If someone finds me, they’ll take me to the authorities, who will send me back to my dad. Who, then, will send me back tohim. I won’t do it. I’ll never go back.
When I push myself up to stand, a rush of nausea whirls through me. The next thing I know, I’m grasping for the paper bag, spilling all the contents of my stomach into it.
Tears sting my eyes at the tender burn in my throat.
Oh, god. So gross.
I use my dirty nightgown to wipe my mouth. My heart pounds as I snap my eyes toward the kitchen, half-expecting someone to be staring right at me. But the light’s been turned off.
Relief overwhelms me, and the air in my lungs deflates.
I slump back against the wall. Collect my breath along with my things. My gaze crawls over the ruined paper bag, a few measly dollars, the jacket that doesn’t belong to me. My torn, bloodstained clothes and hands. I don’t need to lift my dress to know red still marks the insides of my thighs.
This time when the tears build behind my eyelids, it’s not from my burning throat.
I tuck the money and my shard of glass safely into the jacket’s pocket, then pull myself onto unsteady legs. After taking a drink to rinse the bad taste from my mouth, I allow one last look at the house I’ve wandered behind. Its beauty and size is almost blinding. I’m sure I’ve never stood so close to anything so ... perfect. It looks like something out of a movie, maybe even a fairytale. As fancy as the place is, it still has the character of a family home. Three stories of brick and warm colors and inviting windows. It reeks of purity and worth—two things I lack.
I slip into the enormous, mildew-smelling jacket and scan the huge yard. Within reach is a pool I wouldn’t doubt sparkles under the sun, and for a fleeting second, I fantasize about bathing in it. Washing his filth from my skin. A shudder of disgust runs down my spine. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wash him away.
I notice what I’ve been leaning against is a small shed. A metal padlock binds it shut. Perfect for keeping dirty things like me out.
With a sniff, I hug my stomach and move forward, ready to leave.
It’s then I hear it.
A single light strum, and then another. It’s the sweetest melody, playing into my bloodstream.
I’d recognize the song anywhere.
My legs wobble again, but not from exhaustion. The sound comes from an open second-story window. As if in a trance, I stagger back and lean against the shed. And then I slide to the ground again.
Bones quivering, my eyes lock on that bedroom window, that gateway to hope.
Wild Horses.
It’s the only tune that could dive so deep into my soul.
An acoustic guitar won’t ever be the same as her voice, but my breath still hitches as I listen. There’s a gentleness in each familiar, slow stroke, awakening pieces of my heart I haven’t felt in so long. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I’m six years old and Mom’s humming me to sleep.
I stare at the window and wish I could see the face behind the music. I imagine the silhouette of someone good and strong, someone like Mom. Through the nights she cried herself to sleep before she finally broke free, she was always good. Worthy. So much better than me.
So much stronger.
Tears pour down my cheeks, and I can’t help the loud sob that chokes me. With each strum of that guitar, my heart grows a little heavier. Heavier than it’s ever been. But there’s something else inside too. Not warm enough to be fire, but maybe the budding flickers of flame and hope. As my eyes finally close, I focus on it, that faint light in my lost soul. A beacon calling me home.
And it’s the closest thing I’ve felt to comfort in years.
Easton
(Present Day)
Whitney:Check now. It should be there.
After scanning the text message, I finish pulling a T-shirt over my head then lean over my desk, logging into my bank account again. I push out a breath when I see her payment went through.
Picking up my phone, I type:Got it. Thanks.
Whitney:
