I bet leather really is made out of dinosaurs. I don't know why my mother always lies to me. She lies to Daddy, too. I know she lies to him, because she gets in trouble for it a lot.

Daddy always tells me not to trust whores. I don't know what a whore is, but I know it's something my Daddy hates.

Sometimes when he gets mad at my mom, he calls her a whore. Maybe a whore is another word for liar and that's why he hates them so much.

I wish my mother wasn't a whore. I wish she would stop lying, so she wouldn't get in trouble so much. I don't like watching her get in trouble.

Daddy says it's good for me, though. He says if I want to grow up and be a man, I need to see what a woman looks like when she cries. Daddy says a woman's tears make men weak, and the more I see their tears when I'm younger, the less I'll believe their lies when I'm older. Sometimes when he punishes my mother for being a whore, he makes me watch her cry so that I'll grow up knowing that all the whores cry and it shouldn't bother me.

"Don't trust anyone, Asa," he always tells me. "Especially the whores."

* * *

I grasp the leather strap tethered around my arm and pull it tighter, then slap at my skin. I realize now that leather isn't made from dinosaurs.

My mother wasn't lying about that, at least.

I don't remember a lot about the fight in their bedroom that night. The yelling had become a daily occurrence, so it wasn't new to me. What was so different about that night was the silence. The house had never been so quiet. I remember lying in bed, listening to myself breathe because it was the only noise in the entire house. I hated the quiet. I hate the quiet.

No one found out what he did to her for a few days. They found her body wrapped in a bloody sheet, shoved under the house and half-covered in dirt. I know this, because I snuck outside and watched them pull her out from under the house.

After the cops arrested my father, I was shipped to my aunt's house where I lived until I ran away at fourteen.

I know he's in prison somewhere, but I've never looked for him. I haven't seen or heard from him since that night.

I guess you shouldn't trust the men who marry the whores, either.

I press the tip of the needle into my arm and apply a little pressure. Once it pierces through my skin, I draw the process out as long as possible. The initial insertion and sting is the best part for me.

I push my thumb down, feeling the warm burn move from the point of insertion, down to my wrist and straight up through to my shoulder.

it with my other hand while I lean my head back against the wall. I close my eyes and smile to myself, relieved I didn't end up with a whore like my mother.

I slide the needle out and drop it to the ground, then untie the strap of leather, letting it fall as well. I curl my arm up to my chest and hold

Thinking Sloan was with another guy today made it crystal clear why my father hated whores. I don't think I truly understood him until that moment—when I felt the hatred for Sloan that he felt for my mother.

I'm so relieved Sloan isn't a whore.

I let my arm fall limp to the mattress.

Fuck, this feels so good.

ending the stairs.

She'll be pissed that

I hear Sloan's footsteps as

cI'm doing this in our bedroom. She thinks I simply sell the shit—that I don't actually sample it.

After what she put me through today already, she better not say a damn word about this when she walks into this bedroom.

Fuck...so good.

CARTER-19

Carter

She returned home about ten minutes ago. I saw the lights turn on in the kitchen.

I’m sitting by the pool with Jon, Dalton and some guy named Kevin. They’re engrossed in a live poker tournament, watching it on a laptop that Kevin has propped up on the table. Apparently they’ve somehow got stake in it.

I’m aware that Dalton is mentally taking notes, following the conversations like a Ping-Pong match. I let him. My mind is too exhausted from this day to keep up, and I can’t stop worrying about where Asa disappeared to, and what Sloan is doing right now.

My gaze is fixated on the house. I watch the windows as she moves around the kitchen, making herself something to eat. Once it looks like she disappears upstairs, I use the opportunity to take a breather. I need to regroup-place my focus back on the conversation around me. I just need a few minutes alone in order to do that. Some people recharge by having the energy of other people around them.

I am not one of those people.

I read once that the difference between an extrovert and an introvert isn’t how you act in a group setting. It’s whether or not those group settings give you fuel or drain you. An introvert can outwardly appear to others to be an extrovert, and vice versa. But it all comes down to how those interactions influence you internally.