Outcast
Page 6
“It’s not me I’m worried about.” I run my fingers over the book’s spine, feeling the jagged ridges in the well-used leather as they catch under my skin. “It’s you. He asks more of you every day.”
“I can handle it.”
“He pushes you—”
“I said I can handle it.” Her voice snaps, a quick flash of anger that isn’t really aimed at me. “I’m doing what I have to do to survive.”
I step closer to her. “So am I.”
The worry doesn’t leave her eyes. “What you’re doing is going to get you killed.”
“I can handle it.”
“Not if I’m the one Dad orders to do the killing.” Her voice is as hard as the wooden floor beneath us, but the death-shadow on her face darkens.
I close the distance between us and bump her shoulder with mine. “Do you trust me?”
Her dark eyes meet mine, and a long look—a look full of shared horrors and years’ worth of scars—passes between us. “You know you’re the only one that I trust.”
I nod my head, willing her to believe me. “We’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I just need a little time to think things through and figure out how to handle Dad.”
“No one handles Dad.”
“I will. I promise.”
Hope flares briefly in my sister’s eyes and then fades as the sound of our father’s angry voice cuts through the house, his tirade punctuated by drunken sobs from our mother.
“I won’t hold you to that,” Willow says as she slips over to my window, pulls the shutters away from the opening, and climbs out of my room and into the spacious oak that serves as the main pillar for our tree house.
The shutters fall against the window as she disappears, leaving me with poetry in my hands, a promise on my lips, and my father’s fury ringing in my ears.
Chapter Five
“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.” Dad’s voice is full of mean as I leave my room and walk down a short set of stairs to our home’s main room, which is built around the trunk of the oak tree. I push my shoulder-length black hair away from my face and skirt the edge of the trunk, heading toward the cooking stove in the corner where a pot of Mom’s stewed apples bubbles over a low fire.
The chill of the winter morning seeps in through the cracks in the walls. The scattered rag rugs, faded from years of use, do little to block the cold. I pull my leather coat tight, the book of poems securely tucked in an inner pocket far from my father’s prying eyes. Mom hovers near the stove, her eyes on her husband, her hands already shaking with the need for her next drink.
“Guess you were tired after having to do the cleanup all by yourself last night,” Dad says.
I grab a chipped porcelain bowl from the rack above the stove and scoop apples into it.
“Hope you used that time alone to do some hard thinking, boy, because I’m not putting up with you questioning my authority again.”
I dip a spoon into the apples and take a bite. The stew is tangy, verging on sour. Either Mom forgot to add sugar, or we’re out of it again.
“Look at that, Cora.” Dad’s voice is menacing as he circles the trunk and comes closer to the stove. “Your son thinks he can ignore me.”
Mom’s hands flutter toward her neck and latch onto the frayed edges of her knitted shawl. “Answer your father,” she says in a weary voice. When I take too long to finish chewing and swallowing, she whips her head toward me, desperate anger flaring in her bloodshot eyes. “Now, Quinn. Answer him!”
“Yes.” I carefully set the bowl into the sink beside our ancient water pump, the sour tang of the apples still ripe in my mouth. “Yes, I did some hard thinking.”
“Better make sure you came to the right conclusion.” Dad strides forward and grabs the front of my coat. I hold my arms tightly to the sides to keep the book from sliding out of its pocket while he gives me a hard shake. “Who’s in charge of our missions?”
“You are.” The words are easy. The effort to stop myself from arguing that we should approach the village’s protection differently is not.
“You forget that again, boy, and I’ll have to teach you a lesson.” The threat of violence lies heavy in his voice. I nod but don’t look at him. He lets go of my coat slowly and straightens. “You’ll do the scouting run today.”
My eyes snap to his as panic sears me. If I’m scouting for potential threats during the day, I’ll be kept at home tonight. There will be no one to stand between Willow and my father’s desire to mold her into another version of himself. And I won’t be there to absorb the violence he turns against us when things don’t go his way.
“I’m not a scout.” I keep my voice calm and expressionless. “The elders gave Sorra and Matthias that job. If I take their place—”
He slaps me. I see it coming. I could’ve dodged the blow, but it’s better to take the first hit than risk provoking him into the kind of beating that will leave me hobbling for days.
Leaning close enough that his breath fans the stinging handprint on my cheek, he says, “You’ll scout if I tell you to. And you’ll keep scouting until you’ve learned to hold your tongue and do as you’re told. I had hopes for you, Quinn. Thought you’d follow in your old man’s footsteps and make me proud. But now I’m thinking maybe your sister is the true warrior in this family.”
“I can handle it.”
“He pushes you—”
“I said I can handle it.” Her voice snaps, a quick flash of anger that isn’t really aimed at me. “I’m doing what I have to do to survive.”
I step closer to her. “So am I.”
The worry doesn’t leave her eyes. “What you’re doing is going to get you killed.”
“I can handle it.”
“Not if I’m the one Dad orders to do the killing.” Her voice is as hard as the wooden floor beneath us, but the death-shadow on her face darkens.
I close the distance between us and bump her shoulder with mine. “Do you trust me?”
Her dark eyes meet mine, and a long look—a look full of shared horrors and years’ worth of scars—passes between us. “You know you’re the only one that I trust.”
I nod my head, willing her to believe me. “We’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I just need a little time to think things through and figure out how to handle Dad.”
“No one handles Dad.”
“I will. I promise.”
Hope flares briefly in my sister’s eyes and then fades as the sound of our father’s angry voice cuts through the house, his tirade punctuated by drunken sobs from our mother.
“I won’t hold you to that,” Willow says as she slips over to my window, pulls the shutters away from the opening, and climbs out of my room and into the spacious oak that serves as the main pillar for our tree house.
The shutters fall against the window as she disappears, leaving me with poetry in my hands, a promise on my lips, and my father’s fury ringing in my ears.
Chapter Five
“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.” Dad’s voice is full of mean as I leave my room and walk down a short set of stairs to our home’s main room, which is built around the trunk of the oak tree. I push my shoulder-length black hair away from my face and skirt the edge of the trunk, heading toward the cooking stove in the corner where a pot of Mom’s stewed apples bubbles over a low fire.
The chill of the winter morning seeps in through the cracks in the walls. The scattered rag rugs, faded from years of use, do little to block the cold. I pull my leather coat tight, the book of poems securely tucked in an inner pocket far from my father’s prying eyes. Mom hovers near the stove, her eyes on her husband, her hands already shaking with the need for her next drink.
“Guess you were tired after having to do the cleanup all by yourself last night,” Dad says.
I grab a chipped porcelain bowl from the rack above the stove and scoop apples into it.
“Hope you used that time alone to do some hard thinking, boy, because I’m not putting up with you questioning my authority again.”
I dip a spoon into the apples and take a bite. The stew is tangy, verging on sour. Either Mom forgot to add sugar, or we’re out of it again.
“Look at that, Cora.” Dad’s voice is menacing as he circles the trunk and comes closer to the stove. “Your son thinks he can ignore me.”
Mom’s hands flutter toward her neck and latch onto the frayed edges of her knitted shawl. “Answer your father,” she says in a weary voice. When I take too long to finish chewing and swallowing, she whips her head toward me, desperate anger flaring in her bloodshot eyes. “Now, Quinn. Answer him!”
“Yes.” I carefully set the bowl into the sink beside our ancient water pump, the sour tang of the apples still ripe in my mouth. “Yes, I did some hard thinking.”
“Better make sure you came to the right conclusion.” Dad strides forward and grabs the front of my coat. I hold my arms tightly to the sides to keep the book from sliding out of its pocket while he gives me a hard shake. “Who’s in charge of our missions?”
“You are.” The words are easy. The effort to stop myself from arguing that we should approach the village’s protection differently is not.
“You forget that again, boy, and I’ll have to teach you a lesson.” The threat of violence lies heavy in his voice. I nod but don’t look at him. He lets go of my coat slowly and straightens. “You’ll do the scouting run today.”
My eyes snap to his as panic sears me. If I’m scouting for potential threats during the day, I’ll be kept at home tonight. There will be no one to stand between Willow and my father’s desire to mold her into another version of himself. And I won’t be there to absorb the violence he turns against us when things don’t go his way.
“I’m not a scout.” I keep my voice calm and expressionless. “The elders gave Sorra and Matthias that job. If I take their place—”
He slaps me. I see it coming. I could’ve dodged the blow, but it’s better to take the first hit than risk provoking him into the kind of beating that will leave me hobbling for days.
Leaning close enough that his breath fans the stinging handprint on my cheek, he says, “You’ll scout if I tell you to. And you’ll keep scouting until you’ve learned to hold your tongue and do as you’re told. I had hopes for you, Quinn. Thought you’d follow in your old man’s footsteps and make me proud. But now I’m thinking maybe your sister is the true warrior in this family.”
