Fallout (16 page)

A MEMORY SLAMS INTO ME

A different room.

A different house.

A different town.

I was young.

I was small.

I was afraid.

He was big.

He was strong.

He was supposed

to keep me safe.

No one saw when

he came to me,

put his hand over

my mouth, and said,

If you tell, I’ll make

you sorry. Understand?

He was all over me.

He was on top of me.

He was inside me.

I never told.

I never screamed.

I never healed.

A different night.

A different place.

A different girl.

I NEVER TOLD

I’d already been

pushed aside by

my mother

and my father.

I’d already lost

my Grandpa Carl

and Grandma Jean.

I’d already been

shuffled through

one foster home,

another, one more.

That was the fourth.

Why didn’t anyone want me?

What was wrong with me?

What if that place

was my last chance?

Was that what it took

for someone to care?

No, I never told.

Another girl did.

MY BODY

Healed quickly. But the wound

to my psyche was deep.

Wide. First aid, too little, too late,

left me hemorrhaging inside,

the blood unstaunched by psychological

bandage or love’s healing magic.

Eventually it scabbed over,

a thick, ugly welt of memory.

I work to conceal it, but no matter

how hard I try, once in a while

something makes me pick at it

until the scarring bleeds.

In my arms, Ashante cries,

innocence ripped apart

by circumstance. Bloodied by

inhuman will. Time will prove

a tourniquet. But she will always

be at risk of infection.

ANGER MUSHROOMS

Inside me, swells to fill every crack, every pore,

every cell until I burn fury. I carry Ashante to

the bed, throw back the blanket, cocoon her with it.

“Stay here.” She starts to protest, but whatever

she sees in my eyes makes her acquiesce. “Don’t

worry,” I soothe. “She won’t ever touch you again.”

Not as long as I have anything to say about it.

My head throbs. My hands shake, sweat.

It’s hard to open the door. When I do, I notice

the silent hallway, remember the hour. Don’t really

care. Light trickles from beneath Erica’s door.

She’s wide awake when I storm through it,

into her room. “What the fuck have you done?”

SHE STARES AT ME

With meth-emptied eyes,

and when she smiles in silent

defiance, she is death, grinning.

I want to shake her. Want to

kick her ass. But what for?

She’s not even here. Still,

I can’t let it go. Girl. Man. Mostly

dead or no, a predator is a predator.

You can’t let it roam unshackled.

“What did you do to Ashante?”

I demand, stomping right up

in front of her and grabbing

her by her hair. I expect her

to jerk away, swing at me, or

something. But she just sits

there like a mannequin.

I didn’t do anything to her
,

but she did plenty for me.

ZERO REMORSE

Zero guilt. Zero emotion.

She really is evil, or at

least what she smoked

this afternoon is. I can’t

take it. I want her to hurt.

I swing a stiff backhand,

slap her face. Hard.

She animates suddenly

and we are on the floor.

She is stronger than I thought.

Her right hand connects.

Fingernails bite into my

cheek, sink through my skin.

All the hate and pain and fear

I’ve ever felt in my life ball

up into one vicious biting,

scratching beast. “Fuck you,

bitch!” I scream. She is Zoe.

She is my mother. She is …

him. Stop. I have to stop. Can’t …

SUDDENLY, I AM JERKED

Into the air,

kicking,

swinging.

Strong bands

of muscle

encircle me,

pin my arms

against my side.

What in the hell

are you doing
,

Summer?

It’s Phil. Of course.

Have you

totally flipped?

“No! It’s not me!”

“It’s her!” I yell,

nodding toward

Erica. “She did it,

not me!” But

even as the words

spit from my mouth,

I know I look like

the crazy one.

I MAKE MYSELF GO LIMP

What happens next

can go a number of ways,

I realize. Darla has pulled

Erica off to one side of the room.

Surely Darla notices the state of her high

or the stench of meth sweat.

Ashante stands in the doorway,

holding my blanket and sucking her thumb.

“Tell them,” I plead. “Tell them what

she did to you.” Her eyes look like

they’ll pop right out of her face.

Suddenly I notice crimson

drip-dripping onto my shirt. I try

to reach up, find the source,

but Phil still has a death grip

on my arms. “Am I bleeding?”

His squeeze relaxes some.

Let me see.
He spins me around,

draws in his breath.
Uh, yeah.

You’d better clean that up.
He lets

go of me.
Come right back, okay?