Things Remembered (Accidentally On Purpose Companion Novel #3) by L.D. Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

“Thanks for dinner.”
    My mother’s unease had slipped behind her poker face. Her expression was blank and her tone casual when she said, “You barely ate anything.”
    “I’m fine. Thanks. Don’t forget to text me the information,” I said to Taylor, unable to find even an insincere smile for the girl. I gave Aaron and my mom a stiff wave of my hand and hurried out of the dining room.
    My mother caught up to me before I could walk out the door.
    “Are you okay?” she asked without any concern behind her words. There was never any inflection in her voice when she spoke to me.
    “I’m not high or on drugs,” I said dryly.
    She blinked slowly, the only indication that she was at all bothered.
    “I didn’t ask you anything about drugs. I asked if you are okay.”
    Holding my fists to my face, I snapped, “I’m fucking fine, Mom. I just need to get out of here.”
    “Why? Why do you need to get out of here? What is it that we’re doing wrong this time?”
    I dropped my hands away from my face and looked at her. I felt my eyes prickling with tears and it made me furious. I hated showing any signs of weakness in front of anyone, but especially in front of my mother. I felt that every little bit of weakness she saw in me was further proof of my failure as a daughter.
    “I don’t belong here.” My voice came out tight with unshed tears.
    “You do belong here,” she said calmly. “We’re your family. You—”
    I shook my head, cutting her off. “I don’t have a family. I don’t have anyone. The only person I have is myself.”
    I pulled open the door and left without any further resistance.

Chapter Five
     
    I scream at my mother again, but she only stands there. She wears the same blank expression that I despise so much. Her face is so emotionless and robotic that it looked alien. I hate her for it. I hate her and I want to do something to make her face change. So, I do. I hit her.
    I slap her across the face so hard that her head snaps to one side. Her hair swings as if blown by a gust of wind, hiding her lovely face from my view. I stand there and wait for her to look at me, wait for her to acknowledge what I’d just done. I want to see the astonishment on her face. I want to see anger or fear. I want to see something besides that impassive mask.
    It feels like it takes forever before she finally and slowly turns her head and faces me again. She holds a hand to her cheek—which I know must sting, because my hand hurts like hell—but her face, her damn face is as blank as a stone that has been smoothed to perfection.
    My hatred boils. I shriek with fury and hit her again. Again. Again. And again. I no longer have control of my body. When she tries to flee, my body follows her. I tackle her to the ground and grapple with the woman I call Mother.
    I hear the small child screaming. Screaming for her mom. Screaming for me to just please, please, please stop hurting her mommy. But I can’t stop. I don’t know if I can ever stop. Because her mommy is finally making faces. Her mommy’s mask has finally slipped off, and beneath it is terror, hatred, sadness, and blood. She bleeds and fights and cries out and begs, but I. Can’t. Stop.
    I sit on her chest and go on and on, because hitting her, making her face change, it’s like a high. I love getting high. I love that exhilarating feeling, but…there’s always a crash.
    Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I can barely lift my arms. She lays beneath me a bloody, bruised, whimpering mess, and I love it. I love it because of her face. I touch it with outstretched fingertips, tracing over her downturned mouth and feeling the blood and tears on her swollen cheeks.
    “Your face,” I say with a sleepy joy. “Your face.”
    Then she and the screaming child are gone, and I find myself kneeling next to my father’s body, sobbing. I’m hitting him, too, but not because I hate his face, but because I want him to wake up. To just wake up.
    Daddy, please wake up. I’m