A/N: A thousand thank you's to Sara, for being a wonderful friend, beta, and for always inspiring with her talent.
Warning: This piece is rated M for no good reason. The themes within are dark and disturbing.
Disclaimer: CSI and the nursery rhyme do not belong to me, the words written here do.
Broken bones are a rite of childhood passage.
Like singing,
ring around the rosy,
pocket full of posies;
ashes, ashes
we. all. fall. down.
A rite of passage, we all go through.
Like taking our first step, with everyone watching and cheering us on.
Liking losing our first baby tooth, and hiding it under our pillow in exchange for monetary compensation.
Like making our first friend, real or imaginary; like going to our first day of school.
Every child breaks a bone.
It's part of life. It's the common bonding experience between us when we show each other our scars and embellish the story, making ourselves into heroes of our made-up adventures, battling the forces of darkness and saving the princess from the evil ogre.
--
She's reading The Real Mother Goose (she likes the book best because even though she can't read all the words yet she can still look at the pictures) when she hears him stumble in through the front door.
From her seat on the living room sofa, she smells the cigarette smoke and cheap perfume that seeped into and underneath his skin, telling signs of where he had been.
Her feet are tucked beneath her, her head's down, and her body tenses up faster than light travels as he comes closer and closer.
Her mother's at work, working her second job. Jack's listening to music, most likely with his headphones on, in his bedroom – where she should have been.
Instead of out here, out in the wide space; an easy target in open season.
She smells the undeniable stench of alcohol on his breath, and even if she's too young to understand exactly what she smells, she knows what it means.
Get away.
Fast.
(It's already too late to) make yourself invisible.
She closes her book, setting it to the side, and shifts her body until she's sitting upright, her legs dangling an inch off the ground. Move slowly, she silently wills herself, don't call attention to yourself. She stands tense, knees wobbly, as she reaches for her book to take with her. Head down, walk away.
Just
walk
away.
"Hey, little girl," he says, except it sounds more like:
heylittdelgirll
all slurred together and sloppy, like him.
Just walk away, the voice inside her head screams again.
Don't stop, don't look back.
"Hey!
I'm talking to you!
Don't you dare take another step!"
Her ears are ringing as his voice escalates.
She stops and turns, all while her mind screams No, please don't!
He grins because he knew she would listen to him, he knew she wouldn't dare defy him. Even though she's barely seven, she already knows her place.
She's a good girl.
His good girl.
She walks slowly, her legs feeling as if they're trudging through a foot of snow and not across soft carpet. "Yes?" she says, asks quietly.
"Aren't you going to tell me that you're glad I'm home?"
"I'm glad you're home," she repeats dutifully.
Please, please please let me go.
"Give Daddy a kiss."
No, God, please no.
"Be Daddy's sweet little princess."
He crouches down to her level.
No, her stomach twists, revolts. Bile lodges in her throat.
She sees his face screw up, the beginnings of his alcoholic-induced rage, and she wishes she had just kept going to her room.
Too late.
It's always been too late for her. She never, really, had a chance.
Her legs are unsteady as she takes two steps forward, her heart pounding an erratic, nauseating beat in her chest. She balls her hands up into fists, her fingernails digging painfully sharp into the soft flesh of her palms, and takes the last step bringing her an inch away from him.
She forces herself not to show disgust or fear, especially not fear, because he takes pleasure in having others cower before him. Closing her eyes, she leans closer and places a feather light kiss to his cheek, her baby's breath warming his paper-thin, wrinkled skin that smells of tobacco, alcohol, and cheap whores.
She steps back, once.
He turns his head, his eyes bleary and red, and says, "Now, let Daddy give you a kiss."
She stands frozen to her spot,
run
run
run.
She can't move.
Save yourself.
"Come here."
She's shaking her head No, before she even realizes it, and she sees his eyes narrow in cold-hearted hatred.
He reaches out for her, losing his balance, and as he falls backward he grabs her arm and jerks hard.
She hears the unmistakable sound of a bone snapping and breaking even as adrenaline floods through her tiny body. She runs and runs and runs, until she reaches her bedroom door, slamming it shut and locking it behind her in one quick motion.
The adrenaline rush leaves as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp, shooting pain radiating down her arm like hot razor blades. She's dizzy, spinning and suddenly freezing, and she can taste the salty tears running down her face.
Ring around the rosy,
Her vision blurs, in-out, and she stumbles toward her brightly-colored floral comforter covering her twin-sized bed.
Pocket full of posies;
Broken bones.
It's not supposed to happen like this, never like this.
She can still smell the cigarettes, alcohol, and cheap perfume from her father, following her into the darkness.
Ashes, ashes
She doesn't make it to her bed before the light goes out.
We all fall down, we all fall down.
She falls down,
down
down
down.
Broken bones are a rite of childhood passage.