The Sick Wife by Lost Loretta (motivational books to read .TXT) 📕

“No!”

Ripping the covers off my legs, I jump from the bed and rush out into the hallway. I dive for the doorknob of Scarlett’s room and turn violently, but it is locked. Visions of all the horrible things that could be happening behind this door flash across my brain. I know that I heard her scream. I wasn’t imagining that, was I?

“Scarlett?” I call out frantically. Imagining her bedclothes and curtains going up in flames, I place my hand on the door to check for heat. It is cool, but the temperature isn’t enough to assuage my fears. “Scar!” I shout again, wrestling with the doorknob.

I hear her then, speaking softly. “How could you?” she is saying between sobs. “How could you do this?”

“I told you not to dress like that in my house!” a deep voice bellows. His speech is marred by his country drawl and the unmistakable slur of alcohol. “As long as you’re living under my roof, you gotta follow my rules, y’hear? Ain’t no girl o’ mine gonna go around town looking like a slut!”

“Professor Brown!” Scarlett begs with a gasp. “Stop. Please—dammit. Don’t!”

“You filthy orphans are all the same!” Mr. Brown spits with an angry hiss. Something crashes to the ground and the volume of his voice escalates. “We took you in to save you, but we should have let you rot. You don’t belong among civilized folk with good breeding. You’re just dirty little animals. Dirty, disgusting animals!”

There is another crashing sound, and I hear Scarlett sob.

I feel like I am going to be sick. “Hang on, Scar!” I shout, running back to my room. My mind is racing, and fear is pumping through my veins as I quickly grab the baseball bat. On second thought, I pause and reach under my mattress to grab a switchblade I have tucked away there and shove it into my pocket, just in case. I rush back to the door and slam my foot into the wooden panel near the doorknob.

“Leave her alone!” I yell as I kick the door until it splinters. When it is starting to open, I shove my baseball bat into the opening and use it like a crowbar. I am startled when the baseball bat is ripped out of my grip, and the partially broken door swings open to the inside.

I am assailed with the scent of Jack Daniels and cigarette smoke. These two substances seem to seep out of Mr. Brown’s pores. I reach for the knife in my pocket, but the large man is already slamming my baseball bat into the side of my head. I find myself crashing into the wall. Dizzily, I stumble backward, and Mr. Brown looms over me with a sneer.

“You ungrateful little shit,” he says slowly, advancing on me.

His eyes are full of hatred and drunken rage. My own anger grows as I wonder about Scarlett. What has he done to her? Is she okay? My heart beats in my throat and I try to pull myself off the floor, but Mr. Brown plants his heavy boot in my shoulder to kick me back down. He clenches his fingers tightly around my baseball bat, and I tense up, ready to defend myself from the swing.

“I give you everything,” he says. “I work my fingers to the bone to keep you fed and clothed, and this is how you repay me? By damaging my property? By ruining the house that shelters you? Worthless pig.” He sneers at me hatefully for a few seconds, as though he is considering smashing my head in until my brains spill out on the floor. I would like to see him try. He may weigh around two hundred and fifty pounds, but I’m fast and I know I can take him.

My fingers hover over the switchblade in my pocket.

Glaring at the old man, I almost challenge him to act, but he seems to change his mind. He spits on me, tosses the baseball bat to the floor beside my arm, and then walks away.

As quickly as I can, I push myself off the ground and run into Scarlett’s room. I am relieved when I see that she isn’t unconscious or lying in a pool of blood. She is kneeling on the floor near her bed and staring at her smashed laptop, which lies on the floor before her in several pieces. A lump forms in my throat, for I know how much that little machine meant to her.

She looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “He broke it. He broke my computer.”

I move to her side and crouch down so that I can give her a hug. I can feel her small body shaking in my arms.

“Damn him,” she mutters. She turns into my chest and buries her face against my shirt. “I hate him!”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, holding her close against my chest. It occurs to me that I don’t remember the last time I hugged someone like this. It may have been back when my mother was alive. I am in the middle of thinking that I might need this hug even more than she does, when I notice that her black-rimmed glasses are also broken and lying near her laptop. “Scar,” I ask her urgently. “Did he hurt you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says in a shaky voice. “My whole life was on that laptop. What am I going to do now, Cole? I’m useless.”

“The computer is replaceable,” I tell her reassuringly, trying to soothe her by running my hand over her hair. “Don’t worry. I can try landscaping again to make some extra cash. I’ll get you a new one soon. I promise.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she tells me. “You need to save up for a car, and college…”

“Scar,” I say suddenly, noticing the way she is clutching her side. “Did he hit you?”

She turns away from me, trying to conceal her body. “It doesn’t