CHAPTER 62
Emma
When I first came to this house just a week ago, I was thrilled to have my own room. I couldn’t believe it! What a luxury! In every other foster situation I’ve been in, it’s been three or four girls in a room filled with bunkbeds.
At first, I thought I’d really hit the jackpot this time.
I learned the truth last night. I had my own room because that’s how he wanted it. The secret would be easier to hide this way. No prying eyes would see what he does to me.
I hear his footsteps.
I try to lock the door, but the latch won’t hold. I can’t go to sleep with the door unlocked. If I do, he’ll come in. And I can’t let that happen.
Never again.
Over and over, I try to force the lock. Then I realize the latch has been filed down on purpose so he can get to me. Maybe so he could get to whatever child was in this room before me.
The clock in the hallway ticks. It ticks and ticks and ticks and never slows. It’s telling me that the night’s horrors are about to start.
I look for something to bar the door. But there’s nothing in here but a single bed and a chair. Not even a dresser! I grab the chair and try to cram the back under the door knob, but it’s too short. It won’t reach.
I bet he made sure of it.
I hear his footsteps in the hallway. The ticking of the clock gets louder, so loud that I have to slap my hands over my ears. I can’t lock the door. I can’t bar the door.
But maybe I can hide.
I open the door to the tiny closet only to find it piled high with large boxes and jammed with what feels like an old ironing board, an old sewing machine, and a bunch of other junk. No light switch or chain. It’s too dark to see.
I attempt to shove my body inside, but there’s no room for even a small girl like me. My nightshirt catches on the sharp edge of the ironing board frame and rips.
I have just seconds. No time for moving around boxes, hiding, and replacing the boxes.
I’d be found anyway. I can’t be the first kid to have come up with this idea.
I could jump out the window.
Yes, I’m on the second floor. But there’s several inches of snow out there, which might cushion my fall. I’d rather break a leg than smell his stink again, or feel his hands on me.
So I push with all my might to open the wooden window frame. It’s painted shut. Or nailed. Or glued.
This guy thinks of everything.
Footsteps. Tick, tick, tick.
No.
My hands shake uncontrollably as my eyes scan the room again. Something… anything to protect myself. Make it harder for him to get what he wants. Maybe he’ll decide I’m not worth the effort.
That’s pretty funny. Tonight I’m praying that I’m not worth the effort, when I’ve begged for the opposite my entire life.
My fingers touch the hem of my ripped nightshirt, and I suddenly know what to do.
I hurl myself in the direction of the closet and shove my hand inside, sweeping blindly until I find it.
I use both hands to peel away a piece of sharp metal from the ironing board. It makes a horrible screeching sound.
I’m out of time.
But it comes off in my hands. I fall back and hit the tile floor.
Footsteps just behind the door now. I flip over and squirm my body into the narrow space between the box springs and the floor. It can’t be more than six inches deep. Not enough room for an average-sized teenager to hide.
But I’m small for a sixteen-year-old girl.
I make it under the bed just as I hear the useless door lock slide right open, and he’s here.
Tick, tick.
There’s no yelling or door slamming with him. His business is quiet. Secret.
The door closes with the barest sound.
But his breathing is loud, almost a growl.
His head suddenly swings down, and he stares into the space under the bed. I’m clutching the metal so tight that it’s cutting into my palm. I don’t even feel it.
“Make a single sound and you die.”
His face is blurred in the dim light. Good. I don’t want to see him. It’ll be easier for me that way.
“Get out from under there and get on the bed.”
I shudder with disgust and fear. All day today, I forced myself not to think of that voice. I want to forget it. I want to have never heard it. I know he lied. Tricked me. To get what he wanted.
Why didn’t I fight him? Why did I let him?
“Move or I’ll make damn sure it’s worse than last night.”
I’m paralyzed with terror, but my body shakes violently.
Why didn’t I fight back?
His head disappears, and for one instant, I think he’s given up. Not worth the effort. I’m safe.
I’m wrong.
A hand slaps around my ankle, squeezes hard, and yanks. I whimper in pain.
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
He slides me out in one smooth motion, my arms above my head. I hear the metal scrape along the floor. I can’t let him take it from me. I can’t. I manage to pull that hand close to my side, flat against my leg.
He rolls me over and presses his weight into me. I’m pinned to the tile.
“If you make any sound at all, I’ll maim you so bad that no doctor will be able to put you back together.”
I say nothing. I just stare into his hideous face as the hate bubbles up in me.
“Since you seem to like the floor, I’ll give it to you on the floor tonight. And I’ll have to punish you for being a little smartass bitch.”
I’m a volcano of hate. Ready to blow. But I wait. Tick. Tick. It’s almost time. He’ll be the one who can’t be put back together.
Fuck you, Humpty-Dumpty.
When his hand slides up into my nightshirt, my hand shoots up from my side. He sees the movement, but it’s already too late. I’ve stabbed him in the face, and now I’m pressing hard, slicing in a downward motion, cutting open his flesh.
His scream shakes the walls.
In an instant, blood is everywhere, all over me, in my nose and eyes. He flops away from me, screaming. I try to scrabble to a stand, but my bare feet slip in the blood. I try again. I get up.
Run for the door. Run down the hall. Run down the stairs.
His scream goes on and on. Now there are other screams. The wife. The kids. So loud.
I unlock the front door and race into the street.
I turn and run, blinded by terror and rage.
Sidewalks and streets blur under me. I can’t breathe.
My legs shake, but I keep running. I can’t feel my feet.
I hear sirens as I collapse into a snowbank in front of a run-down trailer. Their porch light comes on.
I use the snow to clean the blood off my skin.