I knew Ville would thrive if I showed fear. . . and when I showed fear, Woody felt it. I could see all my emotions on his face. Excruciating fear would have him hiding. . . have someone else replacing him—someone already mad at me.
And I couldn't let that happen.
When you’re standing so close to the edge, it’s important to avoid those who make you feel like jumping. . . or those who would push you without remorse.
Another blow rained down on my head, and it was difficult to pull my straying strands from my pitted skin without each one feeling like I was being stabbed by sewing needles.
“Please, stop. Daddy, please stop.” Woody's voice stopped Ville from hitting me again. A false smile plastered on his ugly face as he turned back to the son he pretended to care for. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”
“I’m sorry,” Ville lied. “Go on, help her up. I’ll get some rags to wash her burns.” The false smile was back as he retreated to the steps.
Woody moved to me, his gentle fingers pulling my hair from my face. My fingers wrapped around his wrist, controlling his speed as he pulled back the strands.
“Slow. . .” I encouraged with a raspy whisper.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Woodrow will be so mad at me.”
Woody was confused, terrified of the hatred from the boy he shared a soul with. I felt the need to soothe him, relinquishing his pain when I couldn’t my own.
“He’ll be mad at your father. This isn’t your fault. It’s his.” I couldn’t move my lips too much, but the words made it out. “He hurt me, Woody. He’s going to keep hurting me. I need to see Woodrow. Please, write all of this in your diary, so he’ll find it when he wakes up.”
He blinked twice, their collective signal foryes. “Daddy has been nice to me lately—”
“It’s all a lie. You can’t trust him.”
“I can trust you though, right?”
I nodded, my fingers tightening on his as my pain again amplified.
“Will you stay with me until he leaves?”
It was the wrong thing to ask a child. To stay and watch, and hopefully, prevent, any abuse his father intended to dish out. But I needed someone.
And he looked like the person I needed most.
Ville was back, a new bucket dumped in front of me. I stared at the chipping red color, scared to look inside it to see if the contents looked like water.Would I even know the difference? I hadn’t noticed last time.
Ville dropped in a rag, one from the kitchen that had wiped up fuck-knows-what this morning. An orange stain covered most of the white checkered fabric.
I closed my eyes as the rag moved toward my face in Ville’s ungloved hands—that was my only relief.
The warm water was loaded with something mild and soapy, and it had the perfect temperature for injuries, but it still hurt me as it soaked into my skin.
I let Ville wash me. I sat motionless against the back wall, the concrete cold and flush to my spine.
I didn’t bother to hide my body, and Woody’s eyes had finally dropped from my face, focusing on my stomach, protruding with hunger.
“Did God put a baby in her belly?”
Woody’s words had me struggling, trying to look at myself beyond the rag. I wanted to tell him the reason for my belly wasn’t a baby. I knew God wouldn’t be that cruel. . . and I was fortunate to be on the injection to control my soul-destroying periods before my arrival here. Ville had only violated my mouth with his dirty dick. My vagina was reserved for his filthy hands. Hell had raped me twice, but I felt likethat would have been covered by my injection. . .
But all that changed when Ville laughed and said, “No, Son. You did.”
Chapter 23
Jolie—aged eighteen
The cage floor was hard and cold, my body stiff as I slept on it. Its door had been left open and unlocked—Ville no longer saw me as a threat to the peaceful life he was living on the floor above. I’d say he was underestimating me, but I really had lost my fight.
