The Two Alphas' Fated Witch

Breaking Free

He laughs. He actually laughs. I just told my father, who has yelled at me, slapped me, and berated me for far too long I love him, and all he can do is laugh like the greatest comedian just told him their best line. This reaction should probably shatter me. It has certainly caused an effect on the other women in my room. Mrs. Santiago looks almost broken, and Cassie is five shades of red to the point of exploding.

But for some reason, this reaction doesn't upset me. Maybe it's the trauma of his abuse that expected this. Maybe it's how the ice that froze me mere minutes ago has now started to boil. Or maybe this reaction has broken me, just not in the way I thought it would.

As the thought comes to mind, something snaps within me, and I start to giggle, chuckle even. It's not like my father's boisterous cackling, but rather soft, affirming. Like my mind has come to an agreement with the rest of my soul. Perhaps it has.

"What are you laughing about?"

Glancing up, I find my father has finished his manic episode and returned to glaring at my now smirking face. But his glare has waned in its effectiveness. Or maybe it's waned due to something with him. Either way, I don't care.

Ah, that's what has happened.

I don't care anymore.

My smile widens. "Because you've just given me my freedom."

Eyebrows raised, he snorts. "What are you talking about? I've done no such thing!"

"Maybe not physically," I shrug, "but whether you meant to or not, you have freed me from you. Or rather, from caring about you ever again."

That knocks him down a peg, and I watch his anger flicker for a moment. "W-what do you mean-"

"What I mean is that your little hysterical moment there has given me everything I need to no longer care about you. Sure, you're still my father, but I'm no longer afraid of losing you. Because you're already gone."

His stunned silence doesn't stop me, and I feel a surge of warmth as I step towards him, causing him to stumble for a moment. "For eight years, I kept telling myself you needed time. That somewhere, deep down inside, you were hurting like I was. You just showed it in the complete opposite way. While you lashed out at your eldest child, your only daughter, with hurtful words and painful actions, I gave you all of me. I became your punching bag. For years, I told myself you just needed to let off steam. Work was hard on you, and Mom wasn't here anymore to help you cope, and I couldn't give you what she could. So instead, I gave you everything. My mind, my time, my peace, my life. I even gave you money that you kept telling me you deserved, ever since I turned eighteen. I could've left then. That was the perfect way out, being told I'd have to pay rent, no matter where I lived. Mr. Furbank doesn't pay a lot, but he at least pays for a decent apartment. I even found some right near the office, so I wouldn't need a car. I wouldn't need you."

Those words sink into everything throughout the room, and everyone. My father falters, landing on the bed and clutching it for stability. But he fights the shock, shaking his head and gazing up at my, for once, sturdy stance. "Then why stay?"

"Because you needed me."

His mouth opens, ready to deny this statement, to object to such an unreasonable notion. But he can't. I know he can't, just as he knows. Because it's true.

It's always been true.

So I say it again. "You needed me. Maybe, at first, you found comfort in my being there, helping the boys while you drowned in suffering between phone calls and the funeral. But it wasn't enough, so you looked for something stronger. Something that would make you feel anything, anything other than the pain of losing her with no answers as to why. And so, you found me.

"I remember when you first started yelling at us. I was shocked, stunned that the caring, wise man who had raised me and my brothers could be so mean. Could call me stupid when it was he who had taught me so much: how to fix things, how to swim, how to camp. I couldn't say anything then, couldn't do anything then. But when you went after the boys, too, I wouldn't stand for it. So I did the only thing I could.

"I took it all.

"All your pain. All your swears. All your suffering. And do you know why?"

I pause, giving him a chance. But right now, the man before me isn't my father. He's just a husk, wilting away with every sentence of truth I utter.

But I don't care. I'm not done.

"Because that's what Mom would've done. She would've protected us."

And with that, Matthew Solomon, one of the best lawyers in Crescent City, breaks. No longer is he the raging man who slapped me mere moments ago, making me cower at the sheer rage emitting from his gaze. No, now he's nothing more than a sobbing mess, crying for maybe the first since before my mother was gone. No tears had he shed, not even at her funeral. He was only ever mean, and cruel, and angry at the world. But not anymore.

At least, I won't allow him to be angry at me. Never again.

I don't go to him. This man will never receive comfort from me again. Maybe if this moment had come a long time ago, there would be a chance for forgiveness. Maybe if we had gotten therapy, like any normal family would have after such a traumatic event. Maybe then, our familial bond could've been saved.

But not now.

No, Matthew Solomon is no longer my father.

Time to tell him, then, I guess.

Sighing, I begin making sure I never have to see this man, nor this house, in the future. "I'm going to take my things and leave. If you call the cops on either myself or the Santiagos, I'll show the receipts I've kept for every item purchased. And I will press charges for a false statement and defamation."

Then, I place the keys to the car beside him. "You know where it is. No charge should be required to get it out. As for the phone, just stop paying for the line. The phone itself, I also paid for. If Mr. Furbank asks, tell him I quit or he can fire me. I don't care. I've taken enough abuse for a lifetime to have to deal with his anymore, even if he pays me.

"We'll be gone in a few minutes, after which you will never see me again. If you try to find me at the Santiago's, you won't, and they will trespass you. As for your new punching bag, I wouldn't suggest using Tom or Ian. Before, I protected them because you couldn't. But somewhere along the line, they went from cowering behind me to egging you on, so I don't really care about them anymore, either. Still, Tom is in wrestling and Ian was team captain of his football team last year. I'm pretty sure you couldn't hurt them even if you tried."

With that, I finally turn away from the man I've been so afraid of for years, and back to the two women in the room, watching this all play out. Mrs. Santiago is on the verge of flooding, clutching her own daughter as if her life depends on it. As for Cassie, she's too far gone, only a mess of sobs and gasps. Being a Rabbit Witch with all this trauma has probably been horrible for her. I'll have to try to calm her down later, but not now.

Right now, I still need their help.

Walking slowly towards them, I hand Mrs. Santiago the scrapbook I've been clutching this entire time. Perhaps I was wracked with nerves, because I can see where my nails indented the leather binding, but I can't think about that now. Smiling as best I can, I ask, "Could you put this in my backpack, please? I just need a moment to grab the rest."

She looks at me, mouth opening and closing, wanting to say so much in this heavy time, but thankfully, she just nods, and takes the book.

"Thanks. I'll meet you two outside in just a second. Can you get Cassie out, please?"

At hearing her name, Cassie sniffles and shakes her head. "A-ali, you're l-loca if you t-think w-we're l-l-leaving you-"

My hand resting on her shoulder stops her attempt at refusing, and turning towards the man in the room, my point is solidified as he continues to just sit and sob. "I'll be fine. Just give me a few minutes, okay?"

She sobs once more, but nods and heads with her mother out the door, leaving just me and Matthew.

I pay him no mind, grabbing a couple small bags and stuffing my things within: jewelry, sketches, a couple favorite outfits. The entire time, the man just cries and cries. I'm not surprised. Eight years of holding on to some much pain and anger can do that to anyone, even someone as collected as Matthew Solomon. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't even watch what I'm doing. He just holds his face as the tears and sobs keep coming.

I've been there. I've done that. More times than I can count. Every time, he'd barge in, telling me if I don't shut the f**k up, he'd give me plenty to cry about. A few times, he ended up making good on his threat, slapping and punching me until the bruises were so bad, I couldn't go to school.

But I'm not him. So I just leave him be, and when I'm done, I don't even say goodbye. I just walk out of the room, no longer mine. Down the stairs, no longer mine. And out of the house I grew up in, but is no longer mine.

In the backyard, Mrs. Santiago waits for me, still frazzled by the events, but definitely calmer, now that I'm out of the house. As I come closer, she rushes toward me.

"Ali, are you-"

"I'm okay," I interrupt her, knowing we don't have time. "Is Cassie inside?"

"Yes. I sat her down and promised I'd wait outside for you."

I nod. "Good. Now, we need to get out of here before he gets up or worse, the guys figure out we left and start looking for me."

"Right, yes, of course."

As we head towards the greenhouse, I can tell there's more she wants to say. But there isn't time, and I know if I try to focus on anything else but getting back, this won't end well. Not that this is a good ending, but that doesn't mean I should make it any worse.

Once we get to the door and she holds it open for me, I don't look back. There's no point. I just walk in, take my seat next to a still hyperventilating Cassie, and watch Mrs. Santiago step in as well. Once she's seated I nod.

"Let's go."