The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

His eyes grow dark. My chest tightens and before he can come any closer, I push myself up and run as fast as I can for the door. He laughs. And just as the door comes into reach, he pulls me back to him by my hair. I yelp. No longer concerned with concealing my cries, he pulls harder and pushes me into a row of records.

“Ah!” I scream as the sharp corner of the table jams into my stomach. The records fall, sliding all over the floor. Beaux crushes them beneath his feet as he walks toward me. Once more, I try to run, but he pulls me back to him, shoving me face down against the table.

I scream. He pulls my hands behind my back. My entire body shakes as I imagine what will happen next.

“You know, I thought I knew you better than this, Emma,” he says as he presses his pelvis against me. “I thought you were smart enough to know the consequences of crossing a man like me. Clearly, you need another lesson in obedience.”

He pulls my hands tighter behind my back and begins to unbutton his pants.

“It’s you who needs a lesson,” I say.

“What’s that?” Beaux asks.

He spins me around to face him. My arms are still restrained behind my back. Blonde hair sticks to my bloody mouth and . . . I spit the pooling blood from my mouth onto his face. He gasps and is forced to let me go.

I use this distraction to put distance between us. I run behind the register and grab the baseball bat Mr. Edgar gave me for when I worked nights.

“You need a lesson on how to treat women, Beauregard Thomas,” I say, hitting the bat against the floor. “And in forgiveness and progress and common decency and, oh yeah, how to love,” I say. “Just because your parents fucked you up, doesn’t mean you have to be this . . . this animal.”

I move to the opposite side of the room, keeping distance between us.

“It’s a vicious cycle, Emma,” he says then. “People hurt people and those people hurt people and those people hurt people. Sometimes, we don’t even realize we’re doing it. Other times, we do. One thing is certain, though. The pain never ends.”

Beaux moves closer to me, but I swing the bat to keep him away. We can’t do this forever. I have to get through to him.

“You forced me to own up to the pain I caused you,” I tell him. “You forced me to take responsibility for ending my pregnancy, so why can’t you own up to what you’ve done?” I ask. “You say you do what you do because you were hurt, but we all hurt Beaux. Life isn’t fair for anyone, so why do you get a pass? Why do you get to spend the rest of your life making other people pay for your pain, while the rest of us stomach through and try to forgive?”

“Forgive?” Beaux laughs. “How can you forgive someone who’s hurt you in so many ways? How can you forgive the person who stole your innocence, who scarred you for life, who . . .?” He trails off.

It’s then that I realize he isn’t talking about me forgiving him or even him forgiving me. He’s talking about him forgiving his parents.

“I don’t know, Beaux,” I say then. “I’m not an expert, but I am trying.”

He looks at me then. His eyes grow dark once more.

“You call that article of yours forgiveness?” he asks me. “You outlined every horrible thing I’ve done for the last ten years, that you know of. You exposed me, my . . . my parents.”

As he speaks, his anger grows.

“If that article would’ve been published, you would have ruined my reputation, made damn sure I’ll never practice another day of law, and even still, you put my life at risk. Because the second the brotherhood finds out about what I almost let you get away with, and they will, they’ll kill me, Emma,” he tells me. “So, is that forgiveness? Is that even justice?”

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean you’re excused from the pain you’ve caused,” I tell him. “Forgiveness is in spite of the pain, in spite of your crimes. You still have to take responsibility for what you’ve done, not just to me, but to all the other women. And so do the members of your brotherhood.”

Beaux laughs. “Yeah, I’d like to see you say that to them.”

“I will.”

“You do that, and you’ll be signing your death warrant,” Beaux tells me.

I drop the bat to my side, shaking my head. When will he realize?

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” I ask him. “Haven’t you felt it for yourself, this numbness inside? I haven’t exactly been living this past year, Beaux. I’ve been . . . surviving, barely. You know, you say my days are numbered, but I think they’re just starting,” I tell him. “I get a second chance at life because I have overcome my fear. I have overcome my pain. I . . .I forgive myself.”

I pause then, thinking back on his words. He doesn’t see a way out. He never has. Ever since he was a little boy, he hasn’t been able to escape the pain his parents caused him. Adoption wasn’t enough. Becoming Beaux Thomas, hotshot New Orleans attorney, wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. Nothing has ever been enough to allow him to move past his tragic childhood.

I know I don’t have all the answers, but . . . there is something to be said for hope. I have hope that I can have a better life. I have hope that I can trust again, that I can love again. I have hope that there is more to life than surviving. I have hope that I can live, truly live, free from the shackles of pain, of regret, of my past.

“You said that this life is a vicious cycle of unending pain,” I say then. “Hurt people hurt people and it happens over and over again. Well, not anymore. Not for me. I’m breaking my cycle. And