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“You dirty, little whore!” a shrill female voice yells over my cries.
He let's go of my hair.
I jerk my head, gasping for air. Mamãe stands in the doorway. Her starched, white uniform from the resort contrasts with the bloody mess around me.
“You dirty whore!” she repeats, ringing her hands in the air, “What? You couldn't find your own man so you took mine?”
“I-I didn't . . .” I blink, more tears clouding my eyes. I glance over at Daddy. He made me do it. He should tell her it’s his job. Instead, he jumps off the bed, pulling up his shorts, refusing to look at me.
“She . . . She attacked me, made me do it,” Daddy stutters, taking another step back.
No. I shake my head. Why isn’t he telling the truth?
“Get out of my house!”
I jerk my head back to Mamãe, my bottom lip quivering. My head clouds.
“I said out! Now! Don’t you ever come back.”
My limbs feel like they're stuck in giant blocks of cement. Everything hurts. My legs protest. My stomach begs me to stay put. Balling my hands into fists, I force myself to stand. My knees wobble. I grab hold of my bed to steady myself. The bloody towel that was between my thighs drops to the floor as my soiled nightgown falls back into place.
More blood leaks out, leaving me even weaker, I grab my old, turtle change pouch. It’s the only thing of mine close enough to grab. The only thing really mine. Keeping my head down so Mamãe won't see my tears, I brush past her and head out into the cool night.
The breeze dries my tears to my cheeks. Each step on the uneven dirt road bruises my bare feet. I stumble on a large stone, chipping my toenail and drawing blood from my big toe. My legs throb. My knees buckle with every step. My insides ache worse. Still, I keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
Two houses down, I snag a sweatshirt hanging on a clothesline. I pull it on, then sink to the ground, hugging my legs as I cry.
I want to go back home. But I don’t think I can make it that far. My head throbs, dizziness creeping in as my legs turn to butter. I need to rest. But Mamãe’s voice echoes in my head.
Dirty whore.
Dirty whore.
Dirty whore.
I wipe my face with the sweater sleeves, then comb my sticky hair back with my fingers.
I don't have a home anymore. I don't have anything. Clutching my small money pouch I close my eyes. I just need a little rest, just enough to keep going.
Chapter Eight
Frowning, the technician looks at the screen. She moves the ultrasound wand down farther, her eyebrows scrunching.
I bite my bottom lip, refusing to glance at Damien. From the seat beside mine, he reaches for my hand, squeezing it. Maybe he has no idea something's wrong.
A soft hum fills the room, becoming clearer as she moves the wand again.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
It's fast but faint. A heartbeat.
Tears cloud my vision. I blink my eyes, trying not to think about it. Daddy fixed me, it can’t be real. Still, the heartbeat persists.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
I turn to the pale green wall. Anywhere but at the man beside me or the screen. If I can't see it, it's not real.
A few minutes later, the doctor enters holding a clipboard. She flips through the pages, a scowl deepening above her tight jaw.
