Chapter 22 #2
“Are you actually fucking thinking about it?” The mask of kindness slipped from Ville’s face for a second. “Do this for Daddy. It’s okay. She’s your friend; she won’t mind.”
Woody blinked twice; anxiety etched on his face after climbing up his spine. He followed Ville’s request.
Sat by the door, his hand reaching in, over the pile of newspapers where I was told to do my business throughout the week. Where I'd buried it with my dignity, like I really was a damn dog.
Woody's nose twitched over the scent of yesterday's excretion, and before embarrassment killed me, I took his hand, praying one last time to my little wooden friend, Jesus, that Ville would go easy on me with Woody here.
“Please, don't leave me,” I begged him, clutching his fingers. He gave a gentle squeeze, but he looked confused by my fear.
“Right then, Son.”
Ville signaled to a plastic bucket on the folding table, filled with a steamless liquid.
“Put on these; she's been lying in filth.” Ville handed Woody a special-looking pair of gloves—something he'd never worn while washing things he should never have touched. Woody let go of my hands, pulling the gloves on up to his wrists.
“Scoop the water up and start with her face. Wash away her sins.”
Ville stepped around us, and the shaking in my knees eased as he began cleaning the mess from my cage and shuffling it into a trash bag. I glanced at the stairs, but deep down, I knew I'd never make it out on these weak legs, and I knew I'd be punished for trying. . . so, I didn't.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, standing before Woody, hiding as much of my body behind my arms as I could, while waiting for him to wash me in the cold water.
He splashed my face, and for a moment, I felt nothing. A second later, pain erupted everywhere. I felt my skin blistering, burning, dying.
My hands left my body, the burn pulling them to my face, but the courage to examine the damage wasn't within me.
I didn't want to make it worse, and I couldn’t be sure I wouldn't.
My left eye glossed over, and Woody became blurry in front of it.
I blinked a few times to try and clear the fog that only I could see, each one a painful movement for my facial muscles.
Terrified by the repercussions of his actions, Woody's gloved hands reached for me, rubbing at the ulcers contrived through what I could only assume was an acid attack, directed by Ville. His touch brought more pain, the burning crippling me.
Tiny droplets sailed from Woody's gloves, landing on my left breast. The tiny splotches blistered, and I collapsed to the ground, screaming a deafening clamor. I wanted to die, and I felt like I was going to at any second.
I crumbled on the floor, pieces of my sanity chipping away. I needed my mind to drift away, but my suffering prisoned me to the here and now, in this cold basement, where I lay in agony.
I heard Woody tell me he was sorry. I heard his apology echo around the space, with him repeating it again and again and again.
And then, I blocked him out. Blocked out the world. Crouched on the floor, hiding away my face and the new scars that lived on me. I tried not to cry because my tears only angered my injury. But I failed.
I stayed as quiet as I could, even as Ville stomped towards me, but the burning continued, challenging me each second I breathed. . . that was hurting now, too.
It hurt me to fucking breathe.
So, I silently pleaded to stop.
I prayed for it to end, for the pain to be over.
Jesus was listening from the cage. His gaze was on me as he lay on his side, propped up by the cross.
My gaze was still on the floor, tears pooling there.
I was grateful to not see his ignorance toward my situation.
. . because the mercy of death wasn't granted.
Instead, I was gifted another blast of pain as my skin cells fought for survival.
And that pulled another scream from deep inside me.
Woody
I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I didn’t mean to. I didn't mean to hurt her. Those thoughts swirled in my head, fighting with the pounding of my heart over which would ring loudest in my ears.
My senses paid little attention to my father, laughing like he'd seen the funniest thing in the world.
My focus was on Jolie. Her face had melted before my eyes, and it terrified me. I blinked repeatedly, hoping to see a different image when my eyes opened.
I bent low, no longer hearing my heartbeat or thoughts, and I tried to touch her again, to shift her hair from sticking to her skin.
Strands of her hair were frazzled, too. I clutched her hand, and she pulled back with another yelp.
She sat up, showing me how badly I’d damaged her face, ridges and bumps distorting her pretty features.
Her fists tightened at her side and they caught me off guard as she rose and punched into my chest, pushing me away, so hard, I fell, landing on my bottom.
I tumbled into my father who had stepped up behind me.
“Daddy, I—”
He cut me off by resting one of his hands on my shoulder, giving a gentle pat that consoled me. The curve of his lips told me he wasn’t mad at me. He hadn’t been for a while now. He’d been loving, caring. . . a good father.
The look on his face told me he was pleased with me, displeased with Jolie. His other hand raised and pelted the side of her face with a force that knocked her to the ground. Her head hit the concrete with a crack. The dust from the unclean basement clung to her damaged skin.
I crawled forward and reached for her, but her hands raised, fingers shaking as inaudible pleads rushed through her lips. I only heard, “Don’t touch me,” and then something else that sounded like “gloves.”
My fingers were quick to pull them off, not as quickly as intended in my panicked state. I dropped them to the floor and moved closer. She didn’t retreat this time; she reached for me, and as our fingertips brushed. . .
My father’s boot kicked at her injury, and she fell away from me. Her blood spurted from a fresh gash, as well as leaking out from her already present wounds.
I stood, shocked and scared.
She huddled into a ball at my feet. Her shaking fingers sent vibrations up my trouser leg as she rubbed the material between them. My body shadowed the tremor, and there was nothing I could do to stop myself from shaking.
“Woodrow. . .” she whispered, still dazed from hitting her head. She moved around me to use me as a shield.
“H-h-he is-isn't here,” I stuttered.
“You're confusing the poor kid,” my father told her, stepping around me to reach for her.
She tried to hide, circling my legs in fear.
But Daddy was quick, and his big hands easily wrapped around her leg and arm, now that she'd lost weight.
He barely heaved as he swung her once, twice, before letting her hit the wall.
Something else went crack as she landed. Her mouth let out another cry, and her hands—still shaking—rushed to cover her knee and the instant swelling that appeared there.
Her eyes were wet, like mine, as we stared at each other.
Her lip trembled, and mine did too, both of us trying to silently call the boy she needed to the surface.
She saw how my mouth moved; she knew I wanted to help her.
She also knew I couldn't. . . and she couldn’t bend her leg to shift into a safer position to protect herself from the next blow my father gave.
Jolie
Ville loomed above me, his shadow alone weighing me down.
My leg stuck out, cold on the stone floor, my knee surely broken.
My brain felt like it was swelling inside my skull.
My face burned more with each falling tear.
Every inch of my skin felt tighter. The blotches on my chest strained with each breath.
I was shaking and struggling to prevent my body from going into shock.
“Why are you doing this? Why don't you just kill me?” I twisted from another blow.
“You shouldn't raise your hand to a child.”
His words rattled me as much as my injuries. He was using them as a weapon, one that didn't cause pain instantly. He was soothing Woody, leading him to believe he felt something for him other than annoyance.
I saw through that.
I saw Ville for the worm that he was as he writhed and wriggled, getting deeper into Woody's head.
“He’s trying to get into your head. He’s evil and a liar,” I told Woody. It was hard to voice more than a whisper, but if these were the last words I’d ever speak, I needed him to hear them. “Your father is only pretending to accept you.”
Woody blinked, confusion clouding his eyes, pushing out tears.
In that moment, I didn't feel bad about breaking Woody's heart. But that moment passed quickly. And the look on his face was one I knew would haunt me.
I felt his pain. It was strong, because, deep down, he feared Ville wasn't giving genuine affection. But his mind was trapped in an age too young to realize this was a tactic. A new method of control because all others had failed.
Ville wanted a prodigy.
I wanted him out. I wanted them both out.
I knew Ville would thrive if I showed fear. . . and when I showed fear, Woody felt it. I could see all my emotions on his face. Excruciating fear would have him hiding. . . have someone else replacing him—someone already mad at me.
And I couldn't let that happen.
When you’re standing so close to the edge, it’s important to avoid those who make you feel like jumping. . . or those who would push you without remorse.
Another blow rained down on my head, and it was difficult to pull my straying strands from my pitted skin without each one feeling like I was being stabbed by sewing needles.
“Please, stop. Daddy, please stop.” Woody's voice stopped Ville from hitting me again. A false smile plastered on his ugly face as he turned back to the son he pretended to care for. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”
“I’m sorry,” Ville lied. “Go on, help her up. I’ll get some rags to wash her burns.” The false smile was back as he retreated to the steps.
Woody moved to me, his gentle fingers pulling my hair from my face. My fingers wrapped around his wrist, controlling his speed as he pulled back the strands.
“Slow. . .” I encouraged with a raspy whisper.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Woodrow will be so mad at me.”
Woody was confused, terrified of the hatred from the boy he shared a soul with. I felt the need to soothe him, relinquishing his pain when I couldn’t my own.
“He’ll be mad at your father. This isn’t your fault. It’s his.” I couldn’t move my lips too much, but the words made it out. “He hurt me, Woody. He’s going to keep hurting me. I need to see Woodrow. Please, write all of this in your diary, so he’ll find it when he wakes up.”
He blinked twice, their collective signal for yes. “Daddy has been nice to me lately—”
“It’s all a lie. You can’t trust him.”
“I can trust you though, right?”
I nodded, my fingers tightening on his as my pain again amplified.
“Will you stay with me until he leaves?”
It was the wrong thing to ask a child. To stay and watch, and hopefully, prevent, any abuse his father intended to dish out. But I needed someone.
And he looked like the person I needed most.
Ville was back, a new bucket dumped in front of me. I stared at the chipping red color, scared to look inside it to see if the contents looked like water. Would I even know the difference? I hadn’t noticed last time.
Ville dropped in a rag, one from the kitchen that had wiped up fuck-knows-what this morning. An orange stain covered most of the white checkered fabric.
I closed my eyes as the rag moved toward my face in Ville’s ungloved hands—that was my only relief.
The warm water was loaded with something mild and soapy, and it had the perfect temperature for injuries, but it still hurt me as it soaked into my skin.
I let Ville wash me. I sat motionless against the back wall, the concrete cold and flush to my spine.
I didn’t bother to hide my body, and Woody’s eyes had finally dropped from my face, focusing on my stomach, protruding with hunger.
“Did God put a baby in her belly?”
Woody’s words had me struggling, trying to look at myself beyond the rag.
I wanted to tell him the reason for my belly wasn’t a baby.
I knew God wouldn’t be that cruel. . . and I was fortunate to be on the injection to control my soul-destroying periods before my arrival here.
Ville had only violated my mouth with his dirty dick.
My vagina was reserved for his filthy hands.
Hell had raped me twice, but I felt like that would have been covered by my injection. . .
But all that changed when Ville laughed and said, “No, Son. You did.”