Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (14 page)

“What? This doesn’t feel good? You too used to other men?”

He chuckles, his breath hot and falling all over me. He rips off my shirt and comes close, kissing my neck and collarbone. I close my eyes and images of Ashlee’s tattoo fills my head. I think of the little girl—alone. I think of number 146 and how even in the most grotesque situation she is still seen as beautiful and lovely to those who recognize her worth. I think of the flowers and the little girl dancing, a picture of hope in the midst of hate. And then I pray. I don’t even know who to pray to or why I do it, but I pray for hope and fight and justice and innocence and rescue. I close my eyes tight against the tears and against my heart ripping in two, but it’s too late. The monster is done and has all but collapsed on top of me in exhaustion. Every part of me hurts. He musters up enough energy to climb off of me and gets dressed, not even looking my way. I am nothing to him, but he has become everything to me. I don’t take my eyes off of him. I want him to see me. I want him to hurt. I want him to realize what he’s done. I look again at his wedding ring.

“Does your wife know you like to rape teenage girls?”

He stops as he buttons up his shirt and looks at me. His eyes become slits and his lip quivers with fear and disgust. “You don’t have the guts to say anything, little girl. You’re nothing but a fifty dollar lay.

And if you do say something? If you tell someone? I swear I’ll make it where no one will ever want you.”

He looks me over and walks over to where I am still on the bed, too bruised to even move. He grabs my clothes and puts them in his bag and turns to leave. I have no strength to call out or protest and I watch as he leaves with everything I was wearing, and my last shred of dignity turns to dust. I fall asleep tasting my own tears.

Chapter Eleven

I wake up to sunlight piercing through the blinds on the windows in my dad’s shed. I’m so sore it’s hard for me to move. I rub my eyes and smudged make-up from yesterday’s shopping trip with Emma comes off. I’m sure my face looks like a drowned raccoon after last night. I slowly maneuver myself to a sitting position, wincing at the shooting pain in my left hip. I glance down and a deep purple stain creeps across my skin. I frown and force myself to not think about how I could have gotten that bruise. It’s not until I am standing up that I remember my clothes were stolen. I have nothing here and I’m not about to wear the sheets out —at least I hope I won’t have to. I survey the dirty men’s clothes strewn about haphazardly. I won’t look through them—afraid most of them aren’t even my father’s. I start looking in some of dad's makeshift cabinets. Surely there is at least a shirt to cover myself. I stop cold when I see pictures in the far corner, behind his work boots and tool kit, hidden enough for the regular snoop to completely miss them. Definitely hidden. I stretch to reach and finally grab hold of them. Pulling them out, I look and am devastated.

They’re of Valerie. Valerie with her mouth gagged, eyes puffy and red from crying. Valerie wearing one of my dad’s shirts, buttoned only to where she is barely covered. Valerie in her underwear, her eyes void of hope. I wade through the pictures, grimacing. There’s more. And they aren’t just of Valerie.

I don’t even know who these girls are—and they are so young!

My eyes rest on one picture, a girl with baby doll curls wearing a maid’s outfit. The heels on her feet are too big, her eyes big and round. The sadness in her gaze is crippling. Her face is caked with make-up and her name is scrawled on the back—
Zoe.
I look closer at the scribble and read something else

—
upload to ‘under 12’ category.
I give into the dizziness and collapse back onto the mattress.

Under twelve? She’s younger than twelve?
I sit there for awhile, numb to what I am facing and lost at what to do. I don’t even know where these girls are hiding. I don’t even know if Valerie is caught as deep as I am or if it was just a one-time deal and my father decided to take advantage of the business opportunity looming before him. I suddenly remember Kevin telling me about the cheerleaders’ business of favors to the football players and it’s just all too much. I wonder again if my father’s involved. It’s just too coincidental. I wonder how he does it, how he convinces these girls to trust him. Nothing about him screams loyalty. I stare at the pictures a little longer and feel my heart’s fissure grow more obsolete.

Every one always says to feel numb is to feel nothing. This is not nothing. This is everything. This
is a big ball of cement wedged in my chest making it hard to even breathe.

The past week rises up in one quick motion and I have no time to stop it. I throw up everything, right there on the floor, crying, crying, crying. I am not the only one who has dealt with this...monster who claims to be my father. I grab a shirt off the shelf inside and wrap it around me, stuffing the pictures in the front pocket. I cringe as I grab the sheet off his mattress and wrap it around my waist. The hatred I feel for my father is rising dangerously, and I hope for my own sake I don’t find him in the house because I want to kill him. At the very least, castrating seems like a viable option. I open the door, blinded for a split second by the contrast of light, and make my way to the house. I note grimly that my father has given me a new definition for the “walk of shame.”

I don’t care what it takes. I’m going to stop him. If no one will rescue me, I will find a way to
rescue myself and these other girls who don’t deserve the torment they’ve been given.

I get to the back door and notice it’s unlocked for me. Probably my father when he realized I didn’t come back in last night.
How thoughtful.
I’m fighting the impulse to throw up again. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. Once I feel stable enough, I quietly walk to my room, hoping to not see Pacey or my mother. That would just be a whole lot of explanation that I’m not ready to give. I make it to my room just in time to hear my dad’s truck pull out of the driveway; I pull out the pictures from the pocket of his shirt and stuff them underneath my mattress. I can’t lose those. I take off the sheet and shirt and put on my robe and head to the bathroom where I take a thirty minute shower, scrubbing everything I from last night off of me. I finish, my skin red and raw but the scent has finally left me. I dry off, thankful for the new underwear waiting for me from shopping with Emma, and collapse on the bed. Pulling the sheets over my eyes, I drift off into a deep sleep, completely forgetting about meeting Kevin at the bleachers.

***

I wake up a few hours later to my mom banging on my door.

“Steph? Are you in there? Stephanie. Open the door! It’s your mother. The school just called to tell me you missed another day.”

I groan and throw a pillow over my face and hope she will give up sooner rather than later. When she opens the door, I shake my head and bury myself deeper into the covers. “I’m sick, mom. I couldn’t go to school today.”

She looks at me and places her hand on her hip, “But you were just fine yesterday.”

She walks over and sits down on my bed and I can’t help but think of those pictures pressing themselves into the mattress underneath her. For once, I wish my mom would freak out and search my room. She pulls the pillow off my head and moves to feel my forehead.

“You don’t have a fever.”

“It’s my stomach,” I say. Which isn’t entirely a lie.

“Oh.”

She leans forward and studies my face for what feels like forever.
What’s going on in there? What
are you thinking about, mom?

“I really need to rest. I feel horrible.”

Her eyes darken and she pats me on my hip. I try not to wince from her touching the bruise but I’m not successful. She looks worried.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just my stomach. If I can fall asleep it doesn’t hurt as much”

She nods her head and I know then she’s not really listening. She didn’t come in here to check on me—but she did come in to check
something.
She looks around and briefly before her eyes rest on dad's shirt and the sheet from outside. My heart stops, but she says nothing. Her eyes grow cold and distant.

She looks away from me and out the window.

“Get some rest and I’ll come check on you in a couple hours.”

She turns around and shuts the door. I sigh in relief and snuggle deep into the covers again and hope I’m not woken again for quite awhile. After what feels like seconds my mom slams the door open.

What the hell?

I’m startled awake by her sharp nails on my arm.

“Mom? What’s going on? What are you...”

“You think I can’t tell? You are nothing but a
slut
. A whore.”

She hovers over me and I smell of scotch on her lips that wasn’t there before. I realize then she planned this whole thing. She just needed some liquid courage to find her rage.

“Notice what?” I glare and try to wriggle free from her grasp, but it’s no use. She’s got me locked down and her nails are digging into my skin. I wince, trying to ignore the pain.

“You. Trying to steal my man. Your
father.
You’re such a sick little whore. Can’t you find anyone else? Huh? Can’t you find another man to try and steal? You gotta steal my man? What’s a matter with you? Don’t you know he doesn’t want you? Don’t you know he doesn’t care?” Her lips curl in disgust and she brings the cigarette up to her face to take a drag. She pulls it from her mouth, closing her eyes as she breathes deep. I feel a sharp pain—she’s burning my skin with her cigarette.

“Fuck, mom! Mom. Stop.
Please.
Listen - I’m not trying to steal dad. It’s not me! It’s not...”

Tears are rolling down my cheeks and I wrestle to get away from her and the burning punishment.

I know she’s not listening. I know that with dad's shirt and the sheet on the floor, she will hear nothing and suspect everything. I finally manage to push her away and she straightens to her full height, fixing her robe and patting her hair.

“He’s right you know. You’re worthless. I wish I would have listened to him from the very beginning. You shoulda never been born. I shoulda aborted you when I had the chance. At least I wouldn’t have had to worry about you stealing him with those chicken legs of yours.”

She spits and I flinch, the wetness falling on my face.

“Oh and these fancy clothes?” She points to the bags from last night on the floor and begins rummaging through them, throwing them everywhere in her anger. "They won’t find you another family.

We’re all you got - you hear that? We don’t need no help from
no one.”
She snarls, inches away from my face, her screaming now just a whisper. “You're stuck with us.”

She turns to walk out the door and leaves me there, wondering whether or not she would ever believe me about what really happens in the shed. And if she did, would she have the courage to walk out the door? Given her reaction to dad's ultimatum about Tyler, I doubted it. She’d fallen for dad's schemes before—hook, line, and sinker. Nothing I said would make her understand. Nothing I told her would make her believe that I was the victim, not her. I thought about the irony for a second, about how
stuck
I felt.

And then, the girls. How many were there? How long had this been going on? Were the police involved in all the dirty layers of Sam Tiller’s business? Did anyone even care?

I lie there for what feels like hours, trying to fall back asleep, my thoughts careening around my head like a pinball lost in motion.

Chapter Twelve

Before I’m able to escape to complete unconsciousness, I hear a knock on my window, soft and light. I pull back the covers and throw on some clothes.

Shit! I was supposed to meet him at the bleachers this morning. Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s going to
know. He’s going to ask questions.

I glance out the window, preparing myself for the questions.

At least someone notices when I’m not around...

Kevin waits for me on the other side of the glass, a worried expression on his face. I catch his eye and smile slightly, motioning that I’m coming outside.

I walk out the front door and he exhales deeply and walks toward me, wrapping me in his arms. I stiffen slightly when his hands brush against a bruise.

“What happened?! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you...”

I pull away from him. My phone. Last time I checked it was in the pocket of my jeans...which Casanova stole last night. I rub my face and squint in the sunlight.

“I lost it yesterday while Emma and I were shopping.” I lie, and he buys it. For now.

His eyes slowly start to register my hair. “Your hair...you cut it.”

I absentmindedly rustle the layers and look at him. “You like it?”

He moves closer and places his hand gently at the back of my neck.

“I love it. It’s perfect.”

He leans forward to kiss me, and for the first time notices my timidity. I have to fight from turning my face and just letting him kiss me on the cheek. Looking at me, he furrows his brows.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

I change the subject. “Kevin, aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

I can’t stop the bitterness from filling my voice.

He returns the question.

“Aren’t you? You didn’t show and I got worried. I needed to come check on you.”

I fidget my hands, moving awkwardly. I can’t manage to appear calm or collected. I fight the tears but Kevin’s scrutiny is too much. A single tear escapes and that’s all it takes. The fear and anxiety and terror from last night comes rushing back and I collapse against him, heaving sobs and pressing into him for strength. He has no idea what’s going on, no idea what’s caused this, and so he waits. It takes thirty minutes for me to calm down long enough to talk to him.

When I’m able to speak, my voice is low.

“Can we go for a walk? I don’t know when my dad’s getting home and...”