31. Seven #2
Even though I know they’re coming — I have to believe they’re coming — it has to look like I’ve given up. If I’m too confident that help is going to arrive, she will get suspicious.
I hate that I’m going to have to break Lori even a little.
“Do you really think they haven’t done this before?” I hiss. “That they’re going to leave anything to chance? They’ve been doing this forever, Lori.”
I don’t want her to give up. I don’t want her to lose her fire.
But it’s surprisingly depressing to hear her unending optimism and drive.
Lori scowls at me. “So what? They haven’t… they won’t… Nobody messes with my family. They wouldn’t dare.”
I don’t know how to explain to her that the Lockwoods — my family — are just as powerful in their own way, maybe even more powerful than the Spades because of the powerful people who use their services.
Who use people like me.
Like Lori.
“I’m sorry, Lori,” I say, forcing my voice to sound neutral even when all I want to do is scream. “But some people aren’t scared of them.”
Lori sniffs and turns away from me. “Well, you can give up, but I’m not.” She wipes her eyes. “Mom and Dad didn’t teach me to lay there and cry.”
The words cut like a knife because the parallels are so messed up.
My mother hadn’t taught me to lie there and cry, either. She’d taught me to smile and participate and never, ever let them see my face blotchy with tears.
Is that the sort of thing I’m supposed to be telling Lori?
“Good,” I say, feeling rough and miserable because I’m starting to think that being hopeful is stupid. “Lori, I?—”
The locks click, and the door swings open to reveal my mother.
She’s holding a camera, and the dread that’s been pooling in the pit of my stomach turns into something frantic. I swallow bile, hoping like hell that Lori doesn’t understand what it means.
It won’t matter for long, but it’ll give her a precious few seconds.
“I’ve been talking to some west coast contacts,” my mother says with her cruel smile. “We’re going to create a nice video and see who wants a bite of this adorable little?—”
Before she can finish the sentence, Lori throws the bible at her. It smacks against my mother’s arm, and she drops the camera with a surprised shout.
“Fuck off, you disgusting old hag!” Lori shouts.
Panic surges through me, and I cast a horrified look at Lori. “Lori!” She doesn’t understand what she’s done, the sort of lesson my mother is going to insist on teaching her after this.
My mother sneers at Lori. “It seems Rory hasn’t taught you the rules yet.” She picks up the camera and sets it by the dresser near the door. Then she unlocks the top drawer and pulls out a very familiar tool.
A whip.
My blood freezes in my veins.
Thirty strikes .
Caleb had told me anything but thirty, anything less than thirty, and I’d barely managed fifteen even though he’d hit me more lightly than she always has. I don’t know if I have the ability to take that many now, but I don’t have a choice.
It had felt so good with him, like affection leaving imprints on my skin before he gathered me up in his arms and cared for me in a way that felt real.
I’m keenly aware of how real all of it had been now, how different from the mock kindness my mother has always shown it is.
And I wonder, not for the first time, what I’d done to deserve it. Why she hates me so much. How she can do this to me, over and over.
It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is fixing this.
I have to get her to focus on me , not on Lori.
I don’t know if I know how, but I have to try.
“Good!” I tell Lori, hoping against hope that my approach works somehow. I instinctively know that begging her to hurt me instead of Lori wouldn’t do anything at all. “Don’t let her touch you.”
My mother’s gaze snaps to me. “You picked up some bad habits, it seems.” She stands taller and runs her hand over the coil of the whip. “I hope you know how to count to thirty, girl.”
Lori presses her back against the headboard. “Of course I know how to count to thirty,” she says, her voice no longer as sure. “Why? Did you forget, you old crone?”
My mother grins. “You’ll have to demonstrate that ability to me. Rory, help the girl onto her stomach. The less she moves, the better. But you know that already, don’t you, baby?”
I can’t let her do this. I can’t.
“No,” I say, straightening my shoulders.
My mother’s smile drops. “Excuse me? I know the girl is stupid, but I raised you to be better than that.”
There. Those are the buttons I need to push, to redirect her ire toward me. I fervently hope Lori can keep her mouth closed while I work on this, while I try to get the threat to fall on my shoulders instead of hers.
She’s too young.
I had been too young, too, but I can handle it.
“I said no ,” I tell her, defiance dripping from my voice. “You don’t own me anymore.”
Please let this work .
My mother— Abigail —barks out a nasty laugh. “Own you? Baby, I made you. You’re mine, and you know how much I hate this tedious backtalk.”
It’s working.
I’m torn between twisted relief and terror, but I remind myself that I can handle this. Havoc tells me all the time how brave I am, how strong.
It’s time to prove it.
“I belong to someone else.” I swallow hard, then I say the words I hope will set her off. “He loves me.”
And fuck, it’s a hell of a time to realize how true those words are.
Abigail laughs again, and it’s such a terrible sound. “Loves you? Oh, baby, is that what he said? If he loved you, he wouldn’t make you whore yourself out for those other men. I know you’re naive, but he’s no different from all the other clients you’ve had.”
Maybe it had started out that way, at least a little. Maybe I hadn’t really wanted Vortex; maybe I’d only let him fuck me so I could get what I wanted from Caleb. But Havoc had been my choice, and in the end…
In the end, it’s all been my choice, hasn’t it?
I swallow thickly.
“I’d still take him over you.”
Lori has stayed quiet, which I am desperately grateful for, and I don’t even dare look in her direction. As long as Abigail is focused on me, she’s not focused on Lori.
Abigail rolls her eyes. “I see you got dumber while you were out of my care. Off the bed. Take the shirt off and stand against the wall.”
With the chain, I can’t get my shirt off all the way, but I get it mostly stripped off. It dangles from my arm by the chain, which has enough give for me to walk to the wall. The numbness, the calm, the confidence that I’m going to be rescued… all of it has faded into very real fear.
Lori had been right. I should’ve fought back while I’d had the chance.
I close my eyes, trying to relax so my body can more easily absorb the blows. It won’t work for long, but it’s something.
Please, please come for us , I silently beg.
“What… what are you doing?” Lori asks, her voice shaking. “Stop it! Don’t hurt him!”
Abigail laughs. “Rory is going to show you what happens to children who disobey. In fact, you can demonstrate your counting skills in the process.”
She cracks the whip, hard and sudden, and it lands across my back. The tail curls around my side before it drops away.
I cry out, but I know that this is far from the worst of it.
It’s still more than Caleb gave me, especially when he was only warming up.
I’m suddenly not sure I can take thirty of these.
“Which one was that?” Abigail asks. There’s a small pause, then she repeats, “Are you deaf, girl? Which one was that?”
“Which one what?” Lori cries. “You hit him! You… you…”
Abigail sighs loudly. “Was that the first blow? The second? I asked you to count, girl.”
“It was obviously the first one, you crazy bitch!” Lori shouts back. “What the hell? What the hell…”
“If you don’t count properly, I’ll have to strike him again,” Abigail admonishes. “I’ll keep going until you’ve counted off thirty.”
I don’t want to beg. I don’t. But I need her to count.
“Please, Lori,” I plead. “It’ll be okay. Just count for me.”
“No!” Lori shakes her head fervently. “I can’t. I can’t?—”
Abigail lashes me again, every bit as hard as the first time. There’s only a slight pause before she does the next strike.
“Three!” Lori shouts quickly.
“Two,” Abigail corrects, before she whips me again.
I let out a choked sound, trying not to cry too soon. If I start to break down, if I disappoint her too much, will she shift her attention to Lori after all? Thirty strokes could kill her.
It’s a wonder they didn’t kill me .
Abigail isn’t holding back.
“Th-three,” Lori voice already choked with tears.
“Better.” Abigail sends the whip flying again, and I gasp as the pain slices through me.
I try to think of Caleb. He’d have Havoc count for him, and Vortex would hold me close. The three of them would be making this good, so very good, and if I cried, it would only be from relief.
Will . It will be from relief.
This will end. This has to end.
They have to save me.
I repeat that with each strike.
They will save me.
They are coming for me.
They care about me.
They would never hurt me like this.
It gets me through ten, only ten, before I’m crying, before I’m trying not to scream. I think Lori has missed more than one, and I can’t help the bitter loathing I feel toward her. She’s not even the one being hurt. All she has to do is count , and she can’t even do that.
If she can’t do that, how is she supposed to?—
Another series of strikes, another string of numbers.
She’s crying harder than I am.
More, more, and more.
But after this, she’ll hold me and tell me that everything is forgiven. She’ll let me cry without being upset at me, and she’ll stroke my hair and tend to my back and she’ll make everything better.
I don’t know how many I’ve taken. I don’t know how many are left.
It comes as a shock when they stop, when there’s a stillness to the air and I can only hear Lori’s desperate sobbing.
I’d forgotten she was there.
I hear the dresser drawer opening and closing again, and then Abigail is next to me drawing me into her embrace. I sob against her shoulder while she strokes my hair. My back burns, and I’m filthy with sweat and tears and blood , the coppery scent filling my nostrils.
“There, there, baby. You’re done. You’ve taken your punishment.” She kisses my cheek. “You won’t make Mommy mad again, will you?”
I hug her, falling into old habits without even meaning to. Without even wanting to.
“No, Mommy,” I whisper. I don’t want her to let go of me. I don’t want her to remind me that I’m here, in this room, with the locks on the door.
All I have is the distant relief that I protected Lori from this.
It’s not as good of a feeling as I thought it would be.
But she’s only twelve .
How young was I?
But no, that isn’t fair. She wasn’t raised to be this, not like me. She’s different, better, special. Everyone around her loves her.
She deserves better than this.
And for the first time, I think…
So did I.