Chapter Three- Laken

LAKEN

Sweet Jesus, forgive me, for I have sinned. Badly. I have been having very sinful thoughts since I saw him in the office this morning, and in just a few words he’s flooding my panties like a torrential downpour.

He sniffed me! If any other guy would have done that then I would have put him in his place, but no, my traitorous cunt had to bring the floods because my pink canoe hasn’t floated up enough cum creeks!

I don’t need this distraction. I especially don’t need a bad boy distraction. Bad boys make you forget what your goals are, and my goal is to leave this town and my shit father in the dust.

I can’t even concentrate on the teacher because I can feel his eyes on me, and it’s making me squirm. And he knows it too with that low dark chuckle. Damn it, does anyone have a life jacket for my panties? It’s drowning at this point.

Great, the bell just rang and I have no idea what happened in class! I grab my backpack, rush out of the door, and head to my locker to get my books for my next class. I look back and don’t see him. I look back and don’t see him. Hopefully, I won’t have him in any more classes so I can actually pay attention. One class is one too many.

Oh, look, my locker no longer has “whore” written on it. I’m sure the janitor hates me by now.

I grab my books and turn around to rush to my next class but I bump into a hard wall. A very hard wall of muscle, and I know who it is without looking up. God, he smells good. Shit! I just sniffed him, didn’t I? Maybe he didn’t notice.

He lets out a low chuckle and says, “Do I smell good Sweets?”

Yes, you do, but I will never admit it. I glare up at him as he gives me the sexiest smirk I’ve ever seen. That should be illegal. I’m so fucking screwed.

“Excuse me…”

“Blake. Blake Parker,” he says.

“Okay, well, excuse me, Blake Parker, I have to get to class, and your hot chest- I mean hard chest-shit!- You’re in my way! So watch where you’re going next time.”

I try to sound firm, but it’s not working out too well. He’s biting his lip so he won’t laugh, and I am officially mortified. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t even talk around this guy!

“Hi, Blake, we both have the same class so I thought I would walk with you,” Tillie says out of nowhere, as she sidles up next to him and glares at me.

I wonder how she knew they had the same class. Did he tell her at lunch?

I’m still pissed over that, and thankfully I had a spare shirt in my locker since this isn’t the first time this has happened. It’s always better to be prepared so I don’t have to wear a wet shirt all day because I definitely won’t go home to change and have to deal with my drugged-up Mom. So, I always keep a change of clothes in my locker.

I wish I could have hit Tillie so bad when she threw my drink at me, but I can’t get into any more trouble today. I can’t get more than two hours of detention.

“No, thanks,” he says without taking his eyes off of me.

Tillie just stands there like she can’t believe someone said no to her. Oh, this is making my day a little better. Bitch got turned down. I can’t help but smirk at her when she looks at me.

With a fake smile plastered on her face she says, “That’s fine, Blake, I will see you in class then.”

I go to walk around him, but he steps in my way.

“What do you want? You’re going to make me late for class, and I can’t have any more hours added to my detention,” I huff out.

He gives me that intense stare that makes me nervous so I look away from him. He moves over to let me pass without saying a word so I rush to my next class and get there just in time.

The rest of the school day went smoothly and I didn’t see Blake again. I just finished my two-hour detention and I’m rushing home so I can make it there to check in on Mom and have dinner ready before Dad gets home. If he comes home drunk and I don’t have food on the table then there will be hell to pay, and I’m not in the mood to pay it after the day I’ve had.

When I walk in the door all is quiet in the house. We don’t have a big house, but I’ve tried to make it homey over the last several years since Mom stopped living and decided to become a zombie instead.

The main living area is an open floor plan so the living room, dining room, and the small kitchen can be seen when you come in the front door.

You can also see the hole in the wall from where Dad threw me into the wall because his plate of food had to be reheated when he got home late one night a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t know he was going to be staying at the bar an hour longer than he normally does so I started dinner at my normal time. He was probably banging some bar slut in the nasty bar bathroom and it took him too long to get off because of whiskey dick.

Gross. And I’m not just talking about the bar sluts when I say that. Yeah, they’re gross, but I wouldn’t go in one of those bathrooms if my life depended on it.

I walk down the hallway on the far side of the living room and head to the last door on the right. It’s cracked open but I knock anyway. There’s no answer and I hear no movement coming from the room.

“Mom, are you awake?” I ask as I ease the door open.

I see a lump under the covers in the middle of the bed, which is normal, but I have to check that she didn’t over-medicate and have an overdose. I’m always afraid I will walk in here one day and she will be dead. I walk over to the bed and put my hand in front of her mouth to check her breathing. I breathe a sigh of relief when I feel her breath hitting my hand.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Laken, is that you?” she says in a sleepy voice.

“Yeah, it’s me, I just got home from school. I’m about to start on dinner and then you need to eat something.”

“You’re such a good girl. Mama’s trying to sleep now so go on and play with your toys,” she says in a hoarse groggy voice.

Great, I must be five now. She is so fucked up on her anxiety pills right now. I hate the pills, but as I head to the kitchen to start dinner, I think that I kind of hate her too.

I have no life outside of school, taking care of this house, grocery shopping, cooking, and taking care of her while I try to dodge my Dad. But I hate him most of all.

He was a good father when I was younger. I remember him coming home from work, me running up to him and hopping on his shoe so he would carry me across the house on his foot. He would pretend that I weighed 100 pounds instead of 40.

I loved it when my Dad came home from work and he would play with me. He was happy, Mom was happy, and there was laughter in this house instead of anger and violence.

But when the company he worked for went bankrupt he couldn’t find a job for six months, and in those six months, he spiraled and started drinking. Which then made Mom spiral into a deep depression and riddled with anxiety.

The first time he hit me came from a drunken night when he came home and I had fallen asleep doing my homework, so I didn’t get dinner done. His yelling woke me up, and when I tried to argue with him he slapped my face so hard that it left a bruise of his palm print for days.

He apologized the next morning and felt awful about it, and I readily forgave him since I knew he was under a lot of pressure, and I knew that he loves me. But the next week I got kicked in the stomach for not having all of the laundry done.

I learned real quick to drop my friends so that I could make sure I was doing everything that my Mom was supposed to be doing. But even after he got a new job the drinking didn’t stop, the rules became more strict, and the hits got harder.

He’s no longer the Dad that loved me and raised me. And because of him, my Mom became a shell of herself and doesn’t care what he does, and doesn’t even know I’m alive most of the time.

I have dinner done just in time for him to walk in the door. At least he’s not stumbling, but I can tell he’s three sheets to the wind. I can smell the whiskey wafting from his pores before he even gets to the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge.

“I’m going to wake Mom and get her to the table,” I mutter.

“That bitch has probably been asleep all day. She’s useless,” he sneers.

I go wake Mom and practically drag her to the table as fast as I can so Dad doesn’t get even more bitchy. I sit her in her seat, and fix her plate, and tell her to eat as much as she can. It’s like I’m taking care of a fucking toddler.

As soon as I sit down I see a plate of food go flying across the room. Mom and I both jump when it hits the wall. Guess she’s awake now.

“Jesus Christ, Laken, don’t you know how to fucking cook!” he yells as his face turns blood red and spittle flies from his mouth. “That chicken was as dry as the Sahara Desert and I was about to choke on it! You’re just as worthless as your mother and she can’t do anything these days. Now clean that shit up!”

I get up to clean his mess, but I guess I wasn’t turned far enough for him to miss my bitchy eye roll, because before I can take another step he’s in my face and hits me so hard that my head turns and my teeth cut into my lip. That’s definitely going to be swollen in the morning.

“You disrespectful little cunt! I work my ass off for you to be able to live in this house and I could easily throw you out! Drop the damn attitude and do as you’re told!” he roars.

He walks over to the table and grabs my plate of food and starts eating it. I guess I’m not eating dinner tonight. That’s fine, I won’t have to sit next to him and practically get drunk off the whiskey fumes he’s emitting, so I hold my tongue and clean up the mess he made, then head into my bedroom before I do or say something that will make it worse.

Once I’m in my room I lock my door and go straight for my bedside table. I have to let it out. I have to let it all flow out, otherwise, this boiling anger and resentment that runs through my veins will overload me, and I don’t know what will happen if that ever happens. I will probably end up smothering him in his sleep.

I reach into the back of my drawer till I find the small wooden jewelry box that belonged to my Grandmother. I open it and pick up the blade that sits atop the pearls that my Mom wore at her wedding, that was given to her by her mother, who wore them at her own wedding.

Just picking up the blade has my blood pumping faster. I quickly take off my shoes and pull off my jeans so that I’m left in just my black boy short panties and t-shirt. I sit on the edge of my bed and put the blade against my upper thigh, just right underneath the bottom of my panties.

I choose a spot that doesn’t already have a white scar and drag it along my skin to see the blood start welling up. I keep cutting my skin over and over until I have tears running down my cheeks just as fast as the blood is running down my leg. I pour my soul out through my blood and tears. The anger, resentment, pain, longing, and emptiness all come out of me till I’m emotionally and mentally exhausted.

I know that I shouldn’t be doing this. I know it’s not a healthy way to cope, but whether I want to die or just get off on the pain, sometimes I just want to hurt on the outside as I do on the inside. I just need a breath of life at this moment, and the only breaths I’m getting are the ones that release the pain that is running red rivers down my skin.