Diana Rowland - My Life as a White Trash Zombie

He grabbed my arm and yanked me around. “You’re holding out on me, you worthless little bitch!”

“Get off me,” I yelled. “I’m clean, goddammit! You only want me to feel like shit so you can feel better about being a stupid fucking drunk!” I slapped at his hand. “You only want my money so you can buy more booze!” I tried to twist away, more than a little surprised when I actually broke his grip. For a skinny man he was still pretty damn strong.

But all it did was piss him off more. I tried to duck away from the slap, but he got me hard across the side of the head and my ear.

“You owe me!” he yelled as he landed several more solid blows to my face and shoulders. “You owe me everything! Worthless fuckin’ bitch!”

I was no kind of fighter, and all I could think to do was hunch up and try to avoid the worst of it and scream at him to stop. “Dad! Stop it! You’re drunk!” I shrieked. “You’re hurting me! You’re being like mom!”

For an instant I thought it would work, that it would make him stop. But in the next second a black rage suffused his face. “You… your mother’s better off dead.” His fist came down but I could barely feel it anymore. “She can’t see what a fuckup you are. I gave up everything for you, and for what? For you to be a goddamn loser!”

“I’m not a loser,” I gasped. I could taste blood in my mouth. “I’m not on the drugs anymore. I swear!” I knew I couldn’t stay hunched down like this in the hope that he’d stop. I’d never seen him like this before. For the first time, I was afraid that he wouldn’t stop until I was a bloody pulp.

I managed to get my legs under me and shoved him away hard, harder than I meant to, sending him sprawling back against the couch. There was murder in his eyes as he struggled back to his feet, but it gave me enough time to run to my room and slam the door and lock it. He pounded on it and yelled for a couple of minutes, then finally fell quiet while I hunched against the wall and shook.

I should have driven away as soon as I saw how drunk he was , I thought miserably. Dad’s violence was predictable. I should have known better. Mom had been the one who’d dealt out slaps and hugs with chaotic unpredictability.

I dropped my head to my knees and wrapped my arms around my legs. I hurt all over, but at the same time I could feel everything gradually going numb. Right now that was cool with me.

I jerked at the knock on the door and froze, pulse thudding painfully even as I realized that my dad never knocked like that.

“Angel?” I heard a deep and familiar voice say. “Can you come out please? This is the Sheriff’s Office.”

I dropped my head back against the wall. Fuck. A neighbor must have heard us fighting and called the cops. My throat went tight. I was going to get arrested. I’d lose my job. I’m totally fucked.

“Angel. Please. I need you to open the door or I’ll have to force it open to make sure you’re all right.”

I struggled to my feet. “I’m okay,” I croaked. Yeah, I sure sounded okay. I fumbled at the lock and then pulled the door open. In front of me was a broad, uniformed chest. I didn’t want to look up, but I didn’t have to. Not with the nametag “M. Ivanov” at my eye level. I felt like I shrank a few inches. Yeah, let me remind him how much of a loser I am.

He turned his head and called over his shoulder to a deputy I couldn’t see. “Gordon. Ten-fifteen.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I heard my dad make a low, whining protest. Ivanov looked back to me. “I’ll need to take pictures of your injuries,” he said, voice calm and even. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Hunh?” Then I shook my head. “I’m not hurt. It… it’s okay.” I just wanted this whole thing to be over with. A dull throb of hunger poked at me, but I pushed it aside. I couldn’t worry about that right now. I was only hungry because I was a little banged up.

He gave a low snort. “Angel, you look like hell.”

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror on my dresser, chest tightening at the sight of the split lip, puffiness around my left eye, and bruises already forming on my cheek and collarbone. It would probably hurt a lot more if I wasn’t a zombie. Great, my pain tolerance was high enough for me to take a beating. I swallowed. “You gonna arrest me?”

“No. We’re arresting your dad though.”

I jerked my head up to look into his face. “You don’t need to do that. He’s drunk. That’s all.” I didn’t want him to go to jail. I didn’t.

So why did I feel a weird relief at the thought? God, I was a shit daughter.

His expression tightened briefly and a wash of shame went through me. He’d probably heard this sort of thing a million times before. Wife or girlfriend gets the crap beat out of them, but they can’t stand to see their loved one go to jail. Yeah, I was being that victim. “I’m sorry,” I tried. “It’s just—”

“Angel, I have to arrest him,” he said in low, firm voice. “And since this is a domestic violence case, he’ll most likely be held for at least twenty-four hours before he can post bail. I know this is hard, but I really need you to be strong for this. You don’t deserve to get smacked around.”

“I know that.” I did, right?

“I need to get a statement from you,” he continued. “Can you do that for me?”

I made myself nod. Hunger nudged at me again, almost tentatively, and I tightened my hands into fists. If I’d eaten as soon as I’d locked myself in my room I wouldn’t have any bruises. There’d be no reason to arrest my dad.

Or maybe I would have been the one arrested , I realized with a cold chill. Right now it was pretty obvious that I’d been the loser in this fight. I swallowed hard. Maybe it was a good thing that my fridge was empty. The one jar of brains I had was still out in my lunchbox in the car. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Something that might have been relief lit his eyes briefly. “That’s good.” He paused. “Angel, you look like you’re getting your life under control. I’m really glad to see it.”

I bit back a laugh. This was control? Yeah, I wasn’t doing drugs anymore, but that sure as hell wasn’t due to any personal strength of character or anything like that. And the only reason I still had the job was because my life depended on it.

But I managed to give him a small nod. “Thanks.” Too bad I had that whole zombie thing going on as well.

His gaze raked the living room, a look of distaste naked on his face. “You should think about moving out. You can do better than this.” He looked back to me. “You’re better than this. Don’t let your family hold you back.”

I was so shocked by his statement I literally couldn’t form words for several seconds. “That’s bullshit,” I finally managed, anger flaring at his presumption. “You… you have no idea what it’s like. You think it’s that easy? You think that all I have to do is walk out and everything will be peachy fucking keen?” I knew I was treading on thin ice going off on a cop like this, but I was too upset and off-balance to censor myself.

Chagrin swept over his face. “No, look, I know it won’t be easy, but—”

“You think we’re just white trash scum, right? So, yeah, I’m already a loser, so why not be more of a loser and abandon my dad.”

He frowned. “No, I’m saying that you need to think about yourself at some point.”

“You think I don’t? Fucking shit, I’m trying, okay? Give me a fucking break! I can’t do it all at once! Yeah, the house and everything is shit, but do you think I like it this way? I—”

He seized me by the shoulders and gave me a small shake, cutting me off. It hurt where his fingers were pressing onto one of the bruises, but the dismayed expression on his face kept me from trying to pull away. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice oddly rough. “I was out of line. I shouldn’t have said any of that about moving out, or your family. It was a shit thing to say. I’m sorry. I know you’re trying. I’m on your side and rooting for you, I swear.”