the navy sky, winking at me through the treetops lining Adonis’ property.
The smell of charcoal finds my nose and the laughter of a family I can’t see graces my ears.
It sounds like a celebration. Smells like one, too.
They must be the neighbors I never see because Adonis has isolated himself on this hill.
But at least I know where that hill is now.
It was easy to figure out because the only graveyard I’ve ever visited is the one my father is buried in.
Still, I don’t remember meeting him and my head hurts enough without the strain of trying to rein in another forgotten memory.
Adonis Samson—CEO of Samson Air and one of the most feared men in Wildwood— owns me.
That’s enough to make me bang my head against the wall .
But again, I’m in enough pain.
Somehow, three weeks have passed since I “quit” my job.
Every day I wake up with an indescribable ache in my chest and a heaviness that weighs down my limbs.
It’s a loop of despair I didn’t subscribe to, and I just want to feel real again. To know I have control over something.
Toeing my sandals off, I breathe in the night air and gather my skirt in my hands, so I don’t trip over it on my walk along the stone path to the water.
Crickets chirping and the wind rippling through the leaves is my soundtrack as I step into the deep end of the in-ground pool.
It’s the one similarity between my childhood home and Adonis’ I don’t mind.
Whenever things became too much when I was at home, the pool was my only reprieve.
I taught myself how to swim.
How to float.
Countless times, the water soothed my welts and baptized my bruises, making me forget how I got them.
Weston and my father didn’t bother me if I was in the water, so it became my favorite escape. The only scrap of solitude I had. And I clung to it.
Partially submerged in the water, I try to push thoughts of my childhood aside, but I can’t shake the voice of doom in my head.
“Hey, Dad.” Weston looks between me and the only parent I’ve ever known. “Y’all are home early. ”
Weston doesn’t address me. A flippant once over is the only acknowledgement I’m worth before his gaze whips back to our father.
His middle school is already out, but I’m still in school for another week before Christmas break.
I’m supposed to be anyway.
The teacher wanted to meet with Daddy today. It didn’t go well.
He got loud and Ms. Lovett looked at me with fear in her eyes.
I wanted to tell her he wouldn’t do anything. He never hit me in public so I knew he wouldn’t do that to a stranger.
But his voice boomed so loud the principal came to check on us.
“I got up out of that school,” my father grumbles.
“These new teachers too damn involved. Told me to have this girl screened for autism because she keeps acting out. Ain’t nothing wrong with her, but I’m about tired of interrupting my day to go get her.
” He pulls a bottle out of the fridge, tipping it towards his lips before he says.
“We’ll see how many problems she has sitting at home all day. I got something to fix all that noise.”
Weston laughs and I hug myself tight while they talk about me.
I don’t want to stay home with him. The kids at school don’t like me but it’s still better than being home. Because the teacher is nice. And I get chocolate milk with my lunch every day.
I don’t want to stay with him. Sometimes he forgets to make me breakfast.
I go from hugging myself to pushing my hands against my ears. I don’t want to hear them laugh at me.
It’s too much. Why is everything I do too much?
I never went back to school after that day. I was six years old, and kindergarten is the extent of my formal education.
I didn’t go to school, but for years I sat in his office every day and read the encyclopedia as he worked.
Even when the words looked like another language.
I read them over and over. Front to back.
Until my neck burned from the strain of bending and my lips were chap from how many times I had to lick my finger to turn the page.
I was silent. Because my dad wanted to see me. Never hear me.
I learned to hide in plain sight. Be invisible.
I was good at it for a long time.
But the older I got, the more I looked like the woman who left him—left us—and that sent him into a rage more times than I can count. More times than I want to count.
Because if I add it all up, I’ll have to confront the fact that more of my days were spent fighting instead of living.
Fighting for my voice.
Fighting for my autonomy.
I’m so sick of men telling me what to do.
My father made sure I would always be dependent on him.
No doctors’ appointments.
No school.
No ID.
No records of anything.
Nothing outside the crushing confines of his cruelty.
And I finally got away from it.
I was free.
For a whole year .
Until my father’s shadow decided he wanted his turn at fucking up my life.
He said I owed him, but I’d already paid with a twenty-five-year sentence under that roof.
Over and over and over again.
I can’t smell the barbecue anymore. Can’t hear the wind whispering through the leaves.
It’s quiet.
So, I float.
Until the pain in my chest is replaced by the ache in my abs and the burning in my back from holding my head above water.
Slowly but surely, the ringing in my ears abates.
And I float.
I’m safe.
Not running.
Not broken.
This is temporary.
Not forever.
Things like this never last forever.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.
Fire spreads throughout my lungs before licking my skin.
Half of my body is submerged in water, and it still feels like the flames are consuming me.
There’s a severed connection between my brain and my organs. Because I can’t force myself to pull in air.
The burning sensation intensifies and the only thing I do is wince while my eyes twitch against my closed lids.
Before long, the taste of chlorine hits my tongue at the same time my nostrils flare.
This is wrong. I can’t wake up. Stuck somewhere between consciousness and a realm I can’t escape.
This is wrong. Yet I can’t stop it.
Maybe if I relax, it won’t feel like this.
Tension leaves my muscles, and I let out a gargling sigh.
Then I sink.