Chapter 29 – Emmy
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EMMY
Step.
There it is again.
Step.
I dig my fingers into my stuffed bunny.
Step. The jingle of Rex’s collar.
Don’t make a sound.
Step.
Don’t move.
Step.
My tummy hurts. I want to throw up.
Step.
Mommy. Come home. Please.
Step.
I can hear him breathing. I know if I open my eyes he will be standing there with his shoulder against the wall, watching me. Waiting.
I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter.
Please, God. If you make him go away, I promise to be a good girl from now on.
Step.
I promise not to sneak the M&M’s hidden in the back of the pantry.
Step.
I swear I won’t talk back and will make my bed every day.
Step .
Pretty please, God. I mean it this time.
The bed dips beneath me. His breath hits my face. The cold metal brushes against my arm.
I know what comes next.
“Emmy.”
I want to throw up.
He moves my hair from my face.
“Emmy.”
Runs his hand over my shoulder. Down my arm.
The sheets become wet as I go potty.
“Emmy.” Angrier. Upset. Disappointed.
I’ve been a bad girl.
I know what comes next...
I jolt up out of bed, the sound of my voice filling the room. I’m disoriented and petrified. Confused. Sick to my stomach.
My heart is racing, and my pulse is pounding in my ears. There are tears on my cheeks, and my hands are shaking.
I don’t remember anything about the dream.
Not a single thing.
Except the fear. I can still taste it on my tongue. I can still smell it clinging to my skin.
I know it has to do with him . I may not remember a damn thing from the dream, but I know this feeling. I’ve lived this feeling.
But it’s been forever since I’ve felt this way.
Clutching the comforter tighter around me with one hand, I reach over and turn on the light on my nightstand. I don’t like the dark.
The boogey man lives in the dark.
So does my dad.
Trying to settle the anxiety rattling around inside me as sure as the blood flowing through my veins, I stare out the window to the airfield beyond. To the yellow and red and green lights and pretend they are the lights on a Christmas tree. Something. Anything.
My fingertips run absently over the scars on the inside of my upper arms.
Over.
And.
Over.
And.
Over.
It’s the only thing I can do to process the dream I can’t remember and the nightmare I lived through.