Chapter 3
I drive home alone, and Interstate 79 seems to drag on in front of me forever. I begin to wonder if I'll ever reach my exit. I wonder if I really want to. Another loss, making our losing streak ten in a row. And if I hadn't taken that stupid penalty, the Devils wouldn't have gotten a power play. They wouldn't have scored.
Another loss. My fault.
Johan didn't even talk to me after the game. He was showered and dressed and had left before I had even dried off completely. A weird mixture of relief and despair has consumed me now; I don't want the pain, but I know that I need the punishment.
How do I get better without him to remind me? I deserve it, like a child deserves to be scolded for doing something wrong. If he doesn't punish me, I can't get better.
I park in the driveway, and then I walk to my back door, startled when I see Johan hiding in the shadows there. He doesn't speak as I put the key in the lock, and he stays silent when I walk into the kitchen. He slams the door behind him, and I jump.
"It took you long enough to get here," he says quietly. His voice is calm, and I can feel the muscles in my neck tensing up.
"So, Andrew, what the fuck did you call that? It certainly wasn't playing defense," he growls, shoving me backwards. "You lost another game for us. You stole this win from me. Again." He pushes me again, harder, and this time I fall against the refrigerator, wincing at the way the handle jabs into the flesh next to my shoulder blade.
"You're fucking worthless, you know that?" he sneers in a monotone, never raising his voice. He grabs my arm, twisting it up against my back until I gasp. "Completely useless," he whispers angrily against my ear. He shoves me into the wall, my forehead bashing against it. He reaches around me, pushing down my pants and boxers, and I mindlessly kick them away when I hear him pulling down his zipper.
I'm not ready when he thrusts into me, and I can't stop the cry that tears through my throat. He bangs my forehead against the wall again, warning me to stay quiet. He thrusts again, harder, more violently, and I'm screaming inside, I'm fighting the sobs that are threatening to escape. He pushes me into the wall viciously, his hands gripping hard at my hips, and then he shudders, and then he is gone.
I collapse to the ground, unable to hold myself up, and I'm shaking. The tile is cold, I can feel blood trickling from the gash over my eyebrow from being banged against the wall, and there are scarlet crescents dotting my hips from his nails. I swallow hard, looking away so that he won't see the tears brimming in my eyes.
"Fucking baby," he mutters, wrinkling his nose at me while he pulls up his pants. He kicks me hard in the side, and I bite my lip until I taste the blood. "You're disgusting," he snorts, "worthless whore. Get up. Go clean yourself off," he orders, kicking me again, this time in the stomach. "I can't fucking believe I put up with you."
I pull myself up to my knees, using the edge of the table, choking back sobs as the pain rips through me. "So fucking weak," he curses, grabbing my arm and yanking me to my feet, pushing me in the direction of the stairs. I land on my knees on the landing and watch him stomp up the steps ahead of me, and I cringe when he slams my bedroom door shut.
I crawl slowly up the stairs, hoping I don't leave blood on the carpet, and my jaw is aching from the battle to stop the tears clouding my eyes. I grasp the shower stall as I turn on the water, whimpering when its heat stings the cut above my eye, the puncture-wounds at my hips. I slip unceremoniously to the floor, pulling my knees up and curling my arms over them, and I rest my head there. When I'm sure he can't hear me over the running water, I let myself cry. I let all of the tears spill from my eyes until my body aches even more from the sobs wracking my body.
And I hate myself even more for the tears.
