engine rev as it guzzled diesel, watching the yellow lines disappear beneath
the hood. I thought of my brother as he had been, as I remembered him, as I
wanted to remember him. I thought of Albuquerque and Los Angeles, and of
the miles of lost interstate in between.
A pistol lay on the seat between us, and when he wasn’t shifting gears,
Shawn picked it up and caressed it, sometimes spinning it over his index like
a gunslinger before laying it back on the seat, where light from passing cars
glinted off the steel barrel.
I awoke with needles in my brain. Thousands of them, biting, blocking out
everything. Then they disappeared for one dizzying moment and I got my
bearings.
It was morning, early; amber sunlight poured in through my bedroom
window. I was standing but not on my own strength. Two hands were
gripping my throat, and they’d been shaking me. The needles, that was my
brain crashing into my skull. I had only a few seconds to wonder why before
the needles returned, shredding my thoughts. My eyes were open but I saw
only white flashes. A few sounds made it through to me.
“SLUT!
“WHORE!”
Then another sound. Mother. She was crying. “Stop! You’re killing her!
Stop!”
She must have grabbed him because I felt his body twist. I fell to the floor.
When I opened my eyes, Mother and Shawn were facing each other, Mother
wearing only a tattered bathrobe.
I was yanked to my feet. Shawn grasped a fistful of my hair—using the
same method as before, catching the clump near my scalp so he could
maneuver me—and dragged me into the hallway. My head was pressed into
his chest. All I could see were bits of carpet flying past my tripping feet. My
head pounded, I had trouble breathing, but I was starting to understand what
was happening. Then there were tears in my eyes.
From the pain, I thought.
“Now the bitch cries,” Shawn said. “Why? Because someone sees you for
the slut you are?”
I tried to look at him, to search his face for my brother, but he shoved my
head toward the ground and I fell. I scrambled away, then pulled myself