Stuffing some of his clothes under the sheet to give it a little extra padding, I look back up at him. “I want to sleep in my car tonight.” I want to cry my eyes out and hide my face. I want to the pain to stop. I want to be loved and cared for, and I don’t want to be someone’s prisoner anymore. I just need a way out.
“No. You’re sleeping here, next to me. That’s it,” he says, his words final and domineering.
I grit my teeth to momentarily numb my undying terror. “What if I don’t want to?” I ask, testing the waters like I often try to do. I’m hoping someday he’ll tell me to just go.
He crosses his arms over his chest, accentuating his biceps. With his jaw grinding back and forth a few times, I can see his anger growing. “You’re not leaving. Got it?” No. No, I don’t get it. I should be able to make my own decisions. No one else, especially Trent, should be able to control me. I should be able to fight back and win without being afraid, but he’s proven that I need to fear him. He’s proven it so many damn times.
So I give in. I fold the sheet in half and slip inside, fluffing my sweater up. “Don’t fall asleep yet,” he says looking back and forth between the TV and me.
“I’m tired,” I say, to no avail. I hear the Xbox power off, then the lights go off.
“Would it help if I said ‘please’?” he asks as he reaches for my arm, pulling me up, but we both know it doesn’t matter whether or not he says please, as he begins to push my head down between his legs. Trent always gets his way.
***
What happened next wasn’t pretty. It was humiliating…again. He went too far, and I ended up vomiting all over him. He has a habit of going too far, but he says it’s because I have a bad gag reflex and I’ll eventually figure out how to control it. Without regard for my feelings, and ignoring the tears in my eyes, he threw me a dirty towel and told me to change his sheets. That meant giving him the sheet I sleep on.
I’ve read stories in newspapers about girls like me. From what I’ve seen, these situations have one of two endings. Either the girl ends up dead or she’s rescued. I wonder what the end of my story will be.
Freed from Trent’s needs, I curl back up on the ground, wrapping my arms around my sweater, holding it the way I wish someone would hold me, as I let the tears soak into my makeshift pillow. Most likely, no one will ever hold me this way. When my eyes close, I see Kemper. I shouldn’t be seeing Kemper in my dreams. It could be dangerous for me…and him.
***
Trent groans and stretches as he sits up, leaning against the headboard and looking over at me. “You were sleeping with a smile on your face last night. Were you thinking about me?” he asks, doing little to conceal his morning wood. Yes, Trent. After I choked on your disgusting manhood, I was smiling about you. Who wouldn’t smile about that?
I don’t respond. Instead, I stand up and drop my notebook into my bag, avoiding eye contact. “What were you writing about?” he asks.
“You,” I say flatly. You—as in, what you did to me last night—what you do to me most nights because some day I hope I can read all of the pages I’ve written about him and realize how lucky I am to be away from him—and still alive.
“Aw, babe. That’s sweet. Are you going somewhere?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, scratching his balls with the other.
“The same place I go every morning, Trent,” I say with a sigh.
“I don’t know why you waste your damn time with that shit. You’re twenty-three, past your prime—give it up.” I look at him for a long second, debating whether to offer him a response, but I know where it will lead, and I’m not in the mood to sit in this rotten, beer-scented bedroom with the murky sun glowing through his Power Ranger curtains any longer.
I scoop up my things and head toward his door.
“You’re going to the gym today, right?” he says, his mouth now muffled in his pillow.
“No. I have to be at work early.” I reach for the door, desperate to make my escape for the day.
“Wait,” he says, lifting his head slightly from his pillow. “Why do you have to be at work early?” In other words, who am I screwing behind his back?
“One of the regulars is celebrating his birthday tonight and we’re expecting a large, elderly crowd,” I lie. When the guys come home from overseas, the crowd at the bar remains consistent for at least a week.
He nods, believing me—I guess, and fluffs up his three pillows, turning back away. “Leave the garage door open on your way out.”
There was a time when I’d ask him why he wants me to leave the garage door open since his friends all have keys, when I felt sick thinking about what or who he was doing when I left. Now the only thing I feel is fear of what might happen if I don’t figure out how to get away from him before it’s too late.
CHAPTER TWO
CURRENT DAY
KEMPER
I CAME TO THE BAR because I wanted a distraction, and holy shit did I find one. This tiny little thing with blue eyes that light up the room and long caramel hair that touches her ass definitely caught my attention tonight. And that smile…damn.
She asked if I was okay. Someone asked me if I was okay—it’s been years since anyone asked me that. Truth is, I’m so far from okay I don’t know what I am. As good as I’ve been at bottling everything up, I don’t think there’s much room left. The numbness is starting to wear off, and the dark reality I’ve come home to is settling in.
Ignoring everything else around me, I kept my attention on the cutie bartender. I was feeling kind of sorry for how frazzled she was by the seventy Marines hounding her for drinks. I don’t know why someone would leave her to run the place herself on a night like tonight, but frazzled or not, she was determined to get the job done.
I didn’t want to drink—I knew if I did, the reality of it all would hit me like a ton of bricks, but how could I not toast to Rex. That chick not only asked me if I was okay, but then she poured a drink in his honor—it was probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for me.
I hope I didn’t scare her with my completely frayed appearance—the giant bags under my eyes and a seemingly permanent zombie-like stare I can’t seem to fix, but she didn’t seem to care I guess.
I did something I wouldn’t normally do, but when I see someone in need of help, it’s habit to want to do what I can. I made my way around to the backside of the bar and grabbed a couple of steins to start filling some of the orders. Shocked for a quick minute, she stopped to look at me, crinkled her nose and questioned me with hesitance. I wanted to laugh at the cuteness, but I kept a straight face and helped her with the orders. I was getting looks from the guys, but for the most part, they knew not to fuck with me. Not now.
She may not have known it, but I knew exactly what I was doing behind the bar, thanks to the experience I had. Mom and I moved smack-dab in the middle of my senior year of high school after she decided to leave Sloan, the stepdad from hell. Grandma left Mom her trailer when she died a few years before then, so we headed to Alabama, where the trailer was, to start over. It was around that time I realized I had to man up and help Mom any way I could. I needed to because she wasn’t helping herself or me. I didn’t want either of us to live in a trailer for the rest of our lives, so I got a job at the local bar. It was illegal since I wasn’t even eighteen, but it seemed laws were meant to be broken around there.
Anyway, I could tell I was making this chick a bit nervous at first, but she was obviously desperate for a hand so she quickly warmed up to the idea of me helping her. I couldn’t keep up with that crowd if I were on my own, so I can only imagine how she was feeling, surrounded by a bunch of loudmouthed drunks barking out drink orders.
At least helping her out tonight made the hours fly by, but now as I watch her peel out of the lot, leaving me with only a spattering of dust lit up from her brake lights, I’m kind of wishing the evening hadn’t gone by so fast. I wonder where she’s off to…who she’s off too. I should have gotten her number.
<
br /> Daphne…her name is Daphne. It’s definitely a beautiful name I won’t forget, and it fits her.
As the brake lights disappear into the night, I know it’s time to decide where I should go. I know I’m not going back to my apartment, and I’m certainly not heading back to base. I consider sleeping on the beach, but the pick-up truck is just as comfortable I suppose. The dirt lot here at the bar is empty, and I don’t think anyone would care if I stayed.
I lower the seat all the way back, prop my feet up on the passenger side dash and try my hardest to sleep. I miss my sleeping bag. I miss sleeping under the stars, knowing I was with my brothers if an attack were to occur. I actually miss the missiles whistling in the distance—it was an alarm for us to get ready. Here, though, every time a truck flies by, I damn near have a heart attack. Trucks don’t give you any sort of warning. They’re suddenly there and then they’re gone just as fast. Even explosions give you a rumbling sound as a heads up—a second to take cover.
Civilian life is for the fucking birds.
CHAPTER THREE
CURRENT DAY
Dear Journal,
I'm going to become stronger.
I just hope it’s soon. I’m losing my grip and I’m fearful of what might happen when I let go completely.
-Daphne
DAPHNE
I TUG ON THE THIN WHITE laces, making them taut until the pressure comforts my ankles with support. After I unfurl my leggings down over the boots, I pull my hair up and hop down the steps from the bleachers, bouncing a bit on my rubber skate guards.
There was a time I considered making figure skating my career, like Mom so desperately wanted me to, but a little bird—Grandpa—told me never to make the one thing you love more than anything, something you will have to call a job. “It’ll eventually feel like work and the passion will become lost.“ I listened to him and got a business degree, but every morning I come to the rink, claiming it as my home, rather than my office.
I stretch my leg over the barrier, feeling the welcoming pull in each muscle. With a quick inhale, I welcome the icy burn into my lungs and embrace the rink along with all of its glorious emptiness. Make me forget, I say to the rink. I dig my toe into the fresh ice, making the first cut, and press my weight off, gliding at an incredible speed for several minutes, warming up, before I see Jesse up in the office. He’s usually the only other one here this early, so he lets me own the ice for the short time I’m here. A mutual love for the ice gets me a thumbs up followed by music—my music—Ravel: Daphnis and Chloe, which instantly speaks to my heart. It’s the musical piece I was named after—Mom’s winning song, and my form of fresh air. The one thing I love more than anything in my life has been this orchestrated phenomenon—the lullaby that soothed me to sleep as a baby, the melody that brought the ice to life, and in recent years, my Valium before a long day.
When the rink is empty, it’s like my oyster and the music closes me into it, protecting me like a hidden pearl. It’s my safe place—my place of worship. The wind licks my face, my hair is weightless in the air, and God’s hands push me forward, giving me the freedom I yearn for.
The flutes and strings soothe and the rolling bass ignites my heart as the buildup grows within me, like a sprouting flower emerging from its comforting soil, exposing the fragile outer layer to the surrounding brightness. As the woodwinds peek out from around the corner, running through me like a bolt of electricity, they force me to soar faster and faster until the brass punches me in the back and spins me into dozens of dizzying circles. I can hear myself breathing, but only from within, as I allow the haunting tones of the French horns combined with the muted trumpets to pull the string from my top, releasing me and letting me fly along the ice, forcing the world to blur and leave the echo to quake through my body as flakes of ice twinkle around me. I plant my toe back into the ice and everything is still again. The tremors within me calm and I feel as though I’ve taken a drag of the freshest air. The pain within me fades and I’m whole again.
It’s all I need in the morning—my hour on the ice. “Thanks, Jesse,” I yell, gathering my stuff. “See you tomorrow. Same time, same place.”
“See ya, kid!” he yells from the Zamboni.
The instant I slip back into my Jeep, I feel like I’ve wiped away yesterday and I’m starting fresh today, although my fresh start is always accompanied by my internal struggle. Every morning, it’s the same thing: I try to convince myself that I’m strong enough to fight, but then reality seeps in and I realize I might be strong, but he’s stronger.
If only I never went home for spring break three years ago. I’m not one for regrets, but I can’t help wondering how different my life would be if I took another path.
I might have never met Trent. That could have been the best thing for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
THREE YEARS AGO
DAPHNE
“OH DAPHNE, I FORGOT it’s spring break. Thank God you’re home,” Mom says as I trudge through the door with two loads of laundry and my duffle. How could she forget Spring break? “I need your help with something.” Even though she never makes the first move, I always give her a hug and tell her I missed her. I do miss her, kind of. I definitely miss who she used to be. It sucks being able to remember what she was capable of and how she used to act, but when I fast forward to now, I’m left with nothing but faint memories.
With my arms still wrapped around her, I feel her cold, bony hand tap my shoulder as the sound of a kiss smacks into the air. “Well, go put your stuff away and meet me in the family room.” I figure one of the recessed lighting bulbs blew out, or the family computer has a virus. That seems to be what I’m good at fixing around here. God knows that’s the only thing I’d be able to fix here. I stumble over my feet, dragging my heavy belongings down the hall to the closed door of my bedroom. I’m not sure why they keep my door closed. Maybe it’s so they don’t have to think about me when I’m gone, and they can pretend I never existed and ruined their lives.
I open the door, inhaling the scents of dust and fabric softener wafting through the air. I drop my bags, and then myself onto the bed. Regardless of how much I dislike being here, this bedroom has been mine since the day I was born, and it brings me a bit of comfort and happiness. It’s been the one constant in my life.
No more than a minute after I sit down, my phone starts buzzing and Mom is hollering for me from down the hall. I roll my eyes at both. I can’t relax for a second.
I pull my phone out, reading the string of messages from Kia telling me about some ripper we’re going to tonight.
Kia: Everyone’s home, so we’re going. Can’t wait to see you, chica. I’ll pick you up at eight.
Like everyone else in my life, she tells me what I’m doing and when I’m doing it. It doesn’t normally bother me because I hate making decisions, but sometimes I can’t stand how everyone thinks I’m this lost puppy who will just follow them around and do what they tell me to. I always tell myself that someday I’m going to surprise the hell out of everyone and just say no. Today is not that day. I have nothing better to do and a party sounds more fun than sitting at home.
Me: See you then.
Mom’s voice is echoing through the hall again as I make my way down to the family room. “Finally,” she says, exasperated. She’s sitting at the computer desk, banging the mouse around. “This damn thing is frozen again. Do you think you could take a look at it?”
“Sure,” I say, taking her seat. She has twenty windows open, two music applications, Netflix and her accounting software all running. “Mom, I’ve told you a million times you have to close these windows when you aren’t using them. You only have so much space on this thing.”
“Oh, you know how I am with these stupid machines, Daphne. Plus, this is why I have you,” she says, pinching my chin. In this case, the point of her comment was to compliment my technological intelligence, but I wonder all the time why she actually did bother to have me. I close all of the windows she h
as open and all of the programs she has running, restart the computer, and run a virus scan. I turn to her while waiting for the scan to finish. “I’m going out tonight. I’ll try not to be too late.” I’m definitely going to be out too late, but she’d hear nothing of that.
She combs her fingers through her damaged, color-treated, long blonde hair and peers over my head to the mirror hanging on the wall, puckering her lips, looking from side to side to check her profile. “Where will you be going and who will you be going with?” she asks.
“To dinner and a movie with Kia,” I say standing up from the chair. “Mom, I’m nineteen. Ease up. Don’t forget what you and Dad were doing at nineteen—pushing me around in a stroller and all.” The pained look on her face tells me that I don’t need to remind her of her mistakes. “Speaking of Dad. Where is he?”
“He should be home any minute. Unfortunately,” she exaggerates a sigh. “He said he was running to the store, but that was two hours ago, so I’m assuming he’s at The Sticky Dollar.” Oh my God. I don’t need to know that. I try to tame my gag reflex, considering the thought of Dad sitting in a filthy strip club. Mom has a tendency of over-sharing—treating me more like a friend than a daughter. I wish she didn’t. I wish she would act like a mother. “You know, there comes a time in every man’s life where his wife just doesn’t fit the fucking bill anymore.” Here we are again. The stories never change. Dad sucks. Mom sucks. I suck. Everything sucks in this house and everyone hates each other. “But I’m faithful, Daphne. I have always been faithful to that man.” So I’ve heard, four million times. Being faithful and being a loving wife are two completely different things. I think she’s convinced herself she’s both, but I know she’s neither. I can say I come from a broken home, but shattered describes it a little better.
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