Chapter 4The Thirty Thousand Dollar Daughter

I moved purely on instinct. I grabbed the tall glass of ice water off the coffee table and hurled it directly into Earl’s face.

He recoiled, sputtering and roaring, "You! You crazy bi—"

Before he could finish, I had snatched the heavy iron fireplace poker from the hearth.

"Get out."

The room froze. My mother was the first to shriek. "Have you lost your mind?! Put that down!"

"I said, get out of this house."

Earl wiped the water from his eyes, his face twisting into an ugly sneer. He took a heavy step forward, reaching out to grab my wrist.

I didn't flinch. I leveled the heavy iron tip of the poker directly at his chest. He stopped.

Chester lunged at me from the side, trying to wrest the iron bar from my grip. "Are you psycho?! Earl is a guest in this house! Look how you’re acting!"

The second his hand grazed my arm, I grabbed a heavy ceramic coaster off the table with my left hand and smashed it directly against his knuckles.

Chester recoiled, his face scrunching up in agony, cradling his hand to his chest. "Hazel, you're a psycho bitch!"

My mother came at me from behind, grabbing my left arm and twisting it violently up my back. Her fingernails bit deep into my skin. "Drop it! You’re gonna ruin this family! Drop it right now!"

"Get him out of here first," I gritted out.

"Who do you think you are making the rules?! You don't get a say in this house!"

From the corner of my eye, I saw my father grab the heavy hickory handle of a broken yard broom—the exact same piece of wood he had used to beat me throughout my childhood.

He swung it down with terrifying force. It connected cleanly with my left shoulder. I heard a sickening crack.

The pain blinded me. My grip faltered, and the iron poker clattered to the floor. My mother instantly threw her weight against me, tackling me back onto the sofa and pinning me down.

"You sit down and shut up!" she screamed in my face.

Chester, still clutching his hand, hurriedly ushered Earl back to a chair, practically bowing in apology. My father rushed over, offering Earl a fresh cigarette.

"Earl, I am so sorry. The girl doesn't know her place yet. Please, don't hold this against us," my father pleaded.

He turned back to me, gripping the hickory stick tight, his eyes wild. "You make one more sound, and I swear to Christ, I will break both your legs tonight."

My mother leaned down, her hot breath on my ear. "You're marrying him. Willingly or not, you are marrying him. Your brother’s future is more important than your tantrum."

She said it with absolute, unshakeable conviction.

In the corner of the room, Madison stood with her arms crossed. Her expression was entirely blank. She didn't look horrified. She didn't think any of this was abnormal.

Neither did Chester. He was currently pouring Earl a glass of bourbon, laughing nervously. "Sorry about that, Earl. She’s been working at the factory too long. Breathed in too many chemicals. Her brain's a little fried."

My twin brother. The boy who shared a womb with me. He was auctioning me off to a monster, and he didn't feel a single ounce of hesitation.

A low, dark laugh bubbled up from my throat.

My mother pressed her knee harder into my hip. "What the hell is so funny?"

"I'm laughing at the fact that you have the nerve to bring up my brain."

The room went dead quiet.

"When my acceptance letter for the pre-med program came in the mail, Chester stole it. He took it to school and showed it off to his friends, claiming it was his. When someone noticed the name 'Hazel' on it and called him out, he ripped it to shreds."

Chester’s nervous smile vanished.

"And what did you two do when you found out?" I looked at my parents. "You beat me with a belt. You told me it was my fault for leaving the letter on the counter where it would 'tempt' him."

My father raised the hickory stick over his head, roaring, "Shut your mouth!"

"I wanted to be a doctor! Do you understand what that means? It means I could be in a residency right now, saving lives, instead of bleeding out on an assembly line!"

The hickory stick came down, crashing heavily against my back. I locked my knees and braced my core. I didn't try to dodge.

"Hit me," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Beat me all you want. When you're done, my answer is the exact same. Eighteen thousand dollars. Every single penny. Give it back."

"I'll give it back when I'm dead in the ground!" my father bellowed, chest heaving.

"Fine. Then I'll dig it out from under your corpse."

My mother let go of my arms and started slapping me wildly. My father swung the stick again and again. Chester stepped in, kicking at my shins.

Earl sat in his armchair, sipping his bourbon, watching the show.

Madison finally sighed, stepping forward to pull gently on Chester's sleeve. "Babe, that's enough, okay? It’s getting late, and we have the appointment with the realtor tomorrow morning."

The world felt muffled, as if I were underwater. My left collarbone felt wrong, shifted out of place. My entire left arm was entirely numb.

But my legs worked. I shoved off the sofa, stumbling backward, absorbing the blows until I backed through the doorway into the kitchen.

My right hand fumbled against the counter. I bypassed the knife block. I reached for the giant plastic jug of cheap, yellow frying oil my mother bought in bulk.

My mother chased me to the threshold but stopped dead in her tracks.

I unscrewed the cap with my teeth. I tipped the heavy jug upside down over my own head. A gallon of thick, greasy oil poured over my hair, down my face, soaking into my clothes, pooling on the cheap linoleum floor. The oil dripped into my eyes, blurring my vision.

With my free right hand, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cheap plastic lighter.

I flicked my thumb. The small flame illuminated the dark kitchen.

"Diane. Wayne." I said their first names. Perfectly steady.

"You want to sell me for thirty grand? Let's see how much Earl pays for a pile of ash."

My father stopped in his tracks, his hands trembling as he lowered the hickory stick. "Hazel... put the lighter down."

"Do it! If you're so tough, do it!" my mother shrieked, popping her head out from behind my father’s shoulder, her face twisted in terror. "You've been throwing tantrums since you were a kid! You don't have the guts! Do it!"

I leaned my back against the stack of dry firewood stacked next to the old wood-burning stove. The lighter was still burning in my grip.

The oil from my sleeve smeared against the dry bark of the logs...