Twelve years old
Rap music penetrates my foggy brain, the words bouncing around the box they shoved me into. I groan, my joints stiff and screaming from being folded into myself like trash in a compactor. My mind drifts between consciousness and oblivion, making it impossible to tell one moment from the next. Minutes, hours, days—I have no clue how much time has passed.
I crack my gritty eyes open to darkness. Panic sets in, clawing at my chest until every breath burns.
You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.
I chant in my head over and over again, trying to steady my ragged breathing. Then I hear laughter.Hers.
Brandi.My tormentor. The daughter of my mother’s latest boyfriend. At sixteen, she’s sadistic and rotten to the core, with a smile that promises pain. I was mesmerized by her beauty, but soon enough, I found out she was venom wrapped in sweetness.
After just two weeks of dating, my mother invited them tomove into our cramped, one-bedroom trailer. No warning. I came home one day, and they were already here. Brandi got the couch, and I was demoted to a blanket on the stained carpet. That was nearly three months ago. She swears Merle’s “the one.” But he’s thefifth“one” this year.
I’ll give their relationship another month. Katherine “Kitty” Hendricks isn’t satisfied unless there’s a man in her life. I’ve never been a priority for her. Just dead weight she complains about every chance she gets.
More often than not, it’s just Brandi and me. Mom and Merle disappear for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. No calls. No texts. No money left for groceries. Not a single thought given for the children they left behind.
That’s when things go from bad to worse. Brandi and her friends go on days-long benders—hardcore drugs, endless liquor, and reckless hookups everywhere you look.
I survive it all.Barely.
This time, I’m not so sure. Brandi found out about my claustrophobia and ordered her friends to stuff me in the trunk at the foot of my mother’s bed. I don’t think I can last much longer.
I’ve hated tight spaces ever since I was four years old.
My mother’s boyfriend at the time would lock me in an old freezer in his garage. When he was really pissed, he’d turn it on.
At least in the freezer, I was safe from his beatings. He’d use anything within arm’s reach on my tiny body. Belt, hammer, frying pan, baseball bat, hanger—it didn’t matter. I should be dead, even wished for the final blow that would end my life.
Where was God then? Where is he now?
I flex my aching fingers, the skin scraped raw from trying to escape my tight prison.
“Let me out,” I croak, my voice barely more than a whisper.
I grimace and swallow hard, hoping to soothe my parched throat. It’s been a while since I had anything to drink. I muster all my strength and bang my shoulder against the padded top.
“Please let me out!” I scream as loud as I can. “I can’t breathe!”
The music drops to a low pulse.
“Oh, he’s awake again,” Tanner jeers. Brandi’s stupid boyfriend. He’s the person I hate most in the world after her.
“Brandi, please! Let me out! I can’t breathe in here!”
“Come on, you’ve had your fun,” a girl says. “Let him out. He could seriously die.”
Brandi scoffs. “Oh please, he’s just being dramatic.”
“Fuck that, man,” a hard voice snaps. “I ain’t gonna be an accessory to no murder.”
“Yeah, me neither. I’m on my second strike. If I catch another charge, they’re going to throw the book at me.”
Some voices sound familiar, others I don’t recognize, but at least there are people here who care if I live or die—whatever their reasons might be.
“Okay, fine,” she gripes. “I’ll check on him, but I’m not letting him out.”
This is it. My chance to make a break for it. The second the lid cracks open, I lunge forward, fueled by adrenaline and desperation. I slam into Brandi, sending her careening into the dresser with a pained gasp.
