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A candle flickers on the bedside table. I’m thankful for the soft, floral scent that fills my senses with something other than the stench of cheap cologne and whiskey.
Beneath me, the bed frame creaks with the force of father’s guests' thrusts. I unfocus my eyes and let myself sink blissfully into a world I’ve created, if only in my imagination. A world where I’m free.
Though it’s taken me years, I’ve almost saved…er, stolen enough cash to buy me a new life. The waiting has been torture, but I know the reward will be worth the pain I’ve endured as a prisoner within these walls.
“You like that, little whore?” I’m yanked back to reality as the bed frame slams rhythmically against the wall.
Eyes wet with tears, I press my cheek into the pillow and suck in deep, ragged breaths and silently pray for a life far removed from the one I’m currently surviving.
Strong, calloused fingers wrap around my throat as he leans down and presses his chapped lips to my ear. “Mmm, such a tight hole…” His sweat drips onto my temple and I wince at the sensations that flood my aching body. Pain courses through every fiber of my being, my chest tightens with every labored breath, and in the back of my mind, a growing part of me wishes for nothing but death.
When tears blur my vision and black spots dance in my eyes, my fight or flight instincts finally kick in, but every attempt to free myself is futile. As he grunts through an orgasm, I scream into the pillow and grip the sheets, more determined than ever to escape the hell that is my life.
Chapter 3
Demon
Nine years old…
Huddled in the closet, I pull my baby sister close to my chest and beg her to stop screaming. I’ve tried everything. Rocking her, singing lullabies, and playing peek-a-boo hasn’t helped one bit. Her little hands are clenched into fists, and her bowed pink lips are open wide as she screams. A hand comes up to tug on her reddened ear. She’s been doing that all day, but while Mom is busy with her clients, I’m not allowed to leave my room, so I can’t take Sara to see our neighbor, Mrs. Redding, who’s a retired nurse.
Rummaging through my school bag with one hand, I bounce Sara on my lap as I search for the suckers I stole from the jar on Miss Kelley’s desk. She always gives out suckers on Fridays, but on Thursday I was so hungry. I knew it was wrong, but when I saw the classroom was empty, I snuck in and grabbed a handful. I thought for sure I was going straight to Principal Marking’s office when I heard voices coming from the hall, but I was able to shove the candy in my pocket and run out before Miss Kelley came back.
It’s not the first time I’ve stolen to fill the gnawing in my belly. But it is the first time I’ve ever stolen from someone who’s nice to me, and the guilt is worse than when I steal from the convenient store on the corner. Especially since Miss Kelley is always asking if I have lunch when she notices I’m not eating. Ever since I can remember, Mom has always said “We don’t take no handouts,” so instead of telling Miss Kelley the truth, I lie and tell her I’ve already eaten.
When I find the sucker, I peel off the wrapper and push the red candy to Sara’s mouth. She screams a little more before the smooth cherry taste registers. It’s not long before she grabs at the candy and starts sucking. Now that Sara’s quiet, I can hear the strange noises that always come from Mom’s bedroom when her clients visit. They’re loud, and there’s lots of banging and shouting for a long time until they finally stop, and the front door slams closed.
Carefully, I sit Sara in her old car seat and crack the closet door open before I sneak out of my bedroom.
The living room is messy as usual. The glass coffee table is covered in little bags of sugar. Two silver spoons are all dirty and brown, and there’s lines of sugar on the table. My tummy rumbles and I think about taking some of the sugar to taste it, but before I can, Mom stumbles out of her bedroom wearing only red under garments and nothing else.
There are lots of bruises on her arms, and some of the scabs she always picks at are bleeding a little. Sometimes, I want to ask Mrs. Redding if she can help my mom, but I don’t. Dad says that what happens here, stays here. Even though I want Mom to get better, it’s not worth what my dad would do if he found out.
When Mom trips over the rug, I back up slowly and cross my arms. My eyes dart to the table and I hope she doesn’t think I was the one who spilled the sugar.
“What’re ya doin in ‘ere?” her voice is crackly, and after she sucks on her cigarette, she leans over and coughs.
“Sara is hungry,” I tell her, keeping my voice soft so she doesn’t get mad.
“Make ‘er somethin’ then,” she says before she flops down on the sofa and uses the remote to turn on the television.
I rush back to my bedroom and take the sucker stick away from Sara. When she screams and reaches out to grab it,I shake my head. “No, it’s yucky now, I’m gonna make you some food.” She continues to scream as I make my way back to the living room to ask Mom to hold her while I make her food.
“Put ‘er on the sofa,” Mom says, but she doesn’t look at me or Sara, just keeps staring at the television.
Pointing to the table, I ask Mom, “Is that bad for babies, or can she have some?” Mom laughs and after coughing again, her eyes close and she shakes her head. “Stupid fuckin’ kids.”
My shoulders hunch. I guess that’s a no. Moving quickly, I go to the kitchen and find some stale bread and peanut butter to make sandwiches for me and Sara. After putting everything away, I hear Sara’s muffled cries and I rush back to the living room. When I get there, Mom is laying on the sofa and blood is dripping from her nose. Under her, Sara is squashed and crying.
“Mom!” I shout. “Get up! You’re hurting Sara!”
I grab Mom’s arms and try to pull her, but my hands slip, not able to get a grip from her oozing sores. My heart pounds in my chest as I listen to Sara’s cries grow weaker.
My vision goes hazy and I pull in deep breaths to try and calm myself, but the sight of Sara trapped under Mom’s bodyis too much for me to handle.
Reluctantly I grab Sara’s arm and pull on it. When she doesn’t immediately come free, I tug harder. Sara belts out a painful scream and I almost stop. It’s hard to know that I’m hurting her, but I would rather her be hurt than dead.
