Page 85 of Dark Ugly Places

I wish I could run right out of here, right to Martha and Emmy on the other side. Back to my life and everything in it that I used to know. I want out of here so badly, but the cage Martha’s constructed for me is a vast fortress of remembering.

I freeze at the familiar squeal of the basement door opening. My father’s footsteps climb the stairs, a heaviness in his step that signals I’ve upset him by just being here, and now, I smell the deep odor of mildew and sweat and rage as he approaches me.

“See what you did?” His gruff voice sends an earthquake through my spine. I turn around. My father’s eyes are stretched far back, the whites too big, as if they haven’t shut for sleep in a very long time.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say.

He smiles, unnatural, large, his teeth bigger and sharper than I remember.

My father—or one of them—steps toward me and starts taking off his belt. “We talked about this, didn’t we?” He bends down low, his face inches from me, his breath sour in my nose.

This is the part where I need to move. I need to flee, to escape.

I fly up the stairs, the heavy thud of him behind me.

Adrenaline pulses through me like a thousand fireflies lighting up all over my limbs. My hands and feet dig into the carpet as I scramble up the staircase and cut the corner toward my bedroom. As I lunge forward toward my door, his hand lands on my back. His fingers scrape down my skin, but I wrench away from him and dart behind the door, slamming it shut.

My body plummets to the floor, hitting hard between the door and the opposing wall. At the same time, my father slams into the wooden door, shoving himself against it. I plant my body down behind my door without a lock, placing my feet against the opposing wall, my legs braced straight out in front of me. He can pound for hours, but he can’t get in. I’m the perfect size to hold him at bay.

“Open the door, Nicola!”

My body moves and jolts with every impact from him. I close my eyes as he pounds the door at my back, willing it to be over.

The thuds grow louder, harder against my back, and my legs begin to shake. Something is wrong. A deep ache starts in my calves and grows up into my joints. The pain intensifies, and then I realize, I’m too big for this now. My legs are just that fraction too long to wedge. My knees buckle upward and begin to bend slightly, and I know then: the brace won’t hold.

Suddenly, everything stops. It’s quiet. I pause, my breath going in and out like ocean waves. I hear footsteps coming, quietly at first, then louder and louder until they’re on top of me. I hold tight as my father charges the door.

My back shoves forward, my right leg collapses and goes numb. Something cracks, and I let out a tiny wail as shards of wood fall around me and everything turns dark. I reach for my left leg and realize in an instant that it is broken.

Pain shoots up from my leg and into my spine. I feel the stab of bone cutting through my skin.

My left leg, still weak and numb. He broke it first.

Everything is dark as I crawl toward my bedroom window. I think I may be able to get to it and climb out. I feel for the carpet and begin to crawl. His hands find my shoulders. He might stop now, I think. But then I remember and feel his hands grip my shoulders, rough and calloused. His eyes are on fire, a desperate, uncontrolled look that will take him far, far away. I shield my face with my hands as he forces me backward onto the hard floor.

It’s okay, a voice says to me from the darkness. I’m here. Let me take over now. You’ve done the best you could. It’s time now, Nicola.

“Okay,” I say out loud, knowing it is her. She helped me before. I know she can do it again. Her name is like a piece of glass on my tongue, smooth and cutting all at once.

“Martha, can you help me? Can you make it stop?”

Of course I can, little sister, she says. I thought you’d never ask.

36

Martha

Heading down through The Flats of Beverly Hills, I feel the slow crawl of dread I always do when I return to Nicola’s life. My hands grip the steering wheel, frustration mounting. The little bundle of Emmy’s hair is still tucked into the visor, the end nipping out like a little tail. I stroke it with my fingers and tuck it inside. In the rearview mirror, I catch a look at my eyes and realize there’s something like happiness lurking there. Maybe I like being at the Redferns’. There’s a freedom in being myself there that I’ve never known before. It’s almost as if I’m living my own life as myself in this body. It’s a strange, almost comforting sensation, like being hugged from within.

When I get home, Emmy is upstairs in her room with Scotch, the sounds of CelebrityStalkShow echoing through the apartment. On the kitchen counter, a box of pizza sits partly open, half consumed. I take a piece and head upstairs, following the rambling squawk squawk squawk of the livestream show. When I knock on the door, she opens it, wearing her PJs and a hoodie, Scotch tucked under one arm. Her eyes take me in. “You’re earlier than usual. What happened? You get fired from the Redferns or something?”

My arm pushes past her into her room. “No, I didn’t get fired.” I find a spot on her bed next to her laptop and school papers and shove them aside to eat my cold pizza, crust first.

“So, is school good?”

She sets Scotch down, and he runs from the room, barking at me as he goes. “Look, you don’t need to pretend, okay? You’re not my mom, so you don’t need to act like you actually care about me.”

“Ouch.”