by Lexie Ray
“Now, you’re going to have bruises on your neck,” Jack continued. “If your mother notices—and I doubt she will—you’re to tell her they’re hickeys from some gang banger at school. You’re a slut, so it’ll make sense.”
In a last ditch effort to get him to let go of my throat, I dug my nails into Jack’s skin. He didn’t so much as flinch.
“And if you ever try to tell your mother about this little conversation, I’ll toss you both out on the streets. You won’t survive. Your mother has developed an alcohol problem, if you haven’t noticed. Her body physically needs it. I supply it. It makes her easier to control, of course.”
Without warning, Jack released his grip on my windpipe and walked out of the kitchen.
I slid to the floor, coughing as sweet oxygen flowed into my aching lungs. The relief was so intense that I felt stupidly grateful to Jack for simply letting me go.
Jack.
What was I going to do? What were we going to do?
I numbly regained my footing, stumbling over to the sink and retrieving the cleaning supplies in the cabinet below. It took me three tries to pull the yellow rubber gloves over my shaking hands.
The kitchen looked immaculate, along with the rest of the house, but I knew why now. There was a reason everything looked so clean all the time—it was because someone was always cleaning it.
I wiped down the countertops, stove, and microwave with a wet rag before drying them. Next came the dishes. Then the sweeping. Then the mopping.
Each action became the only thing to keep me going. The physical labor kept my mind from working, from trying to process what had just happened to me.
I took out the furniture polish and another rag before moving my efforts to the sitting room. I removed the baskets of categorized magazines from the table and worked oil into the wood, rubbing furiously until it shone in the light coming in from the window. I replaced the baskets and refolded the throw on the pale white couch. I washed the window, swept the floor and mopped it.
I couldn’t stop working. It was the only thing that kept me going.
It wasn’t until I got to the hall bathroom that everything caught up to me.
I turned on the light and sobbed quietly at the finger marks on my neck. Already turning purple, I knew they’d be black before the day was over. A hickey? Sure. Mom would never believe that. I clung to the sink, paralyzed with desperation.
It suddenly became clear to me what I was going to have to do. I’d have to get Mom alone and show her the bruises. I’d tell her exactly where they came from—not from some idiot at school. And if Jack threw us out, so what? We could survive. We could. We’d done it by ourselves for years before he ever slithered into our lives. We could do it again. I could drop out of school, get a job, help with the rent. It could happen.
I turned on the water and washed my face. It was puffy, and I realized for the first time that it had a slightly blue tinge. Had Jack almost killed me? Staring into the mirror, my expression scared me. The whites of my eyes were bloodshot, making the green flecks of their hazel color stand out. I looked like a stranger, desperation coloring all of my features. I smoothed my hair and took a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm myself. This was going to work because it had to, I decided. There wasn’t an alternative.
When Mom came home from work, the house was immaculate and I was trying to seize an opening for her attention. Her regular routine was to spend about an hour in Jack’s room. Then she usually mixed herself a drink in the kitchen while Jack took a shower. I refused to ruminate about what they might be doing in there.
So when I heard the familiar tinkle of ice in a highball glass, I tumbled down the stairs and burst into the kitchen.
“Mom,” I said breathlessly. “I have to talk to you.”
She barely glanced at me. “Jasmine, I’ve had a long day,” she said, exhaustion plain in her voice.
I knew that her long day had been primarily composed of longing for the drink she was about to suck down.
I switched tack. “I was thinking that maybe we could move soon.”
Mom ignored me and focused on dumping as much of her cocktail as she could into her stomach. I sidled into the light, raising my head. I’d changed into a tank top to better display the wretched bruises on my neck.
She exhaled with a sigh and I could smell the stink of gin in the air. Did that cocktail have any mixer in it at all?
“Why would you want to move?” she asked, looking at me. “We have everything we need here. Aren’t you happy?”
I swallowed. Why hadn’t she said anything about my bruises?
“Of course I’m happy,” I lied. “Jack is really good to us, you’re right. It’s just that I’m a little worried about the gang activity at my school. One of my friends got beat up this week and I think I would be more comfortable in another district, maybe.”
This would normally get her attention. Mom loathed gangs. They had apparently taken a large toll on her own childhood, though she refused to talk about it.
Her eyelids didn’t even flicker.
“Maybe you’re keeping the wrong friends,” she suggested, an edge to her voice. “I certainly hope you’d stay away from the vacuum cleaner who gave you those hickeys. Have some pride, Jasmine.”
With that, Mom left the kitchen.
No, we wouldn’t survive on the streets anymore, I realized. Gone were the days where we could spend the night on a bus in search of new hope with the rising sun in the morning. The bus didn’t serve liquor. Only Jack served enough liquor to keep her happy.
I’d lost Mom to Jack. That was obvious to me now, even though he’d told me exactly the same thing this morning.
I was alone in this house. Alone in this situation. Alone.
Crushed under the weight of defeat, I climbed the stairs again. No part of this house was mine, not even my room. Not even my bed. What was supposed to feel like a refuge now felt like a prison.
Crossing the attic, avoiding the creaky parts out of habit, I stared out the window. Families walked down the sidewalk on the way to the neighborhood park, with mothers pushing strollers and fathers lifting giggling children over their heads. Why couldn’t any of that belong to me? Why couldn’t I have a loving family? The word “family” seemed as elusive as the idea of having a real one. Visions of Jack and Mom enveloping me in a comforting hug were actually laughable.
I looked down at the porch and saw Jack sitting in the rocking chair,smoking. It was his favorite evening habit. How could I get rid of him? Half-baked schemes of poison or prison or some Superman to whisk Mom and me away flitted through my mind.
Almost as if he knew what I was plotting, Jack lifted his eyes to the attic window. He stared at me, his expression placid. He continued puffing and looking at me until I backed away from the window, my heart in my throat, beating hard enough to make the bruises hurt.
There wasn’t an escape, I realized, unless it was something that I orchestrated myself. I vowed to bide my time until I saw my way out.
Desperate days turned into weary weeks. Months fraught with danger melted into years.
Biding my time was incredibly hard. I tried to adhere to Jack’s orders. If I couldn’t make myself smile, I at least hid my scowl. I gradually eased away from my mother, letting her lose herself in the bottle.
Once, I realized that I hadn’t spoken in the house for one whole week.
It was immediately apparent, however, that nothing I did would ever please Jack. If I stood silently in a room, waiting to be excused, he’d cuff me for inactivity. If I asked to be excused, he’d slap me for speaking out of turn.
I was doing the dishes after dinner one night as Jack smoked at the table and Mom swilled her drink. A wet glass slipped from my soapy hands and broke on the floor.
Jack was on me in a second, bending my fingers back until several joints cracked. He wasn’t even frowning. His face was as frighteningly blank as ever.
“Stop!” I screamed, in agony. “Sto
p! I’m sorry! Mom! Mommy!”
“Stop whining,” Mom said, sounding like she was speaking from behind a curtain. Her mind was already well veiled with cocktails. It always was by dinnertime.
“Clumsy girls deserve to be punished,” Jack said. “You’ll remember to be more careful next time, won’t you?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. Anything to make him release my hand.
Three of my fingers were sprained. I could barely bend them.
“Finish the dishes,” Jack said. He took his pack of cigarettes and headed out the front door to his rocking chair.
I shuddered, looking at all the delicate glassware in the sink. How was I going to manage with my mangled hand?
Ice tinkled from the table as Mom finished her cocktail. She rose unsteadily, staggering toward the bar to make herself another drink. How many was she going to pour down her throat tonight, I wondered? Something inside me snapped.
“Did you see what your boyfriend did to me?” I demanded hysterically, thrusting my hand into her face. “Have you been seeing what your boyfriend is doing to me? Do you see anything anymore? Fucking drunk!”
For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow of Mom—the person Mom used to be. She looked confused, angry, and sorry. Then, whatever demon drove her to drink reasserted itself. That devil, thirst.
“Get outta my face,” Mom mumbled, shoving me away from her. She mixed a drink and downed it immediately before fixing another. She chugged it again. She was mixing another when I ran upstairs.
I couldn’t stand to watch her anesthetize herself that way. It was unbearable without having the same tools at my own disposal. I faced every situation painfully sober, naked, without so much as a shield.
I started staying away from that hateful yellow house. I invented every excuse I could come up with. By then, I was a junior in high school.
“Beta Club today after school,” I’d say as I was running out the door, “National Honor Society,” though my grades were far too low, “soccer,” though I’d never kicked a ball in my life, “group project.”
I’d already begun withdrawing from all my friends at school, driven away by their concern at the injuries I couldn’t hide with a turtleneck or long sleeves.
Jack would probably murder me if the police got involved.
Instead, I’d crouch in the library until the school kicked me out. I read everything, anything to stop my thoughts and fears from consuming me.
When they locked the doors to the school, I’d ride the bus. I had a pass to get me to and from school, but I’d visit the neighborhoods we used to live in. I thought about how life would be different as I stared up at the apartment buildings that had hosted happier times between Mom and me. How did everything get so screwed up? I’d ride to the end of the line, the bus driver blinking in surprise at me because he thought everyone had gotten off at their stops.
Even then, I was learning to become a shadow. I just didn’t realize it yet.
If I got home too late, there would be hell to pay. Mom would be inconsolable, spitting and screaming at me in a full drunken lather. Jack would beat me in front of her, saying that it was for my own good. I had to learn to listen. I had to learn to mind.
“You’re lucky Jack gives a shit about you,” Mom slurred. “He wants you to be safe and good and you just spit in his face. You don’t give a goddamn about the people who love you.”
The people who love me? The next day I had to explain a black eye to my high school counselor.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Stark,” I said, shrugging and grinning sheepishly. “I’m just not very athletic. I was trying to catch a baseball, but it hit me in my eye.”
At that point, I was more than eager to see Jack get his, but until I could be sure he’d have jail time or worse, I couldn’t risk involving the police.
I just had to bide my time.
But one evening, after I had ridden the bus in my usual circuit around the city, I came home to an ambulance in the front yard and police pulled up onto the sidewalk. I smiled at the blue and red lights like they were Christmas. I thought that surely Jack had tumbled down the stairs or lit himself on fire with a cigarette or choked to death on his own spit.
Then I saw him sitting in the rocking chair, smoking a cigarette, as the paramedics wheeled a black body bag on a gurney toward the open doors of the ambulance.
I ran up to the house, screaming incoherently. One of the cops caught me before I could reach the porch.
“What have you done to her, you son of a bitch?” I shrieked. “You motherfucker! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
Shock, everyone agreed, shock at losing her mother.
She never took to the idea of her mother having a boyfriend, she was always a little too attached to her mother.
She’d been self-harming, hitting herself with objects to make bruises, making it look like she was being abused.
The mother drank to drown her troubles, unable to deal with her difficult daughter.
How could that child be so desperate? Didn’t she see how good she had it at that house?
He’s a saint for keeping that girl. If it were me, she’d be institutionalized. Strap a straitjacket on her, she’s done.
The shot will make her sleep. The pills will keep her calm. If she won’t take them, crush them up in a drink. Put them in her food.
I woke up groggy. My head pounded and I felt like I’d been asleep too long. For far too long.
I struggled to remember something important. I struggled to sit up.
I noticed that my arms and legs were restrained first. Second, I noticed I was in Jack’s room. In all my years of living in the house, I’d never been in here, let alone laid on the bed.
The glowing cherry of a cigarette drew my eyes over to a corner of the room.
“Your mother’s dead.”
That was what I had to remember. Mom was dead.
One part of my brain told me that I needed to cry. Mom was dead. That was something to be sad about.
But the rest of my brain couldn’t muster the tears. I felt like a dry husk. Shriveled. Not like myself.
“She drank herself to death,” Jack continued conversationally. “She passed out before dinner. When I came back to check on her, she had choked to death on her own vomit.”
Cry, part of my brain coaxed. Your mother is dead. Cry.
But there was nothing. All I could do was stare at Jack, who took another drag on his cigarette in the corner.
“So I’ve lost her, but you’re still mine.”
Tell him to fuck off, my brain demanded. He’s an asshole. He as good as killed your mother.
But I couldn’t even manage words. What was wrong with me?
“And with that little stunt in front of all those people, suggesting that Fiona’s death was somehow my fault, well.” Jack’s chuckle should have sent chills through my body, but I couldn’t manage to experience a single emotion.
“It’s well past time you learned to obey.”
I found my voice in a scream as he burned my arm with his cigarette.
My cry seemed to excite him in some horrible way. He tore my shirt off, bruised me while wrestling my bra off. The cigarette came down again and again, burning my tender breasts. The screams seemed to rip my throat open.
Jack cursed irritably when he accidentally pushed down too hard and ground the cigarette out against my skin.
He fell to beating me, punching my face again and again. Blood filled my mouth and I mercifully lost consciousness.
He kept me tied to the bed for a week, like an animal, beating me when it pleased him. Jack explained that he had the whole week off from work for bereavement leave.
He seemed anything but sad.
The pills he kept feeding me muffled my despair and screwed with my sense of time and self, but it was still the longest week of my life.
After the seven days were up, Jack returned to work. He dosed me with enough medicine to make me pass out.
; When I woke up, he had already returned. I’d lost the entire day and was lucid just in time for his torture. He wasn’t creative—his methods didn’t change much. He liked to hit. He liked to burn. He liked to hurt. I absorbed it as a new reality—had to.
It became apparent to me that I was going to die one day when his blow to my nose didn’t wake me up, but almost choking on my own blood did.
Biding my time wasn’t going to work anymore. Time for action.
One morning, when Jack was in a particular hurry because his torture session had lasted too long, he didn’t stick around to make sure I passed out after drinking the cocktail of medication.
It was easy enough to lean over to the side of the bed and vomit. The hard part was dislocating my wrist getting one of the restraints off.
Pain was something I had tried to accept, but it just wasn’t something I could get used to. Within a few fumbling minutes, I was free from the bed. But more than a week of inactivity had made me weak. My knees buckled when I tried to stand, sending me straight to the floor.
I couldn’t tell whether my head swimming was all the blood rushing from it or some last vestiges of the tranquilizers. It made me panic. I couldn’t stop now. I couldn’t handle another minute of being in this house of death.
Crawling on my hands and knees to the shower popped my wrist back into its socket with wretched relief. The cold spray helped wake me up as fully as was possible.
I had to get out of here. Today was the day.
The water and soap hurt my wounds—particularly the cigarette burns—but I scrubbed all the same.
The reflection of the girl in the mirror looked like a ghoul, a swollen, bruised version of Jasmine. I barely gave her a second glance. She was a stranger.
I paused in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. My appetite was nonexistent, but I knew food would give me strength. I opened containers and shoveled their contents into my mouth without looking at them.
When I couldn’t stomach another bite, I pulled myself up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters.
I was fully prepared to load up my suitcase and backpack like old times, but I knew I was too weak to handle them both. I was only going to be able to take the backpack.
