The cold air bites at my cheeks as my stomach continues to growl and hurt. Maybe if Dad and Charlie would share that rock with me, I wouldn’t feel these hunger pains any longer. Neither of them ever seems to be hungry much. My dad no longer even looks like the man I once knew. The man who’d come home from work with a blackened face from being underground all night.
A man who worked hard to provide.
A man who loved and cared for me.
Who bought me dolls and dresses.
Now I’m down to a few shirts and three pairs of underwear and the jeans I’m wearing.
My sweatshirt is too tight in the armpits. I need a bra.
I stare at my father, and I hate him more than I hate my mother.
Now his jaws are sunken in, and his once vibrant eyes appear to have been hollowed out with a spoon. Black circles rim them, and the lines of his face remind me of the skin of a rotting onion. Thin and papery. Wrinkled.
I dig around in my backpack looking for the half of a granola bar I tucked back for desperate times.
Tonight I’m beyond desperate.
“Hey,” I hear a voice whisper.
Looking to my right, I see a man peering at me from the corner. I turn back to my dad as Charlie ties off his arm. I know what comes next. The needle.
“Girl. Come here,” I hear the man call out again. This time he is shaking a sandwich at me. My stomach burns at the sight. I’mso hungry my feet carry me forward at their own will. “You want this food?” He smiles a toothless grin at me.
I nod my head. A hushed, “Uh huh,” leaves my throat. I steal a glance back at my dad. He’s too fixated on getting high to worry about me. Charlie too. I am hardly a foot from the man.
“Don’t be shy.”
I know I am being stupid, but I am too hungry to care. All I can think about is that sandwich in his hands. I’d do just about anything for the crust right now.
I lick my chapped, cracked lips.
“You thirsty?” He holds up a brown paper bag with a bottle sticking out of the top.
I am thirsty. My mouth waters at the prospect. Somewhere deep inside, a voice is telling me to run and never look back. That this is dangerous. I take a step back.
“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” he tells me softly. His skin is worn and reminds me of my scuffed-up leather shoes.
I want to believe him.
I’m also too parched to care.
I stare into his dark eyes, unable to read him, but at this point, what do I have to lose? He extends the paper bag to me. The brown paper makes a crinkling sound under my tight grasp. I take a big gulp. The clear liquid sets my throat on fire, but warms me down to my toes. I return the bag and he tears me off a piece of the sandwich. Greedily, I practically swallow my serving in one bite.
“You gotta be smart out here, kid. Nothing in this world is free. I did something for you. Now you’ve gotta do something for me.”
I swallow the last bit of crumbs on my tongue and go still when his hand goes to his zipper. I knew better.
Now look at me, being shoved down on my knees where no one will hear my screams. Where no one will care even if they do.
“I’ll give you another taste.” With a shaky hand, I accept the drink once more, eagerly taking another big sip. I’m too scared to feel the burn this time. “Open that pretty mouth wide for me,” he commands.
I clamp my lips shut and shake my head. I know what he wants, and I will die before I give it to him. I’ve seen Charlie do it for money. I’ve seen people do a lot of things to survive. To make it one more day. I spare one last look at my father, hoping he sees what he has done to me. What he has reduced me to. His eyes are closed, and the man hits me in the side of the head with the liquor bottle. My head snaps sideways and boomerangs back while all I can think is I am going to die for half of a sandwich.
My eyes roll back as I fall over, hitting the uneven pavement.
I hear a shout as Charlie charges the man and stabs him in the side of the neck with the empty syringe. The man’s eyes go wide as I scramble backwards, crawling on my hands. A sharp piece of glass stabs me in the middle of my left palm. My father’s arms wrap around me as Charlie fights with the man who is now brandishing a pocketknife.
