I wasn’t surprised when his long legs carried him across the room to close the distance between us. The slap of his hand against my left cheek was no shock either, and I barely flinched. He'd done much worse. "Am I understood, boy?"
I grimaced, sucking my teeth as I murmured, "Yes, father."
It hadn't been the first time I lied.
And it would be far from the last.
One
Samara
I ran.
I ran harder than I ever had before. My bare feet left a trail of blood with each step on the stairs.
Slipping on the hardwood, I skidded into the door with a painful thump that made my already tender stomach concave from the force of the doorknob. Blood coated my fingers, and I whimpered when I couldn't get a grip on the lock. It wouldn’t turn. Wouldn’t open.
A groan and thud sounded at the top of the stairs where I'd left the bedroom door wide open in my effort to make a hasty escape. "Samara! You stupid cunt!" he roared at the top of his lungs, and I whimpered again, finally dragging my nightgown up to wrap it around the knob and pull it open. Fresh, cold air blew the door open further, blasting me in the face. On one side of my head, the hair billowed in the wind. On the other, it stayed plastered to my scalp in a bloody mess.
His blood.
Out the door. My feet thudded against the pavement, sprinting for the neighbor's house. Pavement turned to grass. The stab of each blade in the cuts on my feet echoed with the frigid night air stabbing at my lungs as I gasped for breath. I fell on the front step, finally screaming for Linda to open her door. Everything hurt. My soul hurt, my heart hurt, my body hurt.
He was coming.
Drunk. Desperate.
"Linda!" I screamed, standing to bang on the door more frantically.
She gasped when she tore it open, and I fell inside into a puddle of nothing but blood and bruised flesh.
"Samara!" he yelled again, but the door closed and locked, cutting off the rage in his voice.
Safe. Safe behind closed doors.
For now.
My eyes snapped open, and I shot to a sitting position in bed. My empty bed, with my new mattress.
It didn't matter. Every time I opened my eyes, I still saw the broken mirror on the floor, the blood on the base of the lamp that I'd used to bash him over the head with. Too fevered, my body felt slick with sweat as I shoved the blankets off. I curled my legs in, crossing them and trailing a finger over the scars on my feet. Thick, hideous white lines that covered the soles from my toes to my heels.
It took hours for Linda to pull out all the pieces of glass.
It had taken almost as long to wash the blood off me, out of my hair, out from under my nails.
I still didn't feel clean. Still woke up every day with the feeling of blood coating my skin and the stain of his touch on me.
I stood to shower, making my way into the bathroom. I avoided looking in the mirror as I went. I didn't want to see my pale face staring back at me or see the vacant look in my terrified eyes. That look would stay until I washed the nightmare from my skin.
Washed his touch down the drain until I was clean again.
Another day, another nightmare of my doing. My phone chimed with a text message from the bedroom, and I felt my lips curve into a hesitant smile. I didn't need to check it to see who it was from or what it would say.
My daily good morning message from Lino was one thing that drove Connor mad during our too-long marriage. Most days, I’d said good morning to my best friend before my ex-husband even when he was in bed next to me. Now it drew me out of the memories, and it pleased me to know that even though Connor was part of my past, Lino remained.
I got in the shower, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to belt out an upbeat song while I washed away the sweat. There was no one to hear me, no one to tell me to just stop because he couldn’t stand the sound of my voice. Just me and my demons, taking back our power.
It would be a good day, despite the rocky start.