cal rose ;; district 3

"You're fucking dead."

Malachi Rose's threats are always accompanied by a broad smile. The kind that get stuck in place, cheeks aching from the effort. He speaks with all the whimsy of a child while he lunges over the chair I've put between us. Scrash. It makes an awful sound as he whips it across the expensive kitchen tiles he'd just had installed, uneven beneath my frantic footfall as I dart to the opposite end of the counter.

My father loves the part of me he can make into a mirror. I can't meet his eyes, then, for the fear wavering within them is nothing of the sort. "I'm sorry," I say when the sounds of heaved breath and spittle-soaked shouting has settled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." And I don't mean it, I don't think I've ever been sorry in my whole life. Not that he can tell the difference.

His shoes click pleasantly with every measured step into my space. The countertop is cold where my fingers find purchase, squeezing hard enough to hurt. I keep my head bowed, I count his paces. For a second I consider running again, but I don't think it'll do much good. Mom always said to let him have his tantrums and to cower so that he gets his fill quicker. She hasn't given me much in the way of protection, only survival.

His cologne is slightly sour, strong enough that it burns the back of my throat where he's stopped in front of me. He's too close, because every inch of my space is his to claim. Just like me. The trousers of his gray suit are slightly too big, wrinkled and pinned at the back. The hems have been rolled up a couple times but doesn't completely hide the yellowing tinge of a hand-me-down.

"Technicality."

I wince at the sound of my full name. Meant for a thing, not a boy. His fingers form a vice around my jaw and with a sharp tug he forces my gaze to his. We look so similar and maybe that's why he has such a hard time hurting me. There are wrinkles worn into his forehead, in spite of all the creams he slathers on his skin to prevent it.

"I know I've raised you better than this. Neither you nor your fucking mother seem to understand all I do for this family. This house? Those nice clothes? They're all thanks to me!"

I'm shoved backwards, into a sharp corner. It hurts so I bite my tongue until that hurts more. "I said sorry! Leave me alone!" This is why he hates me, I think. I'm not very good at being little and quiet.

He does this humorless laugh when he's trying to be mean, so boisterous it takes up all the space in the room.

"As long as you live under my roof, I'll do no such thing."

I laugh too, at that, to chase away the lump in my throat.

He's right.

He always is.