Warning: This chapter contains physical abuse and graphic (but not explicit) rape.


Ten years ago…

"Missy?" Tom's voice washed over me, low and dangerous, demanding an answer as his fingers closed around my wrist, twisting my arm up between us so that he was staring at me around the paper cup.

I swallowed nervously. "I'm sorry I lost track of time," I whispered, staring at the floor. "I had to stay late at school to work on a group project and the walk home was so cold…" I lied desperately. "I had some lunch money left over and I stopped to get…"

He hit me across the face, pain blooming as my teeth snapped together. "Don't lie to me!" he screeched, using the hand around my wrist to slam me back against the wall. "You ran off to have fun and left me alone to take care of your mom! You have responsibilities! Who do you think keeps you fed and clothed? Keeps your mom out of the loony bin and you out of foster homes? And this is how you repay me?"

"Please. I promise. I promise I'm not lying!"

"Bitch," he sneered in my ear, twisting my arm until I felt something tear, felt that sudden lurch of pain as it moved just a little farther than it was supposed to. This close I could smell the alcohol on his breath, could see how far gone he was in his eyes. Like Christmas of 2001, when he'd thrown me into the Christmas tree and then fucked me. Afterwards, I'd spent over an hour twisted painfully in the bathroom picking shards of broken ornaments out of my back.

I whimpered and tried to turn my head away as he continued, "Without me you'd just be a whore. A useless, fucking whore."

"No."

It fell from my teeth before I could stop it, the barest whisper of air that broke past the barricade while my mind was occupied with the burning in my arm. Had he broken something? I didn't think so. It felt different than when he'd broken my finger a year ago. Torn a tendon? Possibly. Maybe it was just a sprain… Please be just a sprain. A sprain I could deal with. A sprain wouldn't prompt questions or raise suspicions. A sprain wouldn't land me in trouble.

It didn't matter. We both froze as that single little word exited my mouth and filled up the air between us.

"No, what?"

"Nothing," I mumbled, shaking my head frantically. "It was nothing. I'm sorry. I'm just tired. I…"

"No. Tell me."

"No. Please. Let me…"

"Tell me or so help me god I will beat it out of you."

I shut my eyes. "You'll beat me anyway," I whispered.

I felt his fingers trace the line of my cheekbone, tender against my stinging flesh. "No," he crooned softly in my ear, peppering my neck with little kisses. "You know I only hit you when you deserve it. I have to, Missy. I have to keep you in line or else you end up like all those other girls out there – high on drugs all the time with a swollen belly and no idea who the father is. That's not a life. This is a life. What we have together. You, me, your mom. It's my job to keep you safe," he repeated again, running his free hand down the column of my throat until his fingers disappeared between my cleavage. "I have to take care of you, baby." The hot chocolate twitched uncomfortably in my stomach, pushing at the back of my throat. "Tell me what you were going to say."

"Please," I begged softly, "it's nothing. I'm just tired. You're so good to me. Why don't we eat dinner and watch some TV? I'm sure it's been a long week. You deserve to relax."

"After you tell me what you were going to say."

I gave my head a little shake. He slapped me.

"Tell me!" My head snapped against the wall. "Tell me!" Blood in my mouth, tangy and bitter. "You don't get to keep secrets!" I cried as he yanked on my arm, squeezing until I could feel the bones in my wrist rubbing together, the circulation to my hand dying beneath his grip. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I could take it. I could. I had before. I'd live. Four and a half more months. Four and a half… "You fucking belong to me, you little bitch! Tell me!" I stumbled as he yanked me away from the wall, nearly going to my knees as he released me. My freedom was short lived. His hands closed around my throat as my knees buckled beneath me: tightening and shaking, rattling my teeth in my jaw as my lungs burned and my fingers scrabbled desperately at his hands.

He was going to kill me. Either way, I was dead. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

So I did. If I was going to die I sure as hell was going to tell him what I thought of him.

"You… made…me…whore," I managed to gasp out between the crush of his hands.

The world went black as he threw me, head slamming into the doorframe before I fell in a crumpled heap to the kitchen floor. I gasped for air, throat burning and lungs screaming as I tried to crawl away. My arm gave way beneath me and I collapsed.

Tom was on me a second later, slamming me to the floor with one hand. His other gripped the back of my jeans and pulled and god damn that hurt. "Bitch. You think I treat you like a whore?" He growled in my ear. "You don't know how good you had it, baby. I'll show you how a man treats a whore."

And he did, wrenching the cheeks of my ass open and spearing me until I could no longer even sob, his assault on my body eased the slick of my own blood dripping out onto the dirty linoleum floor.


7:52.

That's what the clock on the stove said. I lay on the floor and stared at that damn clock like it was the most beautiful thing in the universe.

7:56.

I was still breathing. How was I still breathing?

8:00.

Everything hurt. Could I move? Should I move? Was I allowed to move? Where was Tom?

8:09.

Fuck, but I hurt.

8:21.

The TV was on. I could hear it. Something with a laugh track. Tom's voice, rolling with laughter at whatever was playing.

8:22.

I had to get out of here. Had to. Had to leave. Had to go. Had to…

8:34.

Get up. I needed to get up. Did Tom know I was alive? Or did he think I was dead? I wished I was dead.

That, more than anything made me push myself to my knees. It was slow going. I hurt and my arm still wasn't working. It was a miracle I managed to get up at all but I did it. My head swam and black dots danced before my eyes and I had to clench my teeth together to keep from being sick all over the kitchen floor.

Couldn't do that. Couldn't let Tom hear me.

8:39.

My legs shook underneath me but I was standing. Standing and staring down at pool of blood the size of my hand that had gone tacky against the kitchen floor. There were other red marks: blood from my mouth, smudges and lines from where I had thrashed against the ground.

8:41.

I nearly screamed when I pulled up my pants, biting down on my lip until it bled anew.

8:45.

I should take my bag. It had Ramen and ibuprofen. Fuck, who was I kidding? I wouldn't be able to lift the damn thing. Wouldn't need it either.

8:47.

I twisted the handle on the front door, straining for any sounds of movement from the family room but all I heard was the TV. Family Guy. Tom was watching reruns of Family Guy.

It was cold outside. Cold and dark and damp. I could hear it raining.

I went anyway, closing the door silently behind me before I shuffled and limped into the night.


Author's Notes: Chapter title from "Bleed It Out" by Linkin Park.

Sorry guys, I know this chapter is a bit on the short side and kind of cliff-hanger-y but I've had a family emergency and thus won't be getting another chapter up before the end of the month. I do have a few rough drafts of it so if I've got a moment I'll sift through those, form the final, and toss it up for you but at this point I don't feel comfortable promising anything.

Thank you again for your continued support. Favorites, follows, and reviews always make my day!

I'll see you lovely folks in December ;)