Exit Wounds

10 | girl on a mission

          "He does have an arm around Michelle," I point out. He immediately drops his hand, but not because of me; my mother looks their way because of me, and that's the only thing that scares him besides taking accountability for his actions. "Look, it's not that big of a scratch. It's not something another coat of paint won't fix and, let's be honest, it was probably overdue for a retouch anyway, so I'm just doing you a favor. For old time's sake."

          I know she wants to yell at me. She's never hit me before, thinking she's above physical punishment—the only thing she's done right—but she doesn't need to raise her voice when she's always been incredible at choosing the right words to wound me deeply. My mother thrives on passive-aggressiveness and snide comments she can easily guilt-trip me into believing they're warranted.

          "If it weren't for your father specifically wanting you here, I never would've asked you to come," she reminds me, like I'm not aware of that already. Even so, I force myself to keep smiling, though it lacks the Mia Goth energy from earlier; now, she's hitting me right where it hurts, using my father against me. "You're here today for the seating chart, so I can expect you to leave right after, right?"

          "After today?"

          "After the funeral."

          I've been telling everyone who wants to listen that I'll only be in Los Angeles until the funeral, after which I won't even allow myself to think about this place. Everyone knows that, including me, but it's always bittersweet to have your own family be so damn eager to see you gone, even if you don't even want to stay in the first place. It's one of those harsh reminders I won't ever fit anywhere, not really, and Los Angeles will always be a part of me, no matter how hard I try to scrub it off until my skin reddens to the point it's about to peel off.

          The public humiliation immediately surrounding that night, the charges I attempted to press, and my expulsion from the state was horrible. Packing my bags in the middle of the night and blowing most of my savings on a plane ticket and a cheap apartment were nearly fatal blows to my ego, but the loneliness of it all only made it hurt even more. Realizing I had no one to reach out to, realizing I couldn't do it even if I had anyone to talk to—it was part of the agreement I'd signed, and I was too terrified of the mean women in suits to break it—was worse, but I compartmentalized it. I shoved all those feelings and emotions into a box I'd only open when I was ready.

          I was alone then. I'm not as alone now, but it's still one of the most isolating experiences of my life. Who would believe me, anyway?

          "Yeah," I reply, in a mumble. "Can I go see my father?"

          She blinks, my lack of strength to argue or bite back with the same strength as her coming as the great surprise of the day. "He's in his office."

          I walk past all of them, Sadie in tow, and walk down the same path I've spent my entire life following. You can't beat history.

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          I'm not sure why my father still has an office here.

          He hasn't lived here in years, a fact that haunts me to this day—especially with the whole 'Rebecca, everything that's wrong about this family is your fault and your fault alone' mentality that's so prevalent in this household—but maybe my mother never had the heart to repurpose it. I don't want to give her unnecessary credit or pat her on the back for doing the bare minimum, considering it's her fault she cheated on him with a twenty-year-old pool boy, but the room where my father spent most of his free time is still here.

          Inside, there are framed pictures everywhere, mostly paintings he commissioned, ever the art enthusiast, and there are even ones Michelle and I used to paint for him when we were younger, convinced we would become as good as the ones he liked. Neither of us ever ended up pursuing that dream, if it can even be referred to as such, and my life has completely fallen off the wagon since then, jumping from hobby to hobby, from dream to dream, and now I'm a college dropout with barely any acting credits. Somehow, I still feel like he would have been proud of me in spite of all of that if we kept in touch.

          He's standing by the mahogany desk, tall and broad-shouldered like a football player, and the golden-framed mirror behind him almost looks like a halo. I don't believe in angels—never have been religious, really—but there was a time when I believed in superheroes, and he's never quite managed to dust off that reputation. He'd dress up as Superman for Halloween to take me and Michelle trick-or-treating, the fondest childhood memory I can recall, even on bad days, and it's an image I've always kept with me. A reminder there was still something good waiting for me here, a reminder that he'd always be here to protect me.

          Until the day he wasn't. Until the day it was just me and the lawyers. Until the day I packed my bags and left him all alone.

          "Bec," he calls, reaching out a hand towards me, and that single handedly shatters me. Finding the strength to not take it and to stay put where I am is far more heartbreaking than I ever thought and, when he notices my hesitation, he draws it back. "Thank you for being here."

          "I think we should talk, Dad."

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me when i lie: chapters will be short!! :)