Ready Or Not (The Hunter’s Club #2)

Chapter 7

7

Who Am I? Kode

6 years old

The ceiling fan hums, but the air is still hot. I roll back over in bed. I can’t sleep. It’s been happening a lot. I think about getting up to organize my Barbie clothes again, but I don’t want Papa to see the light under my door.

Thinking about getting caught makes a twisty feeling fill my belly. I already don’t feel good tonight. My head hurts, and it feels like everything is touching me all at once. The sheets stick to my skin, and it’s all sweaty, sweaty, sweaty.

I roll again. The night drags on. I don’t want to get up, but my head hurts, and I want medicine, but Mommy is in there with Papa. He’ll wake up if I get her.

I wait for what feels like hours until I feel like jumping out of my own head. Maybe it won’t happen tonight.

I creep out of my bed and open my door slowly. The light under my parent’s door is off. Well, Papa isn’t my actual dad, but he’s been living with us for a few years.

I pad to the kitchen, looking for the bottle of medicine Mom keeps above the sink.

“Rachel?”

I jump. Papa is sitting in his green armchair in the living room. It’s dark, except for the light from his phone.

“Papa,” I gasp.

“What are you doing up?” His voice is full of softness. I’ve learned that he makes his voice that way when he wants to sound like he cares.

I swallow. I feel my cheeks get hot, like I did something wrong. “My head hurts.”

Maybe he won’t do it. Maybe if he knows I’m hurting, he won’t do anything.

“Awww baby, come here.”

I stand, frozen. Every time I go there, he makes me feel good, but I feel like I did something wrong.

“Rachel,” Papa says with that soft voice. “It’s not nice to disobey. You’ll hurt my feelings.”

I clench my fingers. I want to tell him that I don’t care if I hurt his feelings. But I don’t.

“I’m going to count to three. If you don’t come here, I’ll tell your mom what a bad girl you’re being.”

I swallow. I don’t want to be a bad girl. I always try so hard to be good. Slowly, I creep over to his armchair.

“Come here, sweet girl.” Papa reaches out his hands. As soon as his hand closes over my arm, I feel the touch everywhere. It’s overwhelming, and it hurts, even though he isn’t squeezing.

“Show me where it hurts.” Papa brushes his other hand down my hair. His hands are rough and calloused. He says it’s from all the hunting and skinning he does. Momma likes it, says we have to go grocery shopping less, but I hate it. I hate seeing the dead carcasses left in our backfield to rot. The poor animals are stripped of their life so cruelly. Sometimes, I keep and clean the skulls, then line them up along the back of the house. Feels better than to let them rot.

“Rachel.” Papa’s voice is soft, and he tips my chin up to look at him. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can feel the green corduroy of the chair against my legs, and it makes me want to scratch my skin off.

“Tell me where.” His hands roam down my arms.

“My head.” I still don’t open my eyes.

“Poor baby.” He scoots forward, pulling me up on his lap. I go stiff, hating the smell of old smoke. Hating how gentle he is. He’s always gentle, but everything still feels wrong.

“Let Papa make it better.” His hands start roaming softly.

“Medicine,” I choke out.

“What do you feel?” Papa’s hands roam lower, and he kisses the top of my head softly.

My tummy hurts. I dig my fingertips into my palms. The little bit of pain helps me. Helps when I’m confused.

“Tell me what you feel,” Papa demands.

“Sad.”

“Poor baby. I’ll kiss it better.”

When his hands brush down under my PJ bottoms, I dig my fingers in deeper. He always makes it feel better. But then I feel worse.