Chapter Twenty-Nine

Claire followed her mother into the dining room for breakfast, noticing that John didn't have a plate of food in front of him, but instead had a mug of steaming coffee that was the same color as his eyes. She slid into the chair beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Is your stomach upset?" She asked, having heard him throwing up in the middle of the night when he thought everyone was asleep.

He shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee. "Beverly's letter came today." He stated, staring off into space as the family continued their meal.

Claire nodded, knowing now why he had pushed past her in the living room. "I see." She moved away from him, knowing that the last thing he wanted was to be touched. She'd learned that the letters were something he despised, he usually didn't even open them, but he never threw them out either. She knew that he didn't eat when he was upset, instead he would sip on coffee for his breakfast, too afraid that if he ate it would come back up.

Clarissa had tried to coax him to eat crackers to settle his stomach, but he'd always refused anything that the mothers tried to get into him. He'd hardly eaten anything in the last three days, instead choosing to hide in his room and play his guitar until his already raw fingers bled.

Claire glanced at his hands, noticing the blood-soaked bandages on his fingers. She knew he felt guilty about letting the woman who'd taken the DNA test touch him where she had, knowing that he felt like he was unclean and that he'd ruined how special their wedding night would be.

"Stop staring." He hissed, knowing that the family was trying to keep an eye on him. He could sense their little glances at him as they ate, feeling the concern in the room.

Clarissa sighed, setting her fork down as she looked at the boy. "We're just-"

"I don't fucking care." He growled, his knuckles going white as he gripped his coffee mug. "I don't want you to stare at me."

Amelia dropped her gaze into her lap, shaking from the odd turn John's temper had taken over the past few days. She pulled on the cut sleeve of gigantic red flannel that she'd stolen from John's room and had been using as her nightgown. She could hear an odd edge to John's voice, and it scared her because he'd never sounded like that before. "Can I be excused?" She asked, looking up at her mother, her fear clear in her eyes.

Mary nodded, praying that John's attitude would change after the court day was over. "Go ahead." She returned to her breakfast as her youngest slipped off of her chair, and padded up the stairs to her room. She looked up at John, knowing that he didn't understand how much he was hurting the child. "Johnathan," she started, waiting for him to look at her before continuing, "do you remember when your parents would shout at each other?"

He nodded, remembering that the shouting was always followed by pain. "Yes."

"Do you remember being afraid-"

"I was afraid because it always ended in me being hurt, or seeing my old man rape my mother." He shuddered at the thought of his father forcing his mother to take him. He could still hear his mother's screams of pain and see her feeble attempts to escape from his father's torture.

Mary sighed, still trying to get her point across. "I don't think you understand this, but you're scaring Amelia. She doesn't know why you've been acting the way you are, all she knows is that you're angry and she might think that you're angry at her." She reached a hand out as John started to stand, pressing it to his arm. "She doesn't understand what you're feeling. And since she sees you as a hero, she's afraid that something bad is happening."

John turned his pitch-black glare on her. "Something bad is happening." He growled, pushing her hand away from him. "I was almost raped by a woman, and I might be the one to go to prison for it." He pushed himself away from the table, taking his coffee with him as he left the room, the backdoor slamming as he walked outside to the porch and into the comfortable warmth of late summer.