Thousands (Dollar 4)

I tilted my chin and spoke with a bravery I didn’t own. “I’m sorry for taking what wasn’t mine. Rest assured, I’ll never—”

Miranda’s palm connected with a short sharp, slap on my cheek. “You’re right, you’ll never steal again ‘cause you’re going to remember this lesson for a lifetime, bitch!”

Heat instantly bloomed, dousing me in quick-fire pain.

I stumbled backward.

Simone cried out.

I shut down.

Pain…my old friend.

I focused on it, welcomed it. I knew it. I was it. I knew nothing else because of it.

“Miranda, wait!” Simone’s voice sounded as if she was underwater as her fingers were ripped from mine and I was shoved heinously against the wall.

“Ready to enjoy that lesson?” Harold’s face appeared, slamming my skull into the brick behind me, his breath a sour mix of alcohol and seafood.

I looked over his shoulder to a crying, begging Simone; a laughing, pleased Miranda; and the other two girls who looked petrified at how suddenly this had escalated.

They all gasped as Harold’s fist connected with my belly.

Not me.

I doubled over silently.

Not one gasp.

Not one grunt.

Mute.

Like I’d always been.

Simone screamed, Miranda cheered, and the blonde girl spun around and charged out of the alley.

I couldn’t blame her. Being beaten was an awful task to endure. Watching it be done with no power to stop it might even be worse.

Simone should run, too. This would scar her for life. It would ruin her goodness. It would change her too much.

Go.

After all, unlike my previous broken bones and ill healed injuries, I did deserve this. No one had told me to steal their wallets; I’d done that all on my own.

Harold’s fist connected once again with my stomach. This time to the side where my appendix lived. I buckled in his hold, slithering down the wall where his leg cocked back, and his foot buried itself in my ribcage.

The pain wasn’t really describable.

I’d lived with it for so long; it was like trying to describe how I breathed or pumped blood through my veins. It was a part of me and happened without conscious thought.

I huddled up, protecting my head and drawing my legs up, locking everything else out.

I no longer heard Simone screaming. I didn’t listen to Miranda’s goading or Harold’s stream of ‘Take that, bitch. Does that feel good?’

It was silent inside and out.

My thoughts drifted to Elder. Where was he right now? Had he kept my letter? Had I hurt him all over again by telling him how I felt only to run because I didn’t want to be the one to break him further?

Another kick, this one winding me until my lips parted like an ocean creature turfed from the sea.

Time lost all meaning.

Another fist landed on top of my arms as they cradled my head. My spine scraped against the wall as Harold kicked me hard enough to send me scooting forward from the blow.

Knuckles kissed my cheek, sending instant pressure into a very familiar black eye.

I wondered briefly how long he would abuse me and how ruthless he would become the more he warmed to his task.

Another strike, this time somewhere on my leg. The agony-blossom seeped instantly into my bones; a tuning fork settling fire to old injuries like a door knock to a new friend.

I didn’t try to get up.

I hadn’t learned how to run while being beaten.

All my instincts said to shut up, lock down, curl tight.

Another kick.

A gob of spit on my arm.

And then a new noise. Something that didn’t belong.

“Stop!” the shout vaguely rippled its way into my consciousness.

“Hey!” another shout, male and authoritative.

My heart reached out with eager arms. Imaginings of Elder arriving at the perfect time. My villainous knight with his dragon ink. Had he come? Did I dare let hope surface?

I tensed for another punishment, but the looming figure of Harold suddenly vanished. Removing his oppressive shadow left me with open skies. I dared peer up through the forest of legs.

Two things slammed into me.

One, gratefulness that someone had come to my rescue.

Two, utter wretchedness that it wasn’t Elder.

Miranda screeched as two men grabbed her boyfriend.

Harold cursed and swung, doing his best to get free.

But the two saviours never let go, quickly grabbing Harold’s flailing arms and wrenching them behind his back. Their uniforms filled my vision with legal domination, a gold shield stitched on the sleeve, and an array of weapons, badges, and tools.

In my painful haze, I witnessed them slap handcuffs on Harold and stand squarely in resplendent livery. “Anything you do and say can be used against you. I would calm down, buddy, before you do something you regret.” Their French accents were thick and commanding.

Harold spat at one of them. He missed. “Fuck you.”

Before the cop could retaliate, Simone wrung her hands. “Thank goodness you’re here!” She danced out of the way as the two cops nodded curtly and manhandled a very uncooperative Harold forward.