Chapter 2
If I don’t set any expectations, I can’t be disappointed.
This birthday really doesn’t mean anything, just one year closer to freedom.
The mall is still waking up by the time I arrive.
I sit at one of the empty tables in the food court, watching stores unlock their gates one by one.
As more families and kids enter, trying to escape the increasing heat, the noise around me grows.
Kids crying, teenagers laughing, and an old man shouting at the pretzel vendor.
Maeve shows up with a giant iced coffee for us to share and a ‘Happy Birthday’ balloon tied to her backpack.
“Cute.”
She slides into the seat across from me, pouring half of her coffee into the second cup and sliding it over.
“You’re eighteen now, got to celebrate somehow.”
I take a long sip of the heavenly drink. It’s rare when we get to have anything that tastes this good.
“Ready to be a menace?”
“I’ve always been a menace.”
She snorts, “True.”
We wander in and out of the stores like we have all the time in the world. We try on clothes we can’t afford, sunglasses we’ll never buy, and spray overpriced perfume on each other's sleeves, pretending we belong here. Just two teenagers, killing time.
Maeve and I stop at the photobooth. She pulls me inside and shoves a crumpled dollar into it.
“I look like a raccoon.” I glare at the screen, wiping under my eyes. “And a bird’s made a nest in my hair.”
“You look great, like we survived the apocalypse. It’s a vibe.”
We make stupid faces, tongues out, middle fingers up, one blurry shot of us laughing so hard I can’t remember what set it off. When the strips slide out, she hands a copy to me.
“Happy birthday, Iz.” She smiles.
“Thanks.” I tuck the photo into my pocket. I don’t have much, but I have her. Honestly, I’m not sure where I’d be otherwise.
We grab a greasy side of fries and sit by the window, watching as people come and go. We laugh as we create stories for people, voicing their outrageous thoughts.
Maeve pulls a small box out of her backpack and places it in front of me. It’s wrapped in Christmas paper.
“Happy Christmas.” She grins.
“You didn’t have to get me a present, Maeve.” I blink at her.
“Yes, I do. You’re my sister.”
I tear off the wrapping paper and open the box. Inside is a cheap silver ring shaped like a snake, coiled once, with tiny black stones for eyes.
“It’s perfect.”
“We match, see?” She holds up her hand, showing me the same ring on her finger. “Twin threats.”
“I love it.” I slide it on.
Maeve and I sit and chat a while longer, and the sun begins to dip. We both know I need to leave soon.
“Text me when you get in.” Maeve pulls me in for a hug, squeezing me gently.
“Always.”
On the walk home, I let my mind wander for once. As a birthday gift to myself. Normally, I try not to let myself imagine a future, because to want something like that feels impossible most days. Hope is a fickle thing like that— deadly dangerous.
I’ll get a job, find my own place, sleep in a real bed, eat real food, and lock the door. I’ll buy my own clothes and have my own belongings.
No more stolen hoodies, no more school showers, no more bruises hidden under concealer.
I picture a beat-up couch with a blanket. A dog. I’d be able to watch TV, listen to music, and just exist.
My chest aches with how badly I want that to be my reality. I hold onto that dream for a little while longer. That version of me who’s normal, who can celebrate her birthday. Who has clean sheets and a quiet house.
I tuck it all away like a photograph back into a box and push it into the back of my mind. The streetlights flicker on and reality crashes back in. The sun is disappearing behind heavy clouds, and everything darkens. It’s ominous. The familiar heaviness settles in my chest.
My house comes into view, no car in the driveway. I breathe out a sigh of relief that he isn’t home yet. Maybe I’ll have time to take a quick shower, find something to eat.
I push open the front door as quietly as I can. The air inside rolls over me like a wave—cigarettes, sweat, and something sharp under it, like sour vodka and old meat.
The TV is on, a show flickering blue and white across the walls. One of the cushions is on the floor, along with a handful of beer bottles.
He’s in the recliner, feet up, his face half in shadow. An empty bottle of vodka rests on the coffee table. I feel his dark eyes on me the second the door clicks shut.
“Where have you been?”
I keep my head down and don’t dare to move or breathe. His recliner creaks as he stands, crossing the room to me. He sniffs the air, a slow, deliberate inhale.
“I asked you, where have you been?” His voice slithers under my skin.
“I was at the mall with a friend.” I stare at my feet.
“With a boy?” His putrid breath fills my nostrils.
“No, sir.”
“Then why are you wearing perfume?”
My heart drops. “People were spraying stuff at the mall,” I say a bit too quickly. “They always hand out samples.”
He laughs; it’s a mean and ugly sound. I want to cover my ears.
“That fancy perfume, huh? Smellin’ like some little rich bitch.”
I don’t respond. I barely even breathe. It’s too late, though, and I know it.
“Why were you at the mall?”
“It’s my eighteenth birthday.”
He snorts. “Eighteen, huh? Think you’re a grown woman now? Think you can go strutting around? Doing whatever you want?”
Silence is safer, but even silence can’t save you when he’s made up his mind.
“You know what they say about little rich bitches?” He steps closer to me.
The glint in his eyes makes me want to run.
“Answer me.” His rough hand closes around my neck and pulls me against him. His greasy brown hair falling forward.
“N-No, sir.” I can’t help the stutter.
But that just cost me. Every muscle in my body tenses, preparing for the blows, the beating I’ll have to endure. My heart beats so hard I think it’s trying to escape from my chest.
If only I were so lucky.
His smile, slow and dark, spreads over his face. He lowers his face to mine. “Little rich bitches are good little girls for their daddies.”
He drags me into the living room, throwing me on the floor. I fall back on my hands, the carpet rough against my palms. I look over at my mom, lying on the couch with a needle in her arm. Her eyes are glazed over like glass windows, and no one’s home.
I look up at him as he rubs his hand over the bulge in his jeans.
“Are you going to be a good little girl for your daddy?” He chuckles as he curls his fingers in my hair and draws me up onto my knees, my scalp burning in protest.
“C’mon now,” he whispers as he undoes his pants, “make Mama proud.” He glances at the couch.
My mom still hasn’t moved. I’m not even sure she’s breathing. I watch as she blinks slowly. He pulls himself out as he keeps his grip on my hair. Hot tears roll down my cheeks.
“Please, don’t do this,” I whimper.
“Beg again.” He sneers.
I shake my head, clenching my jaw.
This can’t be happening.
“Open your mouth and take it. Or else Mommy gets a beating.”
My mind races. There’s no way out. I’m stuck. I can’t let him hurt her.
My lips part slightly and he shoves himself between my lips. Pushing to the back of my throat, and I gag. He groans. My hands tremble as I try to push against his thighs, but his hips jerk me closer, his grip on my hair tightening even more.
“You bite and you die.”
I cry out, and he pushes himself deeper. Even with my eyes shut I can still see the flickering lights of the TV, canned laughter to a sitcom I will never know. He continues thrusting into my mouth as I struggle to breathe through my tears.
He finally pulls out and shoves me back. I try to crawl away, but he pulls my legs back to him.
I kick him with my other leg, but that angers him.
“You stupid little cunt!” He flips me over, backhanding me so hard black spots dance in my vision.
He takes advantage, grabbing the front of my jeans and ripping them down my legs. I cry out from the burn and snap back into myself.
Fight.
I swing my fists, trying to push him off me so I can run. I can’t let him do this to me. I refuse.
He smashes the empty vodka glass against my head, and it breaks. It doesn’t register as pain at first—just shock. A brutal jolt that rattles through my skull. My eyes vibrate in their sockets.
Shhk.
Then the sound of his belt buckle jingling.
He brings the belt down, my forearms sting trying to cover my face.
The loud crack continues to steal the air from my lungs.
I can’t tell if the cracks are his belt or thunder.
I squirm, trying to buck him off me, but he uses his body to press down on me, his knee digging into me.
Then he punches me. Pain explodes against my ribs, then my side.
He flips me over onto my stomach. I can barely hear the words he’s yelling into my ear as I sob into the carpet. He grinds himself into my ass.
As he pulls me up by my hood, I choke and splutter, clawing at my neck.
“You ain’t gonna be nothin’ but this, Isobel. No one will want you. There’s only me now.” He throws me down and punches my side again, and all the fight leaves my body.
He wrenches my hips up and shoves them against his groin. He rips my underwear, his fingers dig into my hips, hard enough I already know that it’s going to bruise. There’s no ceremony, no warning, he forces himself inside me, the pain bright and sharp. He groans and the tears come faster.
He moves his hand under my shirt and grabs my breast so hard I cry out again.
The TV is still laughing, my face mashed against the rug. Salt from my tears and the metallic tang of blood swirl in my mouth. I retch but nothing comes up. He hisses through his teeth, every thrust shoving me harder into the floor.
He yanks my hair and pulls me against him. “You smell good.” His voice is in my ear while he squeezes my chest again, and I sob.
“This is all you’re good for. No one is ever going to want you.” He grunts. “Even your daddy didn’t want you.”
I count the seconds until there’s nothing left to count.
He uses my body to get himself off, then his impossible weight finally lifts off me. Wetness runs down my legs.
He wipes himself off in my hair. The sound of his pants zipper. Everything hurts. I’m floating above my body. Sounds are muffled. I just want the ground to open up and swallow me whole. To find comfort in the darkness. To be nothing.
He grabs me, and I scramble to get my feet under me, but my jeans are still around my ankles. He drags me down the hall to my room.
He yanks open the door and tosses me inside like he’s throwing out a bag of trash.
“There’s a part of you that wants this,” he says with terrifying serenity, a sick smile crawling over his face. “Don’t worry. Pretty soon you’ll be begging for it.” He scans the threadbare room, then slams the door shut.
I lean against my mattress. I can’t breathe too deeply or else there’s a sharp pain.
My hand fumbles for my phone, but the pocket is empty. It must’ve slipped out.
Fuck.
I claw at my jeans, every movement sending sharp, electric pain through me.
The laughter from the TV is gone, but I can still hear it in my head.
She was there, high out of her mind.
Didn’t save me. If anything, she just watched.
That almost hurts more than what he did.
Almost.
The part of me that used to braid her hair and cuddle on the couch with her, the one who danced in the kitchen, still thought she would come back to me someday, she’d say she was sorry, and we’d leave.
But she won’t, not after this. She’s already gone, just left her body behind.
Now I have to leave mine too. I stayed for her, but I won’t stay for this. The little girl inside me curls up and dies right here in this room.