Authors: Nikki Sex
Abuse
Abuse
By
Nikki Sex
Copyright 2015 by Nikki Sex
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Acknowledgements
If I tried to write this all by myself, ABUSE wouldn’t be half as good. So, I want to give a very big
thank you
to my Beta readers: Trish Bacher, ET1 Elaine, Teri Fantauzzi, Trish Good, (who read it again and again and whose OCD nit picking is really incredible!) Wanda Kather and Mike Riley.
Thanks to my editor S.H. Beans and my proof editors, Traci Roe, Kristy Louise and Allen MacDiarmid
Also, many thanks to my wonderful Street Team “André’s Angels” who believe in me and help me succeed by spreading the word!
At six-feet two inches tall, with a powerful frame, and weighing in at one-hundred and ninety-five pounds, Chester Wilkinson was an imposing figure.
He was also drunk.
Absolutely hammered. Making little sense, unsteady on his feet, shit-faced drunk. Habitual and excessive use of alcohol—also known as alcohol abuse, was Chester’s thing.
As a fully functional alcoholic, getting
this
drunk wasn’t easy. But real dedication and a bottle and a half of bourbon, will do it every time. As he was celebrating fifty-five years of life, and toasting the possibility of fifty years more, excessive alcohol seemed reasonable. Unfortunately, he wasn’t destined to live a day past his birthday.
Chester had heard it said that before you die, your whole life passes before your eyes.
But that didn’t happen to him.
A free falling object will
increase speed
at the rate of 32 feet per second per second. That means after one second, the object has fallen 16 feet. After two seconds, it's moved 32 feet, and so on, until it reaches terminal velocity—which is when resistance equals acceleration.
As Chester fell a distance of just under thirty feet, he never reached terminal velocity. All one-hundred and ninety-five pounds of him hit the ground, traveling at about fifteen miles per hour, in less than one and one half seconds.
Chester didn’t have time for his whole life to pass before him. As he landed on his head, directly onto concrete, whatever passed went by rather rapidly and stopped quite abruptly.
He did have time for one hurried thought:
Never trust family. How could
…
But that was it.
That’s all she wrote.
“It requires the feminine temperament to repeat the same thing three times with unabated zest.”
― W. Somerset Maugham
~~~
Three years later…
I jerk into consciousness with foreboding. After a typically lousy sleep, once more I wake before my alarm goes off. Exasperated, I refuse to look at the clock—mainly because I already did that half the night.
Bright sunshine trails through a crack in my curtains, spilling splashes of gold onto the cluttered trophy case in the corner of my bedroom. First prize reflects toward me with blinding, eye-stabbing brightness.
‘Grant Wilkinson, Champion Marksman’
the plaque on one rather ostentatious golden cup says.
I received it when I was sixteen years old.
I roll over and shut my eyes. Damned if I know why I’ve kept my trophies. What once gave me pleasure, now represents a number of somewhat melancholy memories.
I grew up here in Highland Park, Texas, where the average price for a home is over a million dollars. My father was a successful property developer, who bought an indoor and outdoor shooting range, due to his mad passion for taking out a target. Dad was a local legend after winning a silver medal in the Olympics for the men’s fifty-meter rifle event.
Publicly, he was pleased as punch.
Personally, he was seriously pissed off to have come in second.
They say Olympic medalists who win gold or bronze are happy, but silver medalists tend to be depressed and disappointed because they were so close to winning gold. If you’re wondering, it’s absolutely true—in my father’s case, at least.
I don’t think my dad ever recovered from the ‘failure’ of not winning gold.
When he died, his shooting range came to me. I’m the oldest and more importantly, the only child interested in shooting.
I know guns. More specifically, I know rifles. I enjoy the unique sensation of the stock against my shoulder and the hard metal on my trigger finger. Sighting the target, the sound and feel of the explosion as it fires. The power of the instant recoil, the smell of gunpowder and the pleasure of hitting a bullseye. All of these things are as familiar to me as my own hands.
I can’t recall when I first learned to shoot. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to discover an old photo of me, loading and firing a pistol before I could walk. Shooting’s second nature, a part of who I am.
I sigh and consider getting out of bed. It’s Saturday morning and the start of a two-week vacation.
Any normal person would be overjoyed.
On the bedside table, my cellphone rings. I give in and finally check the time. Green illumination from my digital clock happily proclaims it’s seven fifteen. My alarm’s set for seven thirty.
Shit.
Only one person I know would call at this hour.
I sit up, put my feet on the cool floor and pick up. “Hello?”
My mother’s strident voice shoots through the phone with all the rapid, automatic fire of an assault rifle. With a heavy sigh, I shut my eyes for a long moment.
“Grant, what are you doing today? I really need you to attend my charity function. You’re a patriot and a soldier—you have nothing to be ashamed of, except of course, those disgusting tattoos you keep covered with long sleeved shirts, thank the Lord. Why you should mutilate yourself is a mystery to me. But just because you’ve left the Army, doesn’t mean you no longer have a duty to others. Don’t you want to help those who are less fortunate than you?”
A phone call from my mother does nothing to improve my mood. The woman barely draws breath while my stomach churns with a combination of anger, irritation and inexplicable guilt.
We’ve already had this conversation at least three times this week.
They say men will punch someone to make their point, but women instinctively turn to nagging in an effort to get their way. There are no truer words, to my mind. In fact, I’m pretty sure my mother might’ve been where this saying originated.
“I’m fixin’ to leave town today, you know that, mother,” I say. “I’m not gonna be here.”
“Oh, Grant, I was counting on you. It’s a shock to see you at first, but people will get used to it. If you were a woman it’d be different, but you’re a man! Wear those scars as a badge of honor!”
Her voice continues in my ear but I’ve heard it all so many times before that I don’t even wince. I’m kind of numb to the pain it once caused. I walk into the toilet. She isn’t listening, so she won’t hear—not the distinctive sound of me emptying my bladder and not anything I have to say.
Blah, blah, blah.
She goes on endlessly. I think my mother likes hearing herself speak. Unfortunately, I don't. What would happen if I simply put the phone down and left the room? I wonder how long it would take her to notice if I wasn't listening.
Hm, tempting.
My mind is selectively deaf to her voice. As soon as the rhythm of her diatribe begins to run down, I prepare to interrupt the flow. Until she's done, mentally or physically she’s unable to listen, so why waste my breath? I've found it's best just to wait for her to run out of steam. Eventually I'll get my chance, although it probably won't do any good.
Just because she hears my words, doesn't mean she'll
truly listen
, or believe I mean what I say.
She never has before.
“It’ll be good for you,” she drums on. “Besides, Sally Ann is coming, do you remember her? I think she’d be interested in something more permanent…”
That’s true. Another good reason not to go to mother’s party.
“You’re not getting any younger, Grant,” she admonishes me, as if twenty-nine years old is over the hill.
An image of Sally Ann, five years my junior and a friend of my sister, flashes into my mind. The perfect Southern belle, Sally Ann is probably saving herself for marriage. Wouldn’t that be a cruel joke? Imagine her waiting all this time, just to end up with someone like me?
There’s no way I’d inflict my screwed up self on someone as sweet and innocent as Sally Ann. Just as I think that thought, my mother pauses to draw in an audible breath.
Now’s my chance.
“I’m catchin’ a plane today, like I told you before. Sorry, mother. I’ve gotta go now,” I say and hang up.
Shit.
Mother is matchmaking again, just what I need. I frown, my mind heavy with concentration. I honestly can’t remember the last time I even talked to a woman. I don’t plan to
ever
marry, and as for kids? A shudder of uneasiness flows through me.
No way.
For too many reasons to count, I couldn’t wait to escape my home and family. The minute I was old enough, I enlisted in the Army as a sniper. I was young, patriotic, idealistic and fresh out of sniper school.
Four tours later, I was still young and patriotic, but more realistic rather than idealistic. I’d also discovered an unhealthy passion for the delightfully numbing effects of alcohol. After leaving the Army, I found myself, not surprisingly, even more confused about life than when I first joined up.
My father had alcohol issues, as well. I hate to imagine that I could be anything like him.
My plane leaves at noon. I turn off my alarm, get up and immediately hit the floor for one-hundred pushups. I then do fifty squats and another hundred star jumps, but there’s no time for a run.
This has been my morning routine for years. Afterwards, I shower, dress, eat and pack.
I’m checking my return ticket to Las Vegas when the phone rings once more. The ID says it’s my sister.
Dammit. What in the hell does she want?
“Hello?”
“Fuck you, Grant,” my younger sister yells. “What did you say to mom? Now she wants
me
to come to her stupid charity event. What makes
your
time so God damned precious? There’s no way she’ll get Alex and his gold digging, trailer-trash wife, Sky, to attend—not with their new baby. Why doesn’t anyone have consideration
for me
?”
I hold the phone away from my ear as her outraged attack continues.
My younger sister, Betty Jo, is a high functioning alcoholic who clearly learned her annoyingly loud, quick-fire form of communication from our mother. She’s also a real bitch who’s resentful, and I suspect jealous of my brother’s wife.
Sky, Alex’s wife, is a nice girl who’ll never be good enough as she went to a—shock, horror—
public
school.
Betty Jo and my brother, Alex, took over my father’s property development firm a few years ago. That was right after dad got drunk and fell off the second story balcony of our posh, local country club.
A broken neck will kill you every time.
The coroner’s verdict was misadventure. He died during his birthday celebration. The entire night he’d been surrounded by friends and family who confirmed he’d been royally drunk. Thankfully, no one considered it could be anything other than an accident.
Our father was a prominent member of the community with natural charisma that drew people to him. He was so popular, that when he died, they named a local park and recreation center after him. Physically attractive and charming, he’d been loved by everyone—except his wife and children.
The humiliating circumstances of his passing were quickly hushed up.
It astonishes me how successful my brother and sister are, in terms of running the family business. All I can think is that there must be a hell of a lot of fat on
that
steer. It’ll take years for them to run dad’s company into the ground, if they do.
As I receive lucrative dividends from the family business, I put a substantial amount away in savings, cross my fingers and hope for the best.
“Not now, Betty Jo,” I say without raising my voice. “Seriously. I’m on vacation. I’m flying out today.”
“On vacation? Why doesn’t anyone know about that? You’re such a selfish, secretive son of a bitch—and always Dad’s favorite. Now, it turns out you’re
mom’s
favorite too, right? You get away with everything just because of those stupid scars. I don’t think…”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard all this spite and vitriol before.
Without the slightest hint of regret, I hang up on her and put my phone on silent. I snort with grim amusement, not surprised when I see she’s already hit redial. By the time I get to my car, she’s sent three long, abusive text messages.
Betty Jo has no clue she's totally self-absorbed, mean and annoying. She wants people to like her, but she doesn’t care about anyone else enough to make an effort to be nice.
Nobody likes me!
Is probably her inner, mental mantra. If I actually
talked
to her, I’d be tempted to ask,
Why don’t you try being likable?
I’m pretty sure Sally Ann is her friend only because she feels sorry for her. Sally Ann is so damn sweet.
The absurd behavior of my crazy family members never ceases to astonish me. No one would guess the Wilkinson’s are anything less than perfect. How does such a dysfunctional group of people manage to look so damn functional and even superior to everyone else?
Appearances are everything.
Every one of us deserves an Academy Award for outstanding performance. In public, we automatically act like a perfectly happy and well-adjusted family. It’s an act we learned as children, from the moment we came into the world.
This deceptive and attractive exterior hides a multitude of ugly, toxic secrets.
I place my suitcase in the trunk of my new car, a Cadillac CTS/V. I wanted to buy an actual
car,
not something big like an SUV. An SUV would feel too much like I was still riding in a combat vehicle.
That’s something I never want to do again.
Hopping in, I hit the automatic garage door opener, back out and start the thirty-minute drive to the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport.
Mother is matchmaking again. Crap.
Power, looks, and wealth seem to be stimulating aphrodisiacs.
The Wilkinson family is well known and has powerful connections. Our original wealth came from oil wells. Considered as handsome as my charismatic father, I’ve always been a target as an eligible bachelor, from a ‘good family’ with money.
Consequently, women used to regularly hit on me and matchmaking mamas used to set me up with their offspring until I was sick of it. I felt sorry for their daughters, but power, looks and money were involved, so maybe their interest was genuine.
Being hunted isn’t so much of a problem anymore. I took my good looks for granted. As the song says, you really don't know what you've got until it's gone.
Everyone assumes my disfiguring neck and facial wounds were the result of my military service overseas.
They aren’t.
My scars are the result of a shameful secret. A secret I don’t know if I’ll ever come to terms with. A secret I plan to take to my grave.
Why the hell did I end up with the overactive conscience? Is it a result of my upbringing or something built into my DNA?