“Can we be friends?” I ask earnestly, the words feeling so infantile and naive as they fall from my mouth.
The pause stretches into an unbearable eternity before I get my answer.
“Okay, Menace. We can be friends tonight. But I might want to submit my title for reevaluation if you ever allow me a better designation than friend.”
So much for my settled, calm nerves, because my stomach does a flip of excitement when I hear his rumbly response.
“Deal,” I say, smiling ear to ear.
And that’s how Sophia finds me minutes after we end the call: grinning widely and staring at the floor, replaying it all in my head over and over again.
Cassandra
Nails carving into the raw wood and chipped paint in front of me, I release another ear-splitting scream that seems to get trapped inside my tight confines and reverberate back into my soul.
It’s no use. He’s not in the house anymore, and the closest neighbors are a mile away.
Tears stream down my cheeks, and I throw all my weight into the door, the strong wood barely shaking from the impact. I don’t know how long it’s been since he pushed me in here, but I’ve watched the light from the windows fall and rise again through the small crack at the hinge—the only patch of illumination in the stale darkness.
When Mom left for her business conference on Monday, I was already apprehensive about spending the week with Joe. My relationship with my stepdad is anything but close, but never in a million years did I think he would get mad enough to lock me in a closet for days. There’s no food in here, no water. I’ve never been so thirsty in my life. A few hours ago, I managed to fall asleep for I don’t know how long, but theraw horror I felt waking up in here—locked in this pit and surrounded by darkness—was so terrifying that I’ve been doing everything possible to stay awake since.
Suddenly, I hear the familiar click of the front door. Maybe Mom came back? A sob catches in my throat as I scramble to my knees, banging my fist against the wood once more.
“Help!” I scream, the word morphing into another collection of sobs.
Then I hear footsteps nearing the closet. Hope soars in my chest as I scream louder, bang harder?—
“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” My stepdad yells, smacking the other side of the door with a reverberating thud.
I gasp awake, my throat scratchy and raw as cool air shoots down. My pillow is damp from the tears that still cling to my cheeks.
Something pounds against the wall, convincing me that I’m still not entirely awake, until I hear the shrill, irritated voice accompanying it.
“Cass, shut up! I’m trying to sleep,” Veronica’s muffled voice sounds through the wall. I check the time, flinching when I see it’s only 3 AM. Groggily, I climb out from my sweaty sheets and pull on a sports bra.
I’ve never been successful at getting back to sleep after one of my nightmares, but thankfully, our university gym stays open 24/7—my favorite respite from the bad thoughts. I tiptoe to the bathroom and brush my teeth before grabbing my headphones and climbing behind the wheel of my car.
The dark, empty streets help pull me farther away from the painful memory. No stepdads, no closets, not a wooden door in sight. My heart twinges as the wash of relief reminds me that I left my mom behind in that horrible house with that sick man.
I couldn’t stay, though.
I called the police once. When I was too young to know better. At twelve, I had naively assumed that the cops would take one look at my mom’s black eye, at the bruises on my own wrists, and they’d throw the monster head-first into the cop car in cuffs. Instead, I was sent to my room while Joe explained my tendency to lie to the police. It wasn’t until after they left that I was punished. I never made that mistake again.
I was only seventeen when that final straw was pulled, but I couldn’t spend another second coexisting with my tormentor, pretending like absolutely nothing had happened. I spent the last year of my childhood couch surfing and struggling to finish high school, before running as far away for college as I could afford.
I pull up to the empty lot behind the gym, palming my phone and mace before locking my car behind me. The lights never go off here—one of the traits I love the most. I unlock the door with my university ID and set down my stuff, mapping out my workout on my notes app. Here, I can just turn off my brain and do my reps until my muscles exhaust themselves and my mind goes quiet.
Only about thirty minutes go by before I notice my phone buzzing incessantly on the ground, the sound barely registering through the roar of music filling my headphones. I set down my weights, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow.
On the screen, I’m shocked to find a list of missed calls, all from the exact same contact. Worried and deeply confused, I answer the current call vibrating across the phone and hold it to my ear.
“What’s wrong?” I say, nearly at the exact same time as his booming voice sounds over the line.
“Where the hell are you?” Mikhail asks, sharp and angry.
“What do you mean?” I question, still having difficulty registering the strange question at three in the damn morning.
“I know you aren’t home, so where the hell are you?” he repeats.
