Chapter 2

My cheek throbbed, a pulsing beat that matched the frantic rhythm of my heart. I could taste blood in my mouth.

"You hit me," I whispered, the words barely audible.

"And I'll do it again if you don't show my mother some respect," Matthew snarled.

His mother, seeing her victory, immediately collapsed onto the edge of my bed, clutching her chest.

"Oh, my heart! My heart! I can't breathe!" she gasped, her eyes squeezed shut. "She's trying to kill me, Matty! All this stress... a good son would protect his mother!"

It was a performance, a pathetic, transparent act, but Matthew bought it completely. His eyes, full of anger just a second ago, now filled with panic.

He knelt beside her, stroking her back. "It's okay, Ma. I'm here. I'll handle her."

I pushed myself off the bed, standing on shaky legs. "She's faking it, Matthew. There's nothing wrong with her. She does this every time she doesn't get her way."

My voice was cold, stripped of all the affection I once had for him.

"You need to take responsibility for her," I continued, my words sharp and precise. "If she wanted a Thanksgiving dinner, you, her son, should have provided it. Not me. This is your issue to solve, not mine."

His mother's fake gasps turned into real sobs of rage. She pointed a trembling finger at me.

"You hear that, Matty? She's calling you a bad son! She thinks she's better than us! A real man would put her in her place!"

That was the trigger.

Matthew's face contorted with a rage I had never seen before. It was primal. Ugly.

He lunged at me, his fingers tangling violently in my hair. He yanked my head back, and a scream tore from my throat.

"You think you're so much better than us in your fancy condo with your trust fund money?" he roared, his spit hitting my face.

He dragged me, stumbling and crying, out of the bedroom and through the living room I had so carefully designed. My feet scraped against the hardwood floors.

He fumbled with the lock on the front door, still holding a fistful of my hair.

"You're going to learn some respect," he growled.

He wrenched the door open, the force of it making me cry out again. Then, with a final, brutal shove, he threw me out into the cold, brightly lit hallway of my own apartment building.

I landed hard on the polished concrete floor, my hip and elbow taking the brunt of the impact. The air was knocked out of my lungs.

The door slammed shut. I heard the deadbolt click into place.

"You can stay out there and think about what you've done!" he yelled through the door. "Don't come back until you're ready to be a decent human being!"

I lay there, bruised, humiliated, and locked out of my own home.