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But the eyes that looked back at me didn\u2019t belong to parents looking at their injured daughter. They belonged to spectators looking at an inconvenience. My father\u2019s face was a mask of weary resignation. He sighed, a long, put-upon sound as if I\u2019d just spilled milk on the carpet. And Evelyn\u2026 Evelyn smiled. It wasn\u2019t a real smile. It was a smirk of pure, triumphant malice, a victor\u2019s grin that said, \u201cSee, I told you you\u2019re nothing here.\u201d Then she spoke, and her voice was a slow, sweet poison. \u201cOh, now, Kenya, honey,\u201d she cooed, tilting her head. \u201cDon\u2019t be so dramatic.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words sucked the air from my lungs.\u00a0Dramatic?<\/i>\u00a0The world began to tilt, the edges of my vision blurring. Through the fog of pain, I heard my father\u2019s voice, devoid of all concern, piling on the verdict. \u201cHer brother\u2019s drunk,\u201d he said to Evelyn, not to me. \u201cShe always did love the attention.\u201d And then they laughed. It wasn\u2019t a loud laugh, just a low, shared chuckle of amusement between them. That sound, that soft, dismissive sound, was a thousand times more brutal than the screwdriver in my shoulder. My father didn\u2019t just abandon me. He took the side of my attacker. He signed, sealed, and delivered the death sentence of our relationship with a laugh.<\/p>\n