“I’ve heard enough.”
“You’ve only heard the beginning.”
“Then I don’t want to hear more.” I shot to my feet, knees wobbling as they suffered under weighty emotions. “You pray to God. You give thanks. You’re hypocrites. Both of you.”
Jesus agreed.
A cross fell from high on the wall, its fragility smashing on impact.
“Wynter was raised in a religious home as a child. . . she knows no different than to say the words of prayer. I think part of her believes that praying to God, if she does it enough times, he’ll overlook our wrongdoings. She was taught he grants forgiveness, after all.”
“You make me sick.”
“We’ll see how trauma changes you.”
“You caused trauma. . . you didn’t live it, and I have already lived it! I’m the same person. I’m still good!”
“And you’ll get more before this is over. Tell me something, how far would you go, Jolie? What would you sacrifice to get away?” I didn’t know how to answer his question. “Desperate girls do desperate things. Do you remember, Woodrow?”
Woodrow’s song got louder and louder, blocking out words. Blocking out memories.
“I came home one day, been out to get some alcohol, and I find Wynter in the den with one of the whores. She told her she’d unlock the metal collar around her neck, if she hurt him, in ways that would cause pain forever. And she fucking did.”
Woodrow’s song stopped. The world stopped.
“Woodrow?” My voice was the only noise, aside from quiet tears patting against his dark jeans as they fell.
“That was the only day I ever hit my fucking wife, and after that, I had to change her mindset, even if only minorly. She had to learn some control for her anger. It wasn’t that I’m opposed to kids in trafficking, in situations of sexual abuse. I saw it, worked it, didn’t care. I’d had kids here to break. But he was too young. Seven is too young to gethand-fucked by a stranger as he cried; his mother watching, fingers inside her thong. Inside herself. I knocked her off the chair with one hit, and I beat the chained whore until she died. And then I beat the shit out of Woodrow for three days straight, because I felt guilty for the black eye I’d given my wife.”
This was the moment I picked up my glass, but I didn’t drink what Ville had left of the alcohol. I gave it to him. Washing his dirty face in the dark spirit. I slammed the glass on the table and rushed around it, around everyone, to get to Woodrow, who’d been removed from his stupor by the noise I’d made slamming down the glass, so hard, a piece broke off.
Woodrow stood as I rushed for him, but chairs kicked back. What’s-his-face and Sylvia preventing us from getting to each other. The man—who I had no name for—held me respectfully, not daring to touch any intimate regions, for whatever reason.
Sylvia didn’t treat Woodrow with the same respect, holding him in a place that put another purple necklace of bruises around his already agonized throat.
“Let him go!” I screeched, watching Sylvia’s grip tighten. Watching Woodrow struggle. “Only a coward goes for the weak spot.”
“Or a smart man.” Sylvia laughed, not relenting, at all.
“Stop him!” I glared back at Ville, the man entrapping me allowing it.
Ville was still wiping the alcohol from his face with a cloth handed to him by Teena. His eyes, shifted to me—a move I’d saw his son act many times. But he looked nothing like Woodrow. And he acted nothing like him, either. Woodrow would have helped anyone; he had love in his heart, though where the fuck he’d found it, I would never know.
I heard Woodrow gasp for breath. I felt my own chest strain with his lungs’ denial. His face reddened, his lungs struggling and overworking. His nostrils flared in desperation, trying to suck in air.
I wished for his success. Wished he could suck the life right out of the creature choking him. His fingers peeled at Sylvia's arm, his prison tattoos disappearing beneath Woodrow's pristine skin.
But he couldn't move him. His skinny frame couldn't impact Sylvia's corded muscles, tightening onhim until his eyes closed.
“Stay with me,” I begged. “Please, Woodrow, stay with me.” I wasn't pleading because I was afraid of what would happen to me with the men in the room, I was afraid of a life without him. “Woodrow. . .”
His eyes fluttered open, and I saw the defeat in them. I saw the pain. And my heart felt the goodbye.
Panic set it, bringing speed to my actions that had them faltering in the arms of my captor. His lips dropped to my ear, and he whispered, “Don't fight me. Save your energy for them.”
The words were almost silent, and either unheard or ignored by his comrades, but Woodrow heard them, his eyes locking on the man's sour promise. On his mouth, still close to my ear.
“Breathe,” I whispered, keeping my focus on the boy I loved.
