by W Winters
Maybe that’s why I hate myself so much. I’m weak and useless. Just like he tells me.
Some days I swear I don’t feel anything anymore. Even the fear. It’s as if it doesn’t matter, like I don’t matter anymore. How can I? How could I even be sane staring at the same walls each and every day? I barely move anymore. It must be days since I’ve decided not to eat. And since that day I’ve been in this room. Unmoving, unchanging other than the pain.
It’s only a matter of time before he’ll let me out of this room. It’s just for punishments, or at least that’s what it used to be. I don’t know how many consecutive days I’ve been in here. Maybe it’s my new home.
I scratch my fingernail against the cement, creating a mark. There are dozens of lines just like it. I think I started them to count the days, but it’s turned into something else. Each one is the same as the last. Maybe I’m waiting for something to change them. Something inside of me or inside of this room to break up the monotony. Maybe I’ve just stopped caring.
I think Father’s easier on me when I’m pathetic like this. It makes me feel even worse knowing he’s the reason, he’s the motivating factor behind it all.
I blink slowly and my thick lashes blur the faint light from the small window as the door opens with a protesting groan.
I expect the door to close just as fast as it opens, but when I chance a glance, he’s left it open. His large body stands in the doorway, and his dingy off-white shirt and faded jeans are dirty from working outside on the farm and in the dirt.
His boots sound as if they’re crunching against the ground as he walks. Each step getting louder and my heart racing faster. I stay perfectly still, resisting every instinct to run or to fight. Both are useless.
“Get up,” he says and his voice is deep and rough. No room for negotiation.
My body flinches out of instinct, and I prepare for him to kick me when I don’t react quickly enough. He always kicks me in the stomach and as I close my eyes tightly, disobeying him, I pray he does it hard enough to end this.
But nothing comes.
With the thin coat of sweat over every inch of my body, a chill goes through me, making my body stiffen. I nearly vomit from the intensity of the change, but I hold back.
“I’ve had enough of this, boy!” my father screams at me and I curl into myself. Embarrassment and shame flow through me from how weak I am, but I don’t give it much thought. I already knew I was pitiful.
“I won’t fucking tell you again!” he yells and leans down to haul me up by my shirt, but I scoot back and resist. If there’s one thing I’ve learned never to do, it’s to resist.
But I’ve wanted this. I have to remind myself of my death wish as the fear cripples me and the years of conditioning settle in and make my body tremble.
The back of his large, dirty hand whirls in front of my face, blurring from the speed as he snarls at me. The scowl on his face is only made more terrifying from his exposed yellowed teeth and the coldness in his dark gaze.
The last thing I see are his knuckles.
The last thing I hear is the crunch of my nose.
The last thing I taste is the metallic blood in my mouth.
* * *
The last thing I feel is nothing. So long I’ve waited for it. And it’s finally here.
Chapter 2
Fuck.
My neck is stiff, my jaw hurts and I know it’s bruised. But what really fucking hurts is my throat. It’s worse than a sore throat, raw and like it’s on fire.
A groan slips out and I instantly regret it, my body squirming on a hard sheet of metal. I blink slowly, barely opening them and letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
I know in an instant where I am. The kitchen.
The dusty plaid curtain on the window above the sink is the first thing I see, and that’s all I need to know.
The kitchen, the table. Mother.
This is where she was a few times, I remember it well but I don’t know what brought her here. Maybe it was him. I never thought about it back then, but as my eyes open wider, anger seeps in. Did he hurt her like he hurt me?
My muscles coil, and I try to sit up.
It only lasts a moment and then the pain in my throat makes me wince again.
Shit. It’s only when I lift my hand to my throat that I realize the pain is only located there. It's no longer focused on my stomach in the least.
“I had to intubate you,” my father says from the dark corner of the room. My heart thuds hard in my chest as he slowly stands and walks into the light of the room.
“Stupid fucking boy,” he mutters and stands next to me. So close I can smell the dirt and whiskey that waft from him every day.
I try to swallow, but it only makes my dry throat hurt even worse. A sickness and hollowness threaten me. I can’t even kill myself. I’m that pathetic.
I need to find another way then. Something fast.
“You need to knock this shit off,” my father says as though he heard my thoughts. My heart stutters as I slowly raise my eyes to his. I don’t dare speak though.
He looks tired up here with the morning light casting shadows down his face. He rubs his beard and clucks his tongue once before lowering his head to mine.
I instinctively back away as he says in a low voice, a roughness from his throat making his threat sound even more terrifying, “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be, you hear?”
Like the coward I am, I nod. My blood rushing and fueled by fear.
“I have something for you,” he says as he backs away slowly. One step and then another, giving me space, but I don’t trust it. “Sit up,” he tells me. My body’s stiff and my muscles sore. It hurts, it physically hurts to stay still, but I’m done with this.
Just let me die.
“Sit up!” my father screams, pounding his fists so close to my legs and rattling the table. My body jolts as I stare at his face, bright red as he spits, “Sit the fuck up!”
He grips my shoulders with a bruising force and rips me up so quickly my ass lifts off the table and for a moment I think he’ll throw me off. Maybe into the old walnut cupboards. But he doesn’t. Thump, thump, thump, my heart races, but I push down the fear.
There’s nothing he can do to me anymore.
There’s nothing left to take.
My shoulders shake uncontrollably, making me feel even weaker as he looks me in the eyes and reaches into his back pocket. It’s a wrinkled polaroid picture, and I can’t help how my eyes dart to it and then to his face. I wait, still as stone and cold as one too as he flicks it with his fingers, not showing me fully and teasing me with it.
I don’t know what it could be. Really anything, I suppose. Whatever it is, it’s a threat and it won’t work. There’s nothing more threatening than simply living at this point.
He flicks it again and the thwack of the paper just annoys me. My teeth grind together as I slowly turn away from him. It doesn’t matter. Whatever he has to threaten me with, I don’t care. It’ll all be over soon.
My throat seems to clench, painfully scraping as I take in a sharp breath. The sight of my father’s hand so close to my face prepares me for the inevitable blow. But it doesn’t come. It’s only when he takes a step away that I finally look down at my lap. The photo is face down against my worn dirtied jeans and I almost don’t pick it up.
Almost. But the curiosity is too strong.
I flip it over, prepared for the worst, but my forehead scrunches when I realize what it is.
It’s just a girl. Huddled into a small ball, her t-shirt and jeans are dirty like she’s been dragged through the mud. Her sneakers are still on her as well. It takes a moment for me to understand what I’m seeing, but when I do, my heart stops beating right. She’s in my room. That cement floor is the same floor I was just sleeping on.
She’s in the punishment room.
“Get her out,” I say and the words are pushed through my lips the second they reach me as a though
t. I will my tired body to move, but my father’s quicker than I am. So fast that the back-hand smacks against my cheek and mouth, splitting my lip open and flinging my head backward. My body flails as I attempt to stay on the raised metal table, but my fingers slip along the smooth metal and I fall. I stumble down on the ground, my side hitting the knob of a cupboard on the way down and my elbow landing hard on the linoleum floor.
I suck in a breath between clenched teeth, but remain still on the floor. Not daring to move from my awkward position. Another lesson my father has taught me well.
My heart races in my chest, feeling as though it’s trying to get away. Trying to go to her. But I stay still.
I need to listen. “Don’t hurt her,” I say the words in a hoarse voice but it’s nothing but a plea. A pathetic plea that will fall on deaf ears. “Please,” I add weakly and hang my head.
I don’t want her hurt. No one should ever go into that room. It’s a place for nightmares and monsters. Maybe my father should be locked away in that cell. But not her.
I chance a peek up at my father, watching as he nods slightly and then runs his fingers over his jawline. His knuckles are split from striking me and the knowledge makes me smile slightly. But I hide it. The tip of my tongue runs along the cut on my lip as I look down and away, trying to remember every detail of the girl on the floor.
“Is she okay?” I dare to ask him.
“Fine,” he says gruffly, stopping in his tracks and walking toward me. He has to shove the table to the side in the narrow kitchen to bend down close to me. Again his scent drifts toward me, and this time it’s stronger. So strong I nearly vomit, but I hold it back.
“She’s going to be good. I already know that,” he says and I can feel his eyes on me. Waiting for a reaction and my response.
Whatever I do, I need to save her from this fate. I take a steadying breath, making sure I don’t react in the least. I just need to get to her.
“Do you want to see her?” my father asks. “I got her for you.”
Finally, my eyes reach his and my chest rises with a disbelieving breath.
“All you have to do is listen. And she’s yours.” I watch as the smile slowly stretches across his face as he adds, “Listen to me and she stays safe.”
Chapter 3
I want to get closer to her, but I stay right where I am.
I can see she’s breathing, and that’s what matters right now.
Listen to me and she stays safe. My father’s words echo in my head repeatedly as I wait for her to awaken. I was desperate to get in here. I needed to see her to protect her, but with every second that passes… I start to hate her.
I was so ready to give in. So ready to end all this shit. And now, because of her, my fate is worse than it’s ever been.
Yet, so much better.
My fingers itch to push her hair away from her face. She’s young; younger than me, I’m sure. She’s pretty in a traditional sense. Her hair is ruffled though, and she needs to be taken care of.
There’s a scratch on her cheek, like a scrape more than a scratch I guess.
My back leans against the cinder block wall, and it’s cold and hard, but it’s giving me stability. The thing I hate most about this situation, is that I’m still helpless.
There used to be ointment in the medicine cabinet. The mirror has a patina from where you have to grip the edge to open it. But in the old mirror cabinet, there was an ointment for scratches. I don’t know if there is now.
A weak humorless smile makes the corner of my lip twitch as I pick at the frayed end of my jeans. I can’t even get her something for the scrape.
Pathetic.
That hasn’t changed in the least.
She doesn’t know though. She doesn’t know anything beyond these walls. I lean my head back, tearing my eyes away from her for the first time since I’ve been let back in.
She doesn’t know. And she needs someone to protect her, even if it is only just enough to prevent a worse fate. Surely, it’ll be enough?
For her. My teeth grind together and my knuckles turn white as I ball them into fists.
It better be enough. It has to be. It’s all I have to offer, and now she’s changed everything.
Chapter 4
Robin
My head hurts so badly. Why does it hurt so much? I try to push myself upright, and the ground is so cold and hard. It’s so uncomfortable, but my head is too heavy and I slump against the ground.
Where am I?
I try to remember where I was. The sound of the carousel shrieking as it slowly turned from the wind blowing filters through my memory. The empty swings sway back and forth. The school playground is deserted. I thought everyone would be here today. But it’s empty. The first day of summer and not a soul is here.
I remember how I looked up and the sun was far off in the distance, but still in the sky. Didn’t they know we still had time to play? I’m younger than most of the kids, only twelve, but even the older ones usually play with me.
I sat on the swings for a while, I remember that. As the pounding in my head throbs harder I remember how the metal chains twisted and I let myself twirl on the swings over and over. I could wait for the other kids. I was sure they’d show up.
Did they?
I squint, trying to remember and I turn my head. My palms brush against the concrete floor, my cheek flat against the hard floor.
There was a man. He had a golf club and he needed my help. I remember how lost he looked. He said he hit his last ball into the trees and he couldn’t reach into the bushes.
My heartbeat quickens as I remember, and my body goes still.
I knew to tell him a lie. I knew to turn around and run when he tried to take my hand in his. But he looked so hurt when I tried to pull away. He was genuinely upset, and all he did was ask me to help him.
The thin branches cracked under my sneakers as I went into the woods, following him to where he thought the ball had landed.
I open my eyes and I can’t breathe.
He lied to me. My nails scratch on the ground as I clench them into fists and slowly look up.
No! Mommy, help me! Tears blur my vision of the cinder block walls.
No! This can’t be happening. I pull my knees into my chest and try to stand.
Why does my head hurt so much?
“Are you okay?” a soft voice asks from behind me, making me shuffle across the ground and push myself against the cold wall. It takes a moment for me to wipe my eyes and see him.
He’s just a boy.
His knees are knobby and he’s thin, but his shoulders are broad and he has a look about him that lets me know he’s older than me. There’s another look about him, too.
Sorrow and sadness cloud his eyes. Or maybe I just imagined it, because the moment my vision focuses, a hard expression stares back at me. He doesn’t move from where he is, crouching only a few feet from me.
“Where am I?” I ask him quickly. I don’t know where the words come from. I feel hot and cold, and I’m so confused. “I want to leave.”
He huffs and shakes his head at me, pushing himself up from the ground where he was and takes a step toward me. He’s taller than me. In that moment, he scares me.
“You can’t leave,” he says simply.
My face crumples, and I shake my head. “My mother will-”
“We’re stuck here!” he yells at me, the anger in his voice making me flinch. He stares at the wall behind me, his eyes flickering to the floor then back to me. “We can’t leave.”
As I start to protest, I hear a loud rough bark outside. It’s followed by a series of vicious barks that continue unceasingly. It makes me whirl around and face the only window. It’s small and rectangular, covered in filth and high up on the wall. There’s barely any light coming through. Maybe there’s a bush planted in front of it. I’m not sure, but at the very least I know there are dogs close.
“Don’t try to run,” the boy says behind me and again I turn to
face him. Threats all around me, and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. So stupid! I wrap my arms around my shoulders. “My mother-”
“Stop.” The boy gives me the command, and I do. I stop because I’m a good girl. I’ve always been a good girl, but look at where it’s gotten me.
It’s quiet for a while, and the boy takes another step closer to me. I don’t move. I don’t know what to do or where I am, but deep down inside of me I know this boy isn’t going to hurt me. There’s something about him. Something broken and scared and angry even, but it’s pure.
“What’s going to happen to us?” I ask him weakly.
“He won’t touch you. It’s not about you.”
“What?” I don’t understand. I’m so confused.
“He’s using you.” He looks past me, anger evident as he clenches his jaw. “It’s about him making me do what he wants. He knows I won’t...,” his voice drifts off, and the anger changes to something else. Something I can’t see because he turns away from me.
I reach out to him, grabbing his arm to keep him from leaving me, moving purely out of instinct. The touch feels like a spark. As if I’ve put my hand to a flame, but before I can even process it, he whips back to me, a scowl of anger on his face as he stares at me. “I won’t let him hurt you like he does me. All you are is a tool for him to use against me.”
He takes another step closer to me, and it’s the first time I really get a good look in his eyes. The intensity almost makes me scoot back, but then I’d be against the wall. Trapped and cornered.
He parts his lips to tell me something, but no words come out. Time passes, and the only thing I can hear is my heartbeat as he stares at me. His eyes won’t break from mine, and I’m too scared to look away.
“I’m sorry,” he says flatly, but then he turns away as if the sentiment were genuine.
For some reason, just hearing those words is what breaks me. The tears fall and as I wipe them away, he looks at me with distaste. I half expect him to tell me to stop, but he doesn’t.
