”
“Why?”
Angel got up and her side tightened. She tried to ignore it as she paced the small apartment. Four steps to the door. Four steps back to the table. “How can you live like this?” Not that her place was any better. She’d rather have this small, clean closet than the pigsty her mother had.
He didn’t respond. She wanted to ask him why he was a deadbeat, why he didn’t want her, why he’d waited until a gang was trying to kill her before he showed his face.
She’d only seen him once before, but it was so long ago she didn’t remember what he looked like, other than he’d been in fatigues. She’d been five. Her mother had taken her to a park. At first, Angel had been excited, until Gina pointed and said:
“That’s your deadbeat father, Angel. Get a good look.”
She’d been terrified. He stared at her blankly, but he looked at her mom with such anger Angel thought he would kill her. She’d played at the park while they talked. She could see them arguing. Her mother argued, her father listened. She could still see the image, and the tightness in her chest that no one wanted her, not her mother, not her father, not anyone.
“I need a bathroom,” she said. Her voice cracked. She was not going to cry, dammit. Not now, not ever.
He pointed to a door. She opened it. No windows. Great. Not that she would escape. Yet.
She took off the UCLA sweatshirt and lifted up her T-shirt. The towel was dark with blood. “Shit,” she muttered.
The door opened.
“Hey!” she said.
“I thought you were hurt.” He grabbed some things from the organized medicine cabinet and gently pushed her toward his bed. “Lie down.”
“I’m fine ,” she said.
“If you don’t want to go to the hospital and have the doctor report a gunshot wound to the police, you’d damn well better shut up and lie down.”
He lifted up her shirt part of the way. “Roll on your good side.” She complied. “This is going to hurt,” he said then unceremoniously pulled off the duct tape and the towel came with it.
“ Ow , shit!” She squeezed her eyes shut as tears sprung forth.
“You need stitches.”
“I don’t need anything,” she said.
“I can fix this, but it’s going to hurt and you have to stay still.”
“Whatever.”
He opened up the first aid kit. Angel closed her eyes. He cleaned the area, which stung but didn’t kill her. But as soon as he stuck the needle in, her hands curled around the pillow and the tears leaked from her eyes.
“Don’t. Move.”
Her jaw locked shut and she squeezed the pillow until her hands were numb. Nausea crept into her throat, but she refused to get sick in front of this man. She didn’t want anything from him. Nothing. She didn’t even want to be here.
But she had no place to go.
He taped gauze over the area, which continued to throb.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
“What do you think?” she wanted her voice to be bitchy, but it came out whiny and childlike.
He got up and Angel willed her body to relax. “Here.” He handed her a T-shirt. “It’s clean.”
She took it without comment and went back to the bathroom. She took off her torn, stained shirt and put it in the small hamper in the corner. The act felt strange, as if she was going to come back and find her shirt washed and folded. She shook off the sensation, washed her face with hot water and lots of soap. Her hands, her arms, her neck, every place she could reach above her waist. She found a comb and pulled it through her thick, matted hair as best she could. She always kept a couple elastic bands around her wrist; she took one and pulled her hair back.
Her bra was dirty, but she wasn’t going to leave that here. Too weird. She pulled on the T-shirt, which smelled like soap. USMC was emblazoned across the front. It was too big for her, but she liked it.
No you don’t, you don’t like it. You don’t like Jake. He didn’t want you fifteen years ago, he didn’t want you ten years
“Why?”
Angel got up and her side tightened. She tried to ignore it as she paced the small apartment. Four steps to the door. Four steps back to the table. “How can you live like this?” Not that her place was any better. She’d rather have this small, clean closet than the pigsty her mother had.
He didn’t respond. She wanted to ask him why he was a deadbeat, why he didn’t want her, why he’d waited until a gang was trying to kill her before he showed his face.
She’d only seen him once before, but it was so long ago she didn’t remember what he looked like, other than he’d been in fatigues. She’d been five. Her mother had taken her to a park. At first, Angel had been excited, until Gina pointed and said:
“That’s your deadbeat father, Angel. Get a good look.”
She’d been terrified. He stared at her blankly, but he looked at her mom with such anger Angel thought he would kill her. She’d played at the park while they talked. She could see them arguing. Her mother argued, her father listened. She could still see the image, and the tightness in her chest that no one wanted her, not her mother, not her father, not anyone.
“I need a bathroom,” she said. Her voice cracked. She was not going to cry, dammit. Not now, not ever.
He pointed to a door. She opened it. No windows. Great. Not that she would escape. Yet.
She took off the UCLA sweatshirt and lifted up her T-shirt. The towel was dark with blood. “Shit,” she muttered.
The door opened.
“Hey!” she said.
“I thought you were hurt.” He grabbed some things from the organized medicine cabinet and gently pushed her toward his bed. “Lie down.”
“I’m fine ,” she said.
“If you don’t want to go to the hospital and have the doctor report a gunshot wound to the police, you’d damn well better shut up and lie down.”
He lifted up her shirt part of the way. “Roll on your good side.” She complied. “This is going to hurt,” he said then unceremoniously pulled off the duct tape and the towel came with it.
“ Ow , shit!” She squeezed her eyes shut as tears sprung forth.
“You need stitches.”
“I don’t need anything,” she said.
“I can fix this, but it’s going to hurt and you have to stay still.”
“Whatever.”
He opened up the first aid kit. Angel closed her eyes. He cleaned the area, which stung but didn’t kill her. But as soon as he stuck the needle in, her hands curled around the pillow and the tears leaked from her eyes.
“Don’t. Move.”
Her jaw locked shut and she squeezed the pillow until her hands were numb. Nausea crept into her throat, but she refused to get sick in front of this man. She didn’t want anything from him. Nothing. She didn’t even want to be here.
But she had no place to go.
He taped gauze over the area, which continued to throb.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
“What do you think?” she wanted her voice to be bitchy, but it came out whiny and childlike.
He got up and Angel willed her body to relax. “Here.” He handed her a T-shirt. “It’s clean.”
She took it without comment and went back to the bathroom. She took off her torn, stained shirt and put it in the small hamper in the corner. The act felt strange, as if she was going to come back and find her shirt washed and folded. She shook off the sensation, washed her face with hot water and lots of soap. Her hands, her arms, her neck, every place she could reach above her waist. She found a comb and pulled it through her thick, matted hair as best she could. She always kept a couple elastic bands around her wrist; she took one and pulled her hair back.
Her bra was dirty, but she wasn’t going to leave that here. Too weird. She pulled on the T-shirt, which smelled like soap. USMC was emblazoned across the front. It was too big for her, but she liked it.
No you don’t, you don’t like it. You don’t like Jake. He didn’t want you fifteen years ago, he didn’t want you ten years
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