My name is Abigail Turner, and the last time I saw my father up close my cheek had already started to swell, my shoulder was screaming out of its socket, and my sister was looking down at me like I was an inconvenience lying on the floor of our parents’ garage.
“You should have signed the mortgage,” she whispered.
You would be amazed how clearly you can hear spite when your ears are ringing. The concrete felt icy under my palms and my knees burned as if someone had rubbed them raw with sandpaper, while the taste of iron spread across my tongue and warm blood slid from my nose and split lip, and my vision narrowed and widened in waves as if the world was fading in and out.
I stared at the oil stain near the floor drain because that dark mark was familiar to me from childhood when I used to ride my bike through the garage while my father worked on old engines, back when the air smelled like cut grass and cheap cologne instead of whiskey and anger.
“Get up,” my father snapped.