Chapter
One
Imiss when the horses didn’t keep me up at night.
I can hear the stallion shift in his stall, making low noises of restlessness. A hoof hits the boards, then another, but it’s not like I was ever going to sleep tonight, anyway. It’s cold in the barn, even with the blankets Dad brought me after Mom stopped paying attention. Probably around her fourth glass of wine, if I’m estimating right.
But my fingers are freezing, and my teeth chatter from the cold and something else. Somethingcoldandsharpthat’s pulling at me from the inside, radiating from somewhere in my chest without reaching my fingers.
Unfortunately, hatred doesn’t warm me in a way I need, but it’s been enough to keep me going when the fear has faded. Tonight feels different, though I don’t know why exactly. I hadn’t meant it when I said it. When I told Mom that she only had seven days to regret what she’d done. But now those seven days are up, and something inside me whispers, saying it shouldn’t be an empty threat.
The fear in her eyes gradually faded over the first few days, not that she’s ever looked at me so much. The day she draggedme by my hair to the well a week ago was probably the most Mom has looked at me in a long, long time.
You have seven days to regret this.
That’s what I said. I hadn’t quite meant it, and I hadn’t quite known what I was saying at the time. But now it feels like there’s an alarm in my head that won’t stop buzzing and screaming, driving me to do something other than sleep.
Not that I’ve been able to sleep much for a long, long time. The loft is always too cold or hot, and the horses below me never really settle. This isn’t a room. It isn’t likemyroom in the house a few hundred feet away.
It’s a prison.
I’m on my feet before I can really think about it. My boots are beside the creaky little bed, and when I slip my feet into them, the rubber is cold against my calves. My heavy, patched jacket sits on the chair, and I barely need my flashlight to pull it on over my nightgown that’s really just an old, oversized t-shirt. The ladder creaks under me, and my hands shake as I make my way down. Within seconds my boots hit the soft dirt floor of the barn, and I let my flashlight drift over the horses in their stalls, their attention on me.
I used to love the horses and going with my mom to train, to help, to assist owners and vets. I even used to ride. But now, the horses remind me ofMom.
And there’s nothing at all happy about that.
Mom’s stallion makes a low noise at me, as if he knows something isn’t right. He’s just as needlessly suspicious as Mom is, though tonight it’s probably not so needless. In the illumination from my flashlight, he holds my gaze with one big, dark eye, unmoving as he keeps his head over the boards of his stall.
I hate this horse.
I hate anything that reminds me of Mom.
“I never liked you,” I whisper, my light trembling on his white-marked face. “You’re awful.” The horse just stares at me, almost accusingly, and I walk backward over the dirt, boots scuffing, until I can turn and slip through the slightly cracked door without making a noise.
It’s a quick trip up to the house, and my heart races in my chest as I go. I’m not allowed up here after bedtime. Mom doesn’t trust me. At least, that’s what she told Dad. Even with a lock on my prior bedroom’s door so she could keep me in there, she decided that wasn’t enough.
That I mightdosomething, somehow.
I feel numb as I hunt for the key under the mat, knowing where it is thanks to Dad not being quite as secretive as Mom is. My fingers close around it, and I gently, quietly unlock the door while turning off my flashlight.
What am I doing?
I have enough sense to ask myself that as the door creaks open. I don’t bother closing it, or bother caring about the mud I’m tracking into the house that would get me hurt on any other day. There’s no point in caring this time. But my thoughts scramble, my brain seeking answers that my twelve-year-old self doesn’t know how to give as my movements are fueled by something other than rational thought.
That hot, pulsing feeling propels me through the house, toward the living room where I know Mom will be. Sure enough, she’s curled up in the old, threadbare armchair, under her favorite blanket, with a glass of red wine in her trembling fingers while her eyes stay fixed on the television.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
Tears are running down her face, and the laughter from the TV draws my attention like a moth to a flame. Whatever I expect to see, it isn’t me.
It isn’tus.
Mom is carrying me through the pasture while I reach for the horses with little hands, a smile on my face and a grin on hers. Dad must be behind the camera, just like always, and I hear him chuckling and panting as he tries to keep up with Mom’s long, confident stride.
We both look so happy as my small, chubby hands find a horse’s mane and Mom murmurs happily against my dark hair, long even then.
I can see that it’s me, but I can’t remember this day.
