“They’ll think it’s a dead animal,” Baron said. “After what she did to our boy, she deserves to suffer for more than one night. He’ll be feeling that for a long time.”
I’m shaking now, gripping the tree to keep myself upright. My fingers dig into the rough bark, gripping the texture as I sway on my feet.
I remember their laughter. The clink of beer bottles as they raised a toast to each other for how thoroughly they destroyed me. I remember their hands on me, their bodies against my bare skin, the revulsion I felt. I remember when they stopped taking turns at the end, turned me sideways, and both went at once, assaulting me from both sides. I remember the shame that built in me like a volcano that could never erupt, the violation as they came inside me.
I think I’ll be sick. I press my fist to my stomach, but it’s not vomit that comes.
It’s a scream.
I open my mouth and let it out, let it spew out of me like the lava from that volcano they put inside me. The memories swirl up, but it’s not fear I feel. It’s rage. Rage at how beaten I felt because I couldn’t even scream, couldn’t let out the horror they were stuffing into me with each violation. I was forced to contain it, not even express the pain, the betrayal and shame and defeat. I press both fists into my stomach, and I double over with the force of it, and I scream again, and again, and again.
Finally, my voice is gone, but this time, it’s not from being silenced.
It’s from using it.
My throat hurts more than when Royal choked me out until I almost passed out. More than after that, when it was clogged with tears. More than when I tried to scream behind the gag, and barely a sound came out, only loud enough for my own attackers to hear and mock.
I’m vaguely aware of Preston’s hands on me, that he’s holding me up from behind, so I don’t pitch headfirst into the murky swamp water. That my face is wet and cold. That inside me is a hollow pit of raw exhaustion.
I straighten, allowing him to pull me into his arms and hold me with all the fierceness of his misplaced love for me. After a while, I pull away.
“I’m tired.”
“Do you feel better?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “But thank you for this.”
“Do you want to chop at the tree for a while?” he asks. “I brought a hatchet. You probably can’t cut it down with that, but it might feel good to hit it.”
“No,” I say. “Burn it.”
It’s too wet to worry about it catching the surrounding trees on fire, but I take the small can of gasoline from Preston, just a gallon, and slosh it over the tree. He helps me back into the kayak, climbs into the other one, and hands me the matches. I throw one onto the tree, watching a blossom of fire consume the trunk. I know it’ll go out, that it won’t burn the whole tree. But somehow, knowing that the bark will burn off, that anything I touched will be gone, brings me a shadow of relief. And I know if I ever want to come back, I can find the tree, the one blackened by my hand the way I was scarred by theirs.
As we slide silently through the swamp, I can’t help but feel that it’s all somehow hollow and inadequate. The Dolces should be the ones burning for their crimes.
six
Harper Apple
Mom’s asleep when I get home in the morning, and I hear her leave in the afternoon while I’m doing homework. I go outside a few minutes later just to check on my car. Mom doesn’t have a key, but I’m still paranoid. It’s ridiculous how much that car means to me, and not just because it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, or the nicest thing I’ve ever owned a thousand times over. Having a car of my own means I can escape this town. Even if it only represents my dream right now—I don’t have enough in my stash to live on for more than a few months—it gives me hope that maybe I’ll really make it out.
“Hey,” Blue calls, raising a hand in a little wave. She’s standing out by the street watching Olive race up and down on a tricycle meant for kids half her age. Her skinny knees jut out to either side as she pedals, and she whoops and circles her arm over her head like she’s swinging an invisible lasso. I smile and walk over, tucking my hands into the front pocket of my black hoodie.
“What’s up?”
“Just watching Olive,” Blue says. “Want a smoke?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “I probably owe you a whole pack by now.”
“Get me back later,” Blue says, pulling a pack out of the pocket of her faded jean jacket. I notice bruises around her wrist when the sleeve rides up as she lights up before handing me the pack.
“You know, I have a punching bag in my basement,” I say after a minute, blowing smoke out the corner of my mouth. “I could show you a few moves sometime, if you want to come over and hang out there instead of always having me over.”
“Could I bring Olive?” she asks, blowing a strand of lank hair out of her mouth.
“Sure,” I say. “Never hurts to know how to throw a few punches, no matter what age you are.”
She nods, watching her sister tear down the road, her long hair streaming out behind her, a big grin on her face. I wonder when I stopped playing. It seems like such an odd thing now, so far removed from reality, that I can’t really remember when I outgrew it.