Chapter 3
Her
S ix years ago…
“Stick your tongue out. You know the drill,” Sherry, the night staff, says.
Rolling my eyes, I go through the motions, knowing she never really checks. Once I’m back in my room, I pull the stupid pills from the back corner of my mouth and stash them in the false back of my sock drawer with the others.
Tonight’s the night. I finally have enough. I’ve been in this shit hole for seven months—seven months of having to talk about my feelings and the importance of not acting on urges. Well, fuck them. I like my feelings, and my impulsivity hasn’t steered me wrong.
One could argue that my being here right now means there might be a need for self-control, but I know for a fact I didn’t do anything this time.
This was fucking Cade. The look on his smug face when he sat in the courtroom and the judge decided I was unfit for society and would be relegated to a facility until my twenty-first birthday was bullshit.
I had no fucking choice. My mother’s latest lover decided she wasn’t enough to satisfy his desires, and she offered me up like a nine-course meal in some bougie upscale restaurant.
“She’s a virgin. She’ll do whatever you want her to, won’t you, sweetheart?”
This new version of my mother terrified me.
Ever since Cade left, nothing but bad things have happened.
First, we lost our house, and mom couldn’t find a place to hire her anywhere.
Her usual clientele dried up faster than the Sahara.
Then she met Arnold Livingston, a seventy-year-old oil tycoon with a penchant for unwilling underage girls, apparently.
“I will the fuck not,” I snap.
The slap came so fast. I was unprepared. “Listen here, you entitled brat, it’s time you help bring in money. I can’t be the only one helping us survive,” my mother seethes.
I wish I could say it was drugs or alcohol that made her give my virginity to some vile, disgusting man—it was just greed and selfishness. I showed them, though.
It might have taken me three months to finally set my plan in motion and light the house on fire after I did to him what he did to me.
I can still see my mother’s shocked face when she finally woke up from the sleeping pill I’d given her to see dear old Arnie lying in bed beside her with his throat slashed.
“What did you do? You stupid, stupid girl,” she chastised, attempting to free herself from the rope binding her.
She looked even more stunned when I stabbed her.
That didn’t stop her from spewing her bombastic rebukes.
But the joke was on her— literally. Her eyes doubled in size as I poured her best vodka over her tied form.
It was only then her attitude shifted. The venomous words melted into her manipulative soft charming voice.
It was too bad for her I already knew this game—it’s the same one that cost me the only person in this world who ever loved me for me.
So, I flicked open the ornate, gaudy lighter Arnie liked to use to light his expensive cigars after he raped me.
It felt kismet to use it. The horror and disbelief on my mother’s face brought me so much glee.
Shit it still does. The memory is so vivid it almost feels like I’m back in the room, watching the fear bloom like a fresh spring flower across her features.
She opened her mouth to beg but I only inhaled her terror, feeding off the her screams as I set her on fire.
I walked out of that house, sat on the sidewalk, and watched Arnie’s house burn until the first responders arrived.
When questioned, I simply stated I killed the rapist fuck and the bitch who gave me to him.
Someone from social services finally arrived, and explained what would was about to happen.
My lawyer was certain I’d never be charged after everything was investigated, but I was handcuffed, and the case went to trial.
Arnie’s family wanted my head, and I wanted their hearts.
Instead, I played the perfect docile seventeen-year-old who snapped instead of the meticulous one who planned her revenge for three months. I looked sullen when I was anything but.
It was working. I could see it in the jury members’ faces.
The pity for me and disgust for what I endured.
Then on the last day of testimony, the prosecution called for a surprise witness, and in came Caden fucking Danvers.
I thought he was there to save me. But, instead, he got on the stand and told them all of the things I told the only person I thought was my best friend—the things that put me in front of a shrink years ago.
He spilled them to the court and told them I wouldn’t be fit to walk the streets unless I got serious help.
The memory of the smile on his smug face when the judge announced that I’d be sent to a group home in Lincolnville, clear across the country from Bronston.
I lost it—only for a moment, but it was enough.
After that day, I vowed never to let anyone get close enough to garner real emotions from me again.
I wait until it’s officially lights out before grabbing and crushing the pills. I only do three because I’m not trying to kill Sherry. I just need her to sleep more deeply than usual.
Once I have my bag packed, I get dressed, opting for leggings, a simple t-shirt, sneakers, and a hoodie.
Creeping downstairs, I watch Sherry until she gets up to make her nightly cup of coffee—three scoops of Folgers French Vanilla Roast, about a quarter cup of caramel macchiato creamer, and a shit ton of sugar.
Then, without skipping a beat, she places her coffee on the table in the living room to cool and heads to the bathroom to change into her more comfortable clothes.
I don’t move until I hear the door close in the staff room.
I’m up off the stairs the minute I feel it’s safe enough. Then I pour the powdery substance into her coffee and stir. One of these makes me knock out in twenty minutes and sleep through the night. So, three should make her slumber like the dead.
Climbing back up the upstairs, I walk into my room, plop down on the mattress, and crochet two rounds on the blanket I’m making. I know it’s been about forty-five minutes once I finish the row.
Packing the supplies into my duffle, I sneak back downstairs and see a very soundly sleeping Sherry.
Heading for the staff room, I punch in the alarm, deactivating it, then re-enter the code to delay arming it, giving me about a minute to leave through the back door. I’m not trying to have someone sneak in here on anyone. I’m just trying to get the hell out.
My hand is on the push bar to leave when a voice startles me. “Are you leaving?” Lorelei asks. She’s thirteen, and she’s here because her father can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. Someone should cut them off.
“Yes, now go back to bed.”
“Will I ever see you again?” Her soft brown eyes look so hopeful.
“One day,” I promise, then I push the handle and take off down the street, and I don’t stop running until I hit the town sign that says Welcome to Edgewood.
To be continued…