Eva
(Thirteen years old)
Stop shaking. Stop shaking.
Stop.Shaking.
But my body, it won’t listen, so I push myself harder. My eyes dart over the long, empty hallway, passing closed door after closed door, and I just want somewhere to hide. I’m good at being invisible.
Panting, I look over my shoulder. He’s not following.
But I can’t stop running. I’ll never stop.
“Oh, excuse—”
I snap my head toward the feminine voice and gasp, the hard corner of a towel cart digging into my hip. Eyes wide, I glance down at the cleaning supplies and quickly stumble around them.
“Sweetie—wait! Please! Where are your parent—”
“S-sorry, I’m s-so-sorry—” Paranoid and out of breath, I think I’m still whispering the broken words when I stagger down the stairs, across the cold marble entrance, and out the double doors.
A blast of wind chills my cheeks. The night sky suffocates the light, and noises startle me at every corner. The icy breeze slips through my thin white nightgown.
Which way do I go?I don’t know how to get back to Detroit. I don’t even know where I am. It felt like we drove for at least an hour and a half before arriving at the hotel, but I’ve never been so far from home. I should have paid better attention when Dad told me to get in his car. I should have pressed when I asked where we were going, or towhom. I should have watched the street signs, freeways, anything. But Dad had never taken me on a drive before. I was excited. I was hopeful. I was stupid.
I wrap my arms around my chest and squeeze tight, careful with the shard of glass still in my hand. Keeping my head down, I let my long curls hide my face like a dark, messy curtain. My feet move fast over the sidewalk—so fast they blur before my eyes as they take me from one block to another. I cross the street without checking the light. When a horn blares in my ears, I jump at the angry sound, but I don’t pause or look up.
Pain throbs between my legs, much worse than the burning in my lungs. I hold back the sob climbing up my throat.
Crying is for stupid, weak girls.
I’m not weak.
But then I think about tonight—his gross, hairy hands bruising my skin, tearing my underwear, the horrible, horrible pain—and my stomach twists so sharply I think I might puke.
I’m a dirty liar.Weakis exactly what I am.
My grip tightens on the shard of glass. Mysavior.
Something warm slides down my palm, and my body shakes harder when I see the blood. Dark red trickling down olive skin, from my fingertips to the ground.Unease rocks through me, burning my throat.
I can’t believe what I’ve done.
When pain slices through my hand, I see fresh blood. I didn’t realize how hard I was squeezing. The acid in my throat builds, spreading the unease to my lungs and making it hard to breathe. My blood mixes with his. I know I cut the pig; I still see the way he clutched his neck, blood leaking between his fingers, before my muscles unfroze and I bolted from the hotel room. I cut him good.
But I can’t know for surehowgood.
It’s only a matter of time before Dad gets word about what I’ve done.
I can’t leave a trail, and I won’t lose my only weapon either. Pulling up the ankle-length hem of my nightgown, I wrap the material around my hand until it turns as red as my wound. Hopefully, it will stop the leak.
The sky turns from dark to darker as I walk closer to nowhere, streetlights disappearing behind me as I go. My muscles ache, the bare heels of my feet raw.
Don’t stop.
Somewhere in the dark, blue irises flicker in and out of sight. I shut my eyes for a moment.
It’s not real. It’s not real.
