Except her. She did. And no matter how hard I tried to forget that stupid little girl, I couldn’t.
I gripped the bedframe and managed to climb to my feet. Didn’t last long. His fist plowed into my stomach, and I hunched over before my legs gave out, and I collapsed to my knees on the floor.
I couldn’t breathe. Breathe.
Her hand slid into mine and squeezed. I closed my eyes, hearing her lyrical, soothing voice.
Breathe, she said. Just breathe. I won’t hurt you.
The pain subsided and I took myself away. He couldn’t hurt me here. No one could. It was safe here.
“Fight me, damn it.” His words echoed somewhere above me. The kicks and blows faded away to nothing as I lay on the floor, the smell of blood overriding the booze.
“Pathetic,” he spit. “Y’ll n’ver amount to not’ing. Ushhlessss.” He grabbed the collar of my shirt to pick me up and hit me again, but he stumbled and fell into the wall.
A slew of unintelligible words dribbled from his mouth.
“Get up and fight me.”
I wasn’t fighting. Not today. He could beat me to a bloody pulp and there was no way I’d fight back. If I did, he’d lock me up. I was too big for the trunk now, and I’d broken the closet doors a few months ago when he’d gone to work, but there was no escape from the cold, mildew-ridden cellar.
I lay on my stomach on the floor, hearing his heavy breathing above me and the floor creaking under his weight as he swayed.
Something warm and wet dripped on the back of my neck. Spit. Blood. Sweat. Maybe all of it.
Her hand slipped into mine and squeezed.
Breathe through the pain.
He can’t hurt you here.
I heard his heavy, booted steps as he turned and walked out of my room. I placed my palms on the damaged drywall and slowly climbed to my feet.
Every breath felt as if someone was stabbing me in the fuckin’ ribs with a screwdriver. I was familiar with broken ribs, had them countless times before, and it was worse than welts or bruises. For weeks, every time I inhaled and exhaled was agony.
I walked over to the nightstand and half bent, blindly reaching behind it and feeling around until my fingers curled around the butt of the gun. The duct tape tore as I yanked it free, then peeled off the tape and shoved the gun into the back of my jeans.
I didn’t need a gun where I was going, but after Dad lost his badge because of his drinking, we’d had to move, and it wasn’t to the safest part of city. I walked across the room, grabbed my black hoodie off the bed, and inched partway out of my doorway, making sure he was gone. He was likely in his chair in front of the TV watching reruns of CSI, or some other cop show, with a cigarette dangling from his beefy lips and a glass of scotch in the hand perched on his thigh.
I slipped out into the hallway and made my way to the three steps that led to the back door.
The screen door squeaked, which was why I’d propped it open earlier. Not that he could stop me. But if he found out I’d snuck out, it would only be worse later.
I don’t know why he even bothered finding me the last time I’d run away. But Hank still had friends in the police force, and they always tracked me down.
But today was the one day of the year I’d risk everything.
I’d travel a million fuckin’ miles to get there.
Just today. One day where I could forget.
One day where I could breathe.
It took two buses, a short ride on the subway, and a mile walk to reach her house. I kept the hood low over my face so no one would see the bruises or my cut lip. The bouncing on the bus was torture, but it was worth it. I’d walk across the fuckin’ desert. Swim an ocean.
Because if I didn’t have this, I had nothing. I was nothing.
By the time I got to the house, I was sweating, and every muscle burned.