I hurriedly lowered my hands, unclenching them, feeling my fingernails disengage themselves from the flesh of my palms. “Oh…I-I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my cheeks turning bright red. “I didn’t mean to--” My mouth worked furiously, but I couldn’t speak. Dear God, I’ve just punched the most beautiful guy in the world square in the stomach.

He cocked his head slightly and rubbed the back of his neck, his unruly black hair moving in the slight breeze. He stood in the doorway, wearing a thin brown tee shirt and white pants that looked so soft I wanted to touch them.

I tried to swallow, my mouth dry. “Is…is Cam home?”

He shook his head no, searching me with a pair of fathomless dark blue eyes.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?” I asked softly, hoping that he didn’t think that I was a complete idiot for hitting him.

Again he shook his head, but this time he frowned slightly and pointed at my right hand. I raised it in front of my eyes to find that it was bleeding. I had punctured the skin of my palm with my fingernails.

The boy reached into his pocket, not taking his eyes off me, and drew out a handkerchief, which he folded into a rectangle. He took my hand in his, wrapped the cloth around my wound, and tied it securely with his thin, white fingers. My blood made tiny crimson spots on the white fabric.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Great, stupid, now you’ve ruined his handkerchief. We stared at each other for a split second, then I turned around and ran across the street to the relative safety of my own home, away from his intense gaze. Before I went inside, I looked slightly over my shoulder. He was still in his entryway, slim, pale, and barefoot, staring at me wordlessly. I took an almighty leap inside and slammed the door, my back against it, my thoughts racing.

Who was that? Is he a friend of Cam’s, or maybe a family member? Maybe he’s a total stranger! Why didn’t Cam ever tell me about him? She tells me everything, and I mean everything…could this time be so different? I went up the stairs, almost putting my backpack down by the sofa, but then I remembered what happened last time. I shivered, picked it up, and hurried to my bedroom, where I tossed it next to my closet. Pausing for a moment, I went over to it and got out my Spanish homework: conjugating verbs. I liked the class, but I hated conjugating with a passion. After a while, I heard the front door open and shut. Eric had come home. I could hear that fat fuck rummaging around in the refrigerator, rooting around like a pig after truffles. Lastimo, lastimas, lastima. I looked up at the clock with apprehension. 5:00. My mother would be home soon.

The front door slammed suddenly and I heard her screaming my name. “Alice Renée Maclaren, get your ass over here right now!”

I slid off my bed, trembling. Oh God, what did I do? I didn’t leave my backpack there like last time. What the fuck did I do?

Eric and my mother stood there in front of the kitchen, and the look on my mother’s face almost made me turn around and run away. She pointed down at the entryway. “What is that, Alice?” Her voice was quiet, gentle. She was pissed.

I looked. “Mom, I don’t see--”

She slapped the back of my head. “Look harder!”

I went down to the entryway, and she followed close behind. “Look at the floor,” she ordered, “and tell me what the hell you see.” Her voice was still as deadly as ever.

I looked, willing myself to see something, anything. “Mom, I swear to God there’s--”

She slapped me again. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, you blasphemous pig!”

“For God’s sake, I didn’t mean--”

She didn’t slap me this time, she curled her hand into a fist and fucking punched me. “I said, don’t take His name in vain!”

“Mom, what’s on the floor? What are you talking about?” I was shaking.

“Don’t pretend you don’t see all those smudges from those damned shoes you wear all the time!” she shrieked. “Chuck Taylor’s aren’t God’s shoes! They’re the Devil’s shoes!!” With each word, she slapped my face with all the strength she could muster. When she had finished her sentence, she grabbed me by the hair, pulling some of it out by the roots. I let out a small whimper.

“Don’t you fucking act like I’m a terrible mother!” she raged. “I’m not a bad mother! I’m the only mother you have, damn it, and you are going to appreciate me!”

I nodded vigorously, still whimpering. She shook me, not letting go of my hair. “Say it!”

“S-say what?” I stammered, scared beyond belief. I’d forgotten what she could be like; the darkness had made sure of it. Where was it?

“Say I’m a good mother!”

“You--you’re a g-good mother,” I said, trembling from head to foot. “You’re a good mother, Mom, and I-I appreciate everything you--”

She slapped my face, and I tasted blood. “Don’t you lie to me! I’m sick of your fucking lies, you little shit! I wish I’d listened to your father and had you aborted! Good thing he died, too, or he would’ve been so ashamed at how you turned out, but it’s not like he was worth the secretion under a piece of shit. It just goes to show, bad blood will out!” She slapped me again.

I shut my eyes, willing myself not to pass out. I tried to remember my Spanish verbs. Lastimo, lastimas, lastima.

“Don’t you block me out!” she screamed. “I’m sick of you blocking me out! You listen to me now!” She dragged me to the hardwood stairs leading to our basement and let go. I fell down two at a time, and then--

I was in the upstairs bathroom, looking at my reflection in the mirror. I blinked hard and shook myself. I must’ve been with the darkness again. The darkness must’ve taken me up here. I looked at my reflection and immediately stepped back. This was the most bruised I’d ever seen my face. My lower lip was cut and bleeding, and there was a huge bruise on my cheek. I wasn’t worried about what I’d do; I knew enough about bruises to know how much foundation and cover-up to use so nobody could see.

I let out a sob, and tears started to run down my cheeks. What girl knows how much makeup to use in order to cover up a black eye? I couldn’t look at my reflection anymore. I shut off the light and tiptoed over to my bedroom. The clock read 8:45. My mother was in her bedroom reading and acting like I wasn't even there, as was her custom. I closed the door, saline stinging my cut lip. My pajamas were laid out on my bed. After putting them on, I walked over to the chest by the window and sat down on it, looking out. There was a light on in Cam’s house, and there was someone standing at the window. Someone I barely knew.

I stood up hurriedly and looked more carefully. It was the boy with the handkerchief. He stood at the window across from mine, his hand on the sill, staring at me with those dark blue eyes that I didn't think I'd ever be able to read. He raised his hand to the glass, still looking at me.

The lights went out, and I was alone.