For a girl like me, that’s the closest thing to a hug I’ve felt in years.
God, I’m fucked up.
As soon as I asked Shadow what he meant by giving up his freedom for me, he gave my neck one last squeeze before he disappeared, pulled back down under my bed as if being sucked into the depths of hell.
The second my feet hit the floor, I fell to my hands and knees, crawling quickly after him. Panic and desperation had me scrambling, but once under there, I found no trace. Not a ghost of his shadow, no portal to hell, only uneven water-damaged floorboards and a dust bunny.
I couldn’t decide if last night was a dream or a nightmare. But this morning, the bleak reality of my life resumed as if nothing happened. It makes the ache in my chest throb with new intensity. A knot of need and hurt tightens every time I think about what my life has become, each twist a physical ache.
As I stroll by a bedroom where Helena, my boss, is tucking in a fresh set of sheets on the primary bed, she frowns. "Rápido, rápido, Evie, we don’t have all day. We have three morecasasafter this one."
I tighten my grip on my caddy of cleaning supplies and put some speed in my step for her benefit. Helena is in her mid-thirties, but she wields her authority like a Roman emperor.
When I started working for Magic Maid service, she let me know in no uncertain terms that I was a reluctant hire. Both of Helena’s cousins had gotten sick, and she needed immediate help. They are a family business, and I’m an outsider.
As first—and second-generation—Brazilian immigrants, they rarely speak English around me, and while I’ve picked up a fair bit of Portuguese, none of them are very interested in engaging in conversation.
But I’ve proven myself enough to secure my spot even after Helena’s cousins returned to work.
Helena is a fair boss, and no one is cruel to me. They simply bust their asses on the job with a dedication I struggle to match. It’s because they have families to get home to. They are always running off from the job to attend a birthday or anniversary party for someone in their massive extended family.
Not that I’ve done much to develop relationships either. I far prefer indifference from others. It’s the interested parties I’ve always had to worry about.
Helena doesn’t want anything more than for me to show up and do my job.
And I convinced her to give me extra jobs and longer hours so I wouldn’t have to get a second job.
Up in the pink room, where a little girl must sleep among frilly sheets and gobs of stuffed animals, I wonder if she’s ever worried about monsters a day in her life. With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s about to pass in the hall, I walk over to the bed and get down to my knees and check under it.
Shaking my head, berating myself for looking, though I know he won’t be there. Still, I whisper, "What happened?"
No response.
Five Years Old
In Mother Mary’s house, I share the room with three other foster kids. They knew each other before I came to this house and they don’t ask me any questions or really look at me, though I’m the youngest at five.
This house doesn’t smell as bad as the last one, but my new foster mom made sure I knew that if I was going to stay in her house, there would be chores. I clutched Snarp to my chest and nodded even though I didn’t know what she meant about hard work building character. It’s the focus of the house. Building character through work.
Now, as I clutch Snarp close to my chest, every muscle in my little body screams with exhaustion.
Earlier today, the mop’s wooden handle was gritty against my tender palms, its weight constantly pulling me off balance. When I slipped on the wet, soapy floor, pain exploded in my bottom, radiating in hot waves that linger even now. My foot kicked the bucket and murky gray water spilled out over the floor, hitting the carpet of the next room, turning the rose color a dusky shade. The mix of strong lemon cleaner and the musky water overpowered my lungs, making me want to throw up.
My heart shriveled when my Mother Mary came in, yelling over the mess I made. But I worked hard like she said, so I asked if she could tell me if I builded character yet? I want to please her. I want to belong.
She walked away, muttering she doesn’t get paid enough.
Restless, I toss and turn on the threadbare mattress. Each shift sends twinges of pain coursing through my limbs, drawing tiny whimpers from my lips. My arm dangles over the edge of the bed as I lay on my stomach, seeking any position that might bring relief. I feel as though I’ll burst, pressure building in my chest until tears blur my vision.
And then something warm envelops my small hand. It’s five times my size, its grip firm but gentle. I peek over the edge of the bed and see dark, clawed fingers holding mine. As if sensing my gaze, the hand gives a gentle squeeze, not once, but twice. My own small fist responds, squeezing twice.
It squeezes mine again in a funny little pattern.
I try to repeat the rhythm, but don’t do a good job.
A long thumb with a menacing claw strokes the back of my hand, rhythmic and soothing. As itscomforting motions continue the unbearable tightness in my chest begins to ease, and before I know it I’m drifting off to sleep, comforted by the monster under my bed.
"What are you doing?" Alice interrupts. I jerk up. Helena’s younger cousin stands in the hallway, watching me with skeptical judgment in her eyes.
