Six Do You Remember
7 years ago.
Lily Malen
The sheets are cold beneath me, scratchy and thin, like they've been washed too many times but never with care.
They smell of mildew and old perfume-faint, clinging to the fabric like something that won't let go.
My knees are pulled to my chest, bony arms wrapped around them, and I try to disappear into the mattress, to sink down into it and vanish before the door opens. But it does. It always does.
The wood creaks as it swings wide, the hallway behind it black as pitch. I can't see where it ends. Just that man. His silhouette comes in first-tall, straight-backed, more shadow than flesh-and the door clicks closed behind him like a lock being thrown inside my chest.
I don't know him. Not yet.
He doesn't speak at first. Just walks, slowly, toward the bed, polished shoes silent against the warped floorboards. His hands are tucked behind his back, and there's something about the way he moves-measured, smooth, as if he's done this many times before.
Then he speaks. A low voice, soft like breath over a grave. "Such a beautiful girl." He pauses. I can feel his eyes crawling over me. "So quiet. So obedient."
I don't move. I don't speak. I don't know what I'm supposed to do.
His hand reaches out. Not fast-slow, deliberate-and his fingertips graze the side of my face. I flinch, but he doesn't stop. They trail down to my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, bare beneath the thin white nightdress. I didn't choose it. I didn't choose any of this.
"You'll be easy," he whispers. "Won't you?"
My lips part, but I can't find my voice. The words are there, somewhere, buried under the weight pressing down on my chest. But they won't come. I want to scream. I want to run. I want to wake up and find out none of this is real.
His hand slides into my hair. At first it's gentle-fingertips curling into the strands-but then he fists it tight, yanking my head back until my eyes meet his. He has the kind of face that you forget as soon as you look away. Sharp edges and shadows. Nothing kind lives in that expression.
"Say something," he murmurs.
"I-I want to go home," I finally breathe. My voice breaks. "Please. I don't want this. I just want to go-"
The sound of leather sliding through loops cuts through my words.
My heart stops. He undoes his belt with slow, practiced movements.
The soft clink of the buckle hitting the floor echoes like thunder in my ears.
His shirt is next-white, crisp, each button coming undone with quiet, efficient flicks of his fingers. I can't breathe.
I try to shuffle back. "Please. Please, I don't-I don't want-"
"Shut up." The slap comes so fast I don't see it. Just feel the heat bloom across my cheek, sharp and burning. My head snaps to the side and the taste of iron fills my mouth.
Tears flood my eyes, but I don't cry out. I learned not to. Crying makes it worse.
"Don't talk unless I tell you to."
He drops his pants next, his movements unhurried, as if he's done this with girls like me more times than he can count. Like I'm just another body waiting for its turn.
I scramble back on the bed until my spine hits the wall, but there's nowhere left to go. My fingers dig into the thin sheet. My breath comes too fast, too loud. I can't stop shaking.
"I don't want this," I whisper again, so softly I'm not sure it's even a sound. "Please. I want to go home. I want my mom. I want-" But I don't even know her face anymore. That memory is already gone, blurred out like the sun behind a stormcloud.
He climbs onto the bed.
And I know, deep down, that nothing will ever be the same after this.
I try not to cry.
I really, really try.
He said to be quiet, so I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste metal. My throat hurts. My chest feels like something is sitting on it. Every breath is too loud. I don't want to be loud. I don't want to be bad.
But I can't stop the way the tears come anyway.
They slide down the sides of my face, warm and quiet.
I stare at the ceiling until the shadows there start to blur, the lines between the wooden beams turning into something else, something I don't understand.
My body hurts. Everything hurts. Not just my skin-but my bones, my stomach, my lungs.
It hurts to breathe. To move. To think.
I want to go home.
I don't remember where home is, not really. It's like trying to hold water in my hands-just flashes that slip through my fingers. A hallway painted yellow. A voice, maybe my mother's. A soft blanket. A window that let in the sun.
But it's gone now. All of it.
This bed is cold. The room smells like dust and smoke and something else I don't have words for. I don't like it. I want to leave. I want to run.
But I don't move.
Because I'm not allowed.
Because he said not to.
I don't know his name. I don't want to know it. He has hands that burn when they touch me and a voice that makes my insides twist up wrong. He called me beautiful. He called me obedient.
I think if I keep being quiet, maybe it'll stop.
Maybe I'll wake up.
But I don't. The mattress groans. My hair sticks to my face. My knees ache. I feel cracked open and full of nothing, like I'm made of glass and someone's reaching inside me just to see how easily I shatter.
I turn my face to the side and stare at the black door.
It's still closed.
I wish someone would open it. I wish someone would come in. I wish someone would scream and yell and make it stop.
But no one does.
The House is silent.
And so am I.