Suffocate

Chapter 22

I know I'm not a master at keeping secrets. I'm probably the worst at it, now that I think about it. Every action I make, every word I say, ends up screaming, "He's not telling you something!"

Staring down at my knees, mindlessly tapping my feet rhythmically against the hardwood floors, was the only thing I could do while I waited patiently for Marissa's response.

I told her everything. I fucking told her everything.

***

"When did this start happening?" Marissa asks, the second after I spill the entirety of my guts.

'Since when has Dad been doing to me? What has he done? . . . What have I been doing all these years? . . .'

Confusion and anxiety stirs together in the pit of my stomach, making me feel nauseous. "About eight . . . ten years old . . ." is my reluctant reply.

"Do you know why—?" Surprisingly, she's taking it well . . .

"—It doesn't matter why, Mare," I interrupt, my voice sounding harsh and rough on the edges. I sigh, looking over at her apologetically. "Dad—he does things by his own will. The man doesn't ever need a reason . . ."

"Bryson, this is crazy . . . H-How could he do that?"

"Mare . . . I wish I had an answer for that, but I don't."

***

Marissa shares a somber expression with me. My young sister grabs ahold of my hands—they have been clenched tightly together, nearly hard enough to leave bruises—and enlaces her fingers with mine.

"Bryson," Marissa starts, "Thank you for telling me." I meet Marissa's green eyes with my gray ones, nodding distractedly. My throat feels dry and constricted; that seems to be how it is, nowadays. I might choke involuntarily if I don't down some cold water soon.

Marissa removes one hand from our hold. With delicate, thin fingers, she brushes back sweaty strands of hair that was sticking to my damp forehead.

It took a lot out of me to tell her—I'm completely exhausted.

For fuck's sake, if I didn't have a surprise heart attack then, I'm surely expecting one now, sooner or later.

Marissa smiles at me; the smooth curve of her lips and the sight of her neat row of teeth serves to reassure me—just enough to not want to vomit.

"We'll get through this," Marissa whispers softly. "We'll do whatever we can to make this right."

Hearing that, I furrow my brows at my sister, staring at her, confused. "What . . . What do you mean?" I clear my throat with a strong grunt.

Marissa doesn't bat an eye. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arch beautifully. "Dad's not getting away with this," Marissa says determinedly. "Don't you know that?" she asks me then.

I stare at her blankly.

"What . . . What're you talkin' about . . . ?" I drawl anxiously. Marissa peers at me, concern etched on her face.

"Bryson, what the hell are you talking about?" she asks hastily.

"D-Dad . . . He—" Marissa immediately cuts me off.

"—You don't think he'll pay for what he's done to you? To us? This entire family?" Marissa questions forcefully.

All these questions . . . My brain is slowly shutting down. I don't know what the fuck to think.