Clean Control - Chapter One

Chapter One - Lily

“I should’ve known you’d turn out just like your mother.”

“Then I’d still rather be like her than ever become you!” I scream, as my father storms after me, baseball bat in hand.

“Stop running, you pathetic excuse for a daughter!”

“And then what? Let you beat the shit out of me again?” I shout, racing down the stairs, through the hallway and into the living room.

As I pass the dining room, I snatch my bag off the table and rush into the sunroom. Behind me, my father’s footsteps pound closer, each step chasing me through the long stretch of glass until I cut into the side corridor and back into the main hall, where my eyes lock onto the keychain hanging from the front door.

Without thinking, I lunge for it, praying I can rip the key free fast enough to get out before he gets his hands on me. My socks slip against the floor and I slam into the door, hard. My hand shoots for the keys and I yank at them, desperate. A second later, I’m violently pulled back, my father’s grip snapping around my arm while the key still refuses to budge.

“Fuck” I choke, panic rising too fast, too sharp. There’s no time. I curl in on myself, arms thrown over my head, bracing for the impact I know is coming.

“Please don’t…” I whisper, the bat crashes into my skull.

The blow rips the air from my lungs. Gasping, I fold in tighter.

“Daddy, please,” I cry, my voice breaking

“Oh, now you want to cry?” he roars, bringing the bat down again.

My knuckles crack under the hit, a sharp pop echoing as pain shoots through my fingers. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying it stops, praying he stops. A rush of air cuts past my face. Too late.

The next strike hits the side of my head, brutal and disorienting. A high-pitched ringing explodes in my ear, drowning everything else out. Pain shoots through my jaw and skull, white-hot, tilting the room on its axis. Black spots cloud my vision as nausea twists in my stomach.

“Stop… please…” I whimper, my voice barely there.

“Keep your filthy hands out of my desk,” he growls, spitting on me before turning away.

The warm filth slides down my cheek and I wipe it away quickly, disgust curling in my stomach. The metallic smell of blood hits me faintly, mixing with the stale air of the house. As soon as his back is turned, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. It leaves me in a shaky gasp as I choke back the sobs clawing up my throat, forcing them down, keeping them silent.

“Fucking wanker,” I mutter under my breath.

My trembling hand lifts to my ear, fingers brushing along my jaw. Pain shoots through my knuckles as I move them, raw and throbbing from the impact, like they might split open any second. When I pull my hand back, it’s wet, slick with blood, dripping down my fingers to the floor. Quickly, I wipe it off with my sleeve, knowing even that would be enough to set him off again. I scrub the rest into my light-grey lounge pants with a quiet groan, already knowing the stain will never come out.

When I finally dare to unfold myself, I push up to stand, my body protesting instantly. A sharp sting tears through my side and my head spins for a second too long. I limp forward, leaning heavily on the stair railing as my knuckles throb with every ounce of pressure I put on them. My face twists against the pain. I drag a hand over my scalp and feel the swelling where the bat struck me, tender and hot beneath my fingers.

I make my way into the kitchen and pull my shoes from under the bar. I slip into my camel Uggs and move toward the dining table where my long dark-grey coat hangs over a chair. Sliding my arms into the sleeves, I roll my shoulders to settle it, wincing as a fresh wave of pain ripples through me, sharp and immediate. With my bag over my shoulder, I head back to the front door. This time, I twist the key first before pulling it free, the whole damn problem earlier. My fingers fumble for a split second, stiff and aching, before it finally gives.

I yank the door open and stumble outside, slamming it shut behind me like a fuck-you he’d hate. Cold air hits my face and fills my lungs, sharp and grounding. Fear spikes through me at the thought of him coming after me, but I force my legs to move, rushing down the steps toward my car.

I beep my beige Range Rover open, yank the door wide, and drop into the seat like my body finally gives up. For a second, I just sit there, gripping the steering wheel while my hands tremble against it. With a heavy breath, I throw my bag onto the passenger seat and dig out my phone. Unlocking it, I scroll to Alaïa’s number and press call.

The ringing drags on, stretching too long, too quiet, and I rub a shaky hand down my face, wincing when my knuckles protest again.

“Hey girl, what’s up!” Alaïa chirps.

“Can I come over?” I mutter, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“Are you okay?” she asks instantly.

“My dad beat me with a baseball bat,” I say flatly. There’s a short silence on the other end.

“I’m at Lucio’s. Come over,” she replies, her tone sharp with concern.

“Thanks, babe. Be there in ten.” I hang up before my voice can give me away.

A dull, throbbing pulse spreads through the side of my skull, creeping down my neck, settling deep into my bones, a reminder that this isn’t just in my head. It’s written all over me.

“God, I hate my fucking life,” I mutter, starting the engine.