Bang(39)

“I’m so f*cking sorry,” he says with his eyes welled with tears.

My hand is clenched around his and I don’t let go for a long time. Eventually, Pike kisses my knuckles, and moves to stand.

“I’ll be right back,” he says and then goes into the bathroom. When he returns, he’s holding a wet towel. “I don’t want to hurt you, but your back is covered in dried blood. Just lay still, okay?”

I nod as he gently lays the warm, wet towel on my back. My muscles cinch up, and I whimper as my flesh stings. He presses his hand down on the towel, and I cry out, “Oww.”

“I’m sorry.”

“W-what does it look like?” I ask, but also scared to know.

“You have a couple nasty gashes and a lot of welts.”

“It hurts.”

He sighs and holds my hand as he carefully starts cleaning the blood off my back.

“One day, I promise you, that f*cker is gonna pay for this,” he grits out and all I can do is nod my head as I start thinking about what it would feel like to kill him.

How sick am I? A twelve-year-old girl fantasizing about killing someone.

What’s happening to me?





A FEW WEEKS have passed and school has started back up. Carl hasn’t touched me since that day, but it was only three days later when I was back in the basement, forced into giving Pike a blowjob. Afterwards, I was tied up in the closet and left there for another two days.

Pike and I now sit out on the curb in front of the house. Bobbi is inside watching TV and Carl is still at work. Summer is coming to an end and the smell of autumn is in the air. You know that smell, the smell of death. I don’t know why, but I love it. Leaves falling to their grave on the chilled, damp streets, eventually to be covered in ice and snow when winter hits.

I listen to Pike as he rambles on about some girl who’s an upper classman at his school that keeps following him around. It doesn’t surprise me. I’ve always thought Pike was cute, and now that he’s almost sixteen, he’s even cuter, not that I have a crush on him or anything; it’s just a fact. But nobody knows how pathetic the two of us are. Sometimes I get curious as to how someone would react if they knew. I mean, could you imagine that girl asking Pike to tell her something about himself, and his response was, I’m almost sixteen, and, oh yeah, I have sex with my twelve-year-old sister. Yeah, people would definitely think we’re sick.

“Isn’t that your caseworker’s car?” Pike questions, and when I turn to look down the street, sure enough, it’s Lucia’s car.

“What’s she doing here?” I can’t stand my caseworker. She only stops by to check in on me a few times a year, so the fact that she was just here a month ago makes me a little anxious.

She pulls her car along the curb as Pike and I stand.

“What are you two doing out here?” she asks, and Pike tells her in a shit-mocking tone, “Oh, you know, just enjoying the lush scenery of this picture-perfect neighborhood that you thought would provide a nice backdrop for a wholesome upbringing.”

Lucia sends Pike a glare before saying, “You mind giving Elizabeth and I a moment to speak?”

“I’ll be in my room,” he tells me as he heads inside the house, leaving Lucia and me standing on the front lawn.

“Why don’t we have a seat?” she suggests, and we walk over to the front porch steps.

“What are you doing here?”

“I got some news that I needed to come talk to you about.”

“Am I being moved?” I ask, nervous of her response because I can’t live without Pike. The thought alone pricks my eyes with tears.

“No. It’s about your dad,” she says.

Pulling on that one tiny piece of hope in my heart that I’ve been able to hang on to, I ask, “Is he getting out early? Will I be able to see him?”

She shakes her head, and when I see her face drop, she takes that hope right along with it, saying, “I’m sorry. Your father’s dead.”

And that’s the moment when you realize that hopes and dreams are as f*cked up as the fairytales.

I drop my head and watch my tears drop like heavy weights to the dirty concrete below my feet. They spread and seep into the porous ground where I’m sure they’ll find their home in hell. But they won’t be alone for long because my heart feels unbearably heavy too, like it could drop right out of me at any moment.

I wanna scream. I wanna kick and hit something. I wanna stomp my feet like a toddler and throw the most soul-ripping tantrum a girl my age could, yelling at the world and to anyone who’ll listen how I hate all of them. I want to scream so hard that blood comes out. I wanna do it all, but I don’t. It’s a war inside me, but I hide it well. What’s the point of exposing it? It’s not like it’s going to make a difference. No one is coming to rescue me. So instead, I sit on these steps and quietly cry.

I have a million questions swarming, finally asking, “How?”

“It seems there was a fight that broke out with some of the inmates and your father was stabbed. The place went on lockdown and by the time the guards were able to get to him, it was too late.”

“Why? I mean, I-I . . .” I can barely speak as the sobs start breaking through my fa?ade, causing my body to wrack in heaving tremors. “Are you sure it was him? I mean, what if they made a mistake?”