Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Kat and Sienna stood. “I’ll look up the address we’re headed to, and you can read Danny Boy’s next installment to me on the way, partner,” Kat said. “And make sure to read with inflection.”
Sienna chuckled as they let themselves out of Ingrid’s office and headed for the car.
My “tutoring sessions” with Mr. Patches went on for months. My grades fell again, but none of my other teachers seemed surprised. I was deeply, deeply ashamed. I hid it from Mother.
But I could only hide things from Mother for so long.
One snowy winter day, Mother came home early.
In the past months, things had escalated quite dramatically, and Mr. Patches was no longer content with a mere hand on the thigh. Suffice to say, I was facedown on the table, Mr. Patches above me.
I won’t describe the details of what was happening, but I’m sure you can surmise.
He had grabbed the back of my head, and I don’t know if it was the rough contact of my forehead on the wood surface or the pain of what I was enduring, but I lost consciousness momentarily, long enough for Mother to have entered the room, taken in the scene, and smashed Mr. Patches over the head with a cast-iron frying pan sitting on the stove.
Now that I think of it, perhaps I blacked out when the force of his skull hit mine.
In any case, when I opened my eyes, I was sitting on the floor, mostly propped up against the wall, an ice pack perched on top of my head, and Mr. Patches was bound to the chair and gagged in the same manner Father had been.
Mother was sitting across from him, a pleasant smile on her lovely face, her sky-blue eyes stormy with rage. She looked over at me. “You should have told me what he was doing to you, Danny Boy. I’m cross that you didn’t. Quite cross.”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” I choked out. Mr. Patches’s eyes darted back and forth between me and Mother, pupils dilated as he blinked rapidly. His pants were still down, and I averted my eyes from his flaccid penis, swallowing down the vomit that threatened.
Mother’s face melted into understanding. “It’s not you who needs to be sorry, my precious Danny Boy, my darling. It’s the lewd sack of shit sitting across from me.” She sighed, noticing my surprise. Mother never swore. “Excuse my language, but in this case, I feel it’s warranted, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, Mother,” I answered. “V-very warranted.”
“Did he threaten you, Danny? Did he find out your father’s gone and take advantage of that knowledge?”
“Yes, Mother.” My voice rose in pitch on the last syllable, shame enveloping me.
Mother took a slow, deep breath. “It’s not your fault, darling. These people”—she practically spat the word like a snake spewing venom—“are masters of manipulation and trickery.” She pounded her fist once on the tabletop, startling both me and Mr. Patches.
That’s when I noticed the butcher knife on the table next to her still-fisted hand, alongside our chessboard, all set up and ready for a game, the black pieces facing Mr. Patches and the white pieces facing Mother. Several pawns had toppled over with the force of her punch, and now she took another breath before righting them once more.
“I hear you’re in charge of the chess club at my Danny Boy’s school,” she said. Mr. Patches looked briefly confused before the fear that had been clear in his expression took over once more. I stared at his face, drinking in his fear, letting it recharge me. I had been sagging against the wall, and now I pulled myself upright. Mother glanced at me, giving an encouraging smile and blowing me a kiss. Her lipstick was still perfect, her makeup tasteful as always. Mother was never smudged. Mother never broke a sweat. Even now.
But then she looked back at Mr. Patches, and her face hardened. “An advantage isn’t fair, now, is it?” she asked Mr. Patches, who simply stared at her, wide eyed, the gag trembling in his mouth while a string of saliva hung on his chin. “You’re practically a professional, and that won’t do, will it? We’ll have to even the playing field, so to speak, won’t we?”
Mr. Patches made an odd strangled sound, something between a curse and a plea.
I liked that sound coming from Mr. Patches. It was quite satisfying.
But Mother didn’t need his approval, nor anyone’s for that matter. As quick as a whip, she stood, grabbed the knife, and lunged at Mr. Patches, the same way she’d done with Father. This time, instead of stabbing at his chest, she arced the weapon downward, slicing into his naked, exposed crotch.
Mr. Patches went utterly rigid, a high-pitched scream muffled behind the rag in his mouth. Mother pulled the knife out with a delicious squelching sound, and he went rigid again, his scream building once more, blood splattering onto his button-down shirt and spilling to the floor.