Chapter 9
I got back to my rental at 1 a.m.
The door was unlocked.
The lights were on inside.
The moment I pushed the door open, a chair flew past me and smashed against the wall, breaking apart.
Six guys were crammed into the living room, which was barely 300 square feet.
The one in charge was wearing a gold chain, picking at his teeth.
Ryan was pinned to the floor by two guys, face down, his arms twisted behind his back.
His wheelchair was tipped over nearby.
He was really selling it, half his face pressed to the floor, struggling but not getting anywhere, mumbling and shouting, "Claire, don't come in. Get out of here!"
The guy with the gold chain beckoned me over. "Hey, kiddo, long time no see. When are you gonna cough up this month's interest?"
"I already paid it off," I replied, my voice flat. "I settled the final payment last month."
"Oh yeah?" He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it on the table. "Then whose signature is this? A 50,000-dollar IOU, clear as day. Take a look for yourself."
I walked over and took a look.
The handwriting was a pretty good imitation, but my signature always ends with a left-handed curve. This one was written by someone right-handed.
It was Emily's handwriting.
"That's not my signature," I said.
"I don't give a damn who signed it. Your name's on the IOU, so I'm coming after you," the guy snapped.
He sauntered over to Ryan and pressed his foot down on his back. "If you don't want to pay, that's fine. But if I step down, your brother's spine will snap for real."
Ryan let out a muffled grunt. "Claire, don't worry about me. Just go. I'm a cripple anyway. If they beat me to death, so be it."
I had heard those exact words from Ryan at least ten times over the past four years.
Every single time he said it, I always stayed.
I'd had my ribs broken, been dragged by my hair and slammed into walls, and had my fingers crushed and twisted one by one.
I endured it all, because I believed that if I didn't put myself between him and them, Ryan would actually die.
But now, I was starting to notice things I had never paid attention to before.
The two guys looked like they were pinning Ryan down, but their hands on his back felt more like they were supporting him than actually holding him down.
And the way their feet were positioned, they made sure to avoid his spine and kidneys.
Even the guy with the gold chain made sure his foot on Ryan's waist wouldn't really hurt him.
It had been four years.
They'd been here countless times.
But they never really hurt Ryan, not once.
But I ended up in the hospital twice from beatings trying to protect him, got seven stitches, and my left ribs still ache whenever it was cloudy.
I had taken all those beatings for a liar.
"What do you want?" I asked.
The guy with the gold chain gave me a once-over.
"50,000 dollars is too much. We're not that heartless," he said. "How about this? You crack a few bottles over your own head, and we'll forget the debt. There are six of us, so that's six bottles."
Ryan was struggling on the floor, yelling, "No, you can't do that to Claire. If you want someone, take me instead."
I looked down at Ryan on the floor.
His eyes were red.
His lips were trembling.
He was putting on a convincing act.
But his right hand, pressed to the floor, his thumb was subtly moving.
He was texting.
I couldn't see the screen, but I guessed the one on the other end was Emily.
"Fine," I said.
I grabbed one of the bottles they handed me.
"Claire!" Ryan shouted.
I didn't look at him.
The moment I smashed the bottle against my head, my stomach cramped, and I felt something coming up my throat.
I swallowed it down.
One. Two. Three. Bottle after bottle smashed against my forehead, each landing with a dull thud.
Four. Five. When I smashed the sixth bottle, the guy with the gold chain lifted his chin.
"Do two more. Eight is my lucky number," he said.
I finished the eighth. The skin on my forehead split open.
When I got up, I swayed and steadied myself with the wall.
The guy with the gold chain raised an eyebrow, and walked out with his sidekicks.
After the door closed, the room was quiet for a few seconds.
Ryan "struggled" to get up from the floor, his eyes still red-rimmed.
"Claire, I'm sorry. I dragged you into this. It's all my fault," he said.
I turned my back to him, wiping the blood from my forehead with my sleeve.
"It's okay," I said. "It's nothing new anyway."
I bent down, picked up the wheelchair, and helped him into it.
I did it quietly with practiced ease, like every other time, like a machine with no thoughts.
Once he was settled, Ryan lowered his head. "Claire, once I'm better—"
"I know," I cut him off. "Once you're better, everything will be okay."
I wheeled him back to the bedroom, tucked him in, and turned off the light.
By the time I walked out, my knees were already weak.
But there was still one thing left to do.
I went back to the living room and bent down to pick up Ryan's phone, which had fallen when he was "pinned" to the floor.
The screen was still on.
The last message had been sent to Emily.
He'd attached a photo.
It was a shot of me from behind, smashing bottles against my head.
The message was only two words: [Got it.]
Emily replied instantly: [Perfect. Birthday gift received. Ryan, you always get me.]
The phone slipped through my fingers.
It hit the floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks.
I stood there in the darkness, with blood on my forehead.
The pieces of those eight bottles were still on the ground.
So everything was a "birthday gift" for Emily.