Sara Chan
Flashback
I begin to unpack the groceries, still feeling dazed but I know I have to act normal. Damien likes his house tidy, especially the kitchen and bathrooms.
At only twelve years old, I'm living the life of a slave: abused, neglected, and mistreated on a daily basis. The rare times I am at my own house, my parents aren't there. When I'm at my so-called boyfriend's place, he does nothing but degrade and castigate me.
And I can't leave unless he gives me the signal.
I put away the eggs and cheese in their separate compartments in the refrigerator. I pull away the old vegetables from the drawer and wipe it down before depositing the new vegetables on the bottom.
I keep out some green beans and find a dozen red potatoes in a basket on the pantry floor. I leave a cucumber on the counter, along with iceberg lettuce and a tomato for a salad. The main course is marinated strip steaks.
I had put the steaks in the marinade the day before: Red wine, orange juice, grapefruit juice, salt and pepper. The acidity of the juices makes the meat tender and give it extra flavor. It is in the casserole dish on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
Rotating the older grocery items to the front, I fold the bags and place them under the sink. From a drawer, I remove a knife; the cutting board is beneath the toaster and I set the board near the burner.
I cut the potatoes in half, only enough for the two of us. I oil a baking pan, turn the oven on, and season the potatoes with parsley, salt, pepper, and garlic. They will go in before the steaks and I'll have to reheat them. The steaks need to be broiled.
Damien likes his salads finely diced, with blue cheese crumbles and croutons and Italian dressing. I cut the tomato in half and cut a quarter of the cucumber before wrapping the remainder in plastic wrap and putting it back in the refrigerator.
As I open the fridge door, I notice Damien enter the kitchen, leaning against the doorjamb that leads to the dining room. He takes a long pull of his beer, watching me, his presence all-encompassing.
"Steaks tonight?" he finally asks.
I close the fridge door and keep moving, trying to appear busy, staying ahead of my fears. "Yes," I say. "I just turned on the oven, so it'll be a few minutes. I've got to put the potatoes in first."
Damien stares at me. "Your hair looks good."
"Thank you. She did a good job."
I go back to the cutting board. I begin to cut the tomato, making a long slice.
"Not too big," he says, nodding in my direction.
"I know," I reply, smiling as he moves to the freezer again. I hear the clink of cubes in his glass.
"What did you talk about when you were getting your hair done?"
"Not much. Just the usual. You know how stylists are. They'll talk about anything."
I can hear him shaking his glass, the ice cubes clinking inside. "Did you talk about me?"
"No." I know he wouldn't have liked that and he nods at my response.
Damien produces a bottle of vodka--he's only fourteen, but his father has connections--and sets it beside his glass on the counter before moving behind me. He stands, watching over my shoulder as I dice the tomatoes. Small pieces. No larger than a pea.
I can feel his breath on my nape and try not to cringe when he puts his hands on my hips. Knowing what I have to do, I lower my knife to the counter and turn toward him, sliding my arms around his neck.
