A/N: Violence warning in place. For those of you who read the earlier version, this is the closet chapter.
Chapter 9
When she got home that night from school, Bella could not help the lag in her step as she approached the front steps. Her daddy's truck was home—she had been hoping it wouldn't be—and she could see his shadow through the curtains in the kitchen window. She wondered what he would do when she got in—she had been an awful, snivelling baby all day in class, and had refused to sit in her seat. She had napped in the cubby room, Miss Hale had read her books, and when Miss Casey had come in to ask her what was wrong, Bella had refused to answer. The teacher had thought she was sick—and Bella supposed that in a way, she was—but all the while she had heard her daddy's voice ringing through her head
Don't tell stories.
Opening the front door was a Herculean task—her arms hurt, her back was sore, and her packsack was heavy on her shoulders. Plus, and perhaps even more importantly, she did not want to open the door—she didn't want to go inside and see her daddy, who would be in his recliner, watching sports. She knew he would not make her dinner—he never did when the games were on—and if she made a noise he didn't like or if she lingered too long in the living room, he'd give her a smack and send her to bed.
When she slipped inside, she closed the door behind her as softly and quietly as a little mouse.
"Get in here."
His voice was loud.
Creeping, though she knew he had found her out already, Bella slipped out of her shoes and dropped her bag by the door. Her lip was in her mouth again—the swelling felt strange on her tongue—but she was careful not to draw blood this time. Her teacher had already asked her too many questions about it, and she could not afford any more…
"Come here," he said, turning away from the television once she reached the doorway. "Sit down on the couch."
Surprised, Bella tip-toed over and perched herself carefully atop a cushion, refusing to meet the dark, cold stare he had fixed on her.
"You want to tell me what happened today?"
Bella's heart sank.
"No," she said, shaking her head. She felt as if she might cry—had Miss Casey called and told him that she'd been bad? Had the principal suspended her, just like he had that nasty boy when he'd started the fist-fight in the schoolyard? She had tried to be a good girl. Really, she had…
"Your teacher called," he said, and Bella felt her heart in her throat. "She's worried about you, and thinks something's wrong."
Bella bit her fingernail.
"Did you say something to her?" he asked, and though his voice was light, Bella was sure he was angry.
"No."
"Did you show her your bruises?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't. Honest…"
"Then why," spat Charlie, "did she call me?"
Bella's face went red.
"I don't know," she lied, knowing very well that she'd behaved badly. "I was just tired, and I sat on the beanbag…"
"Come here."
"I am here."
"Don't you dare sass me," he barked, sitting up a little straighter. "You know what I mean. Get your ass over here, now."
Scrambling up, her face blotchy and eyes bright, she dragged herself over to stand before him. His breath was bad—Bella could tell he had not brushed his teeth—and the longer he snarled the more frightened she became.
"You're going to go up to bed and get some sleep," he said, his teeth gritted. Bella wondered why he had not hit her—she had been expecting him to, after all—but his hands remained clenched on the armrests.
"But…"
"For God's sake!" he snapped. "Do as you're told!"
Her eyes were bright again—she was afraid and sick and sad all at once—and she took a careful step back.
"And don't let me see you."
"What about dinner...?" She knew it was a long shot.
"Never mind," he said, ignoring the rumble of her tummy. She had not eaten lunch, and she was very hungry… "Go upstairs."
She did not need telling twice.
Locked in her bedroom, listening closely for any sign that her daddy might have changed his mind, Bella sat on the floor propped up against the door. She did not understand his strange mood—he had not spoken nicely to her, as he sometimes did when he felt sorry for her, but neither had he smacked her. She did not know why that was—what had she done to make him stop? Was he simply biding his time, waiting for Bella to do all kinds of bad and disobedient things so he could punish her with one big smack—bigger than any of the others? Was it because her back still hurt, or because of the inky blue marks on her arms had not yet faded to purple?
Bella didn't know, but she wished he would have given her a snack before sending her away.
It was just after dark—Bella had watched the grey clouds fade to black outside—and just as she was contemplating sneaking down to the kitchen for a snack, that she heard the sudden and familiar jangle of the telephone.
No one ever called, and Bella was intrigued. The chink of light slipping under the bottom of her door gave her an idea, and knowing she wasn't supposed to be a sneaky, sleuthy girl who spied on her daddy's private business, she carefully laid herself down on the floor.
Ear pressed to the gap, she listened.
"Yeah?" Her daddy had picked up. "Yeah, this is Charles…"
"Oh, yeah, I remember… No. No, she didn't…"
Bella held her breath. She could hear her daddy moving around the kitchen—he was obviously not on the cordless phone—and when his voice went low, shivers tore through her.
"No, I had no idea. Most definitely. I'll talk to her… find out what's going on."
"Yes.
"No."
"Thank you…"
Silence.
"You little…" This threat, implicit and sudden, made Bella snap to attention, scrambling away from the door just in time to hear the thundering footsteps on the stairs. Frightened, her eyes wide, she crouched against the far wall, clamping her hands over her ears just in time to see her door fly open, the great silhouette of her father shadowed against the hall light.
"Get up," he snapped. "Get up!"
Bella scrambled to her feet.
"What have I told you?!" He reached down and held her by the shoulders. "Do you know who that was?"
"No…"
"It was that fucking Fergus, from your school. What have I told you about telling stories?"
"I didn't tell a story!" cried Bella, shaking her head. "Really, I promise… I didn't."
"Oh, that's rich…" He was laughing, though Bella knew he wasn't happy. "Do you know what they're going to do now?"
Bella stared, wondering when he'd hit. His grip was tight, though not painfully so, but he shook her roughly on almost every second word.
"You're hurting…"
"I'm hurting?" he barked. "I'm hurting?! Just you wait, little girl… when those workers come in and take you away, they'll give you to a family who hurts."
Bella's mouth went dry.
"I don't…" She was confused. "I didn't…"
"You've done it now," said Charlie. His face was very close to hers. "I've warned you a hundred times, you stupid little brat, but you never listen."
"I…"
"Good girls don't interrupt." He shook her hard. "You're lucky that bitch is coming here or I'd knock your goddamn teeth out."
The threat made her flinch, and she held her breath when his hands shifted down. His fingers, purposely clamping over the bruises on her arms, squeezed.
"Don't!" she squealed, trying to wiggle away. "Hurts!"
"Fuck you," he hissed, the words like venom in her ears. "I should've gotten rid of you when I had the chance…"
She began to cry then, and he threw her back.
"You disgust me," he spat. "Pick yourself off up the floor and get yourself together. If you're crying when that woman shows up, you're going to be in for it."
The hurt of his words had not yet died away, but the mystery made her hesitate.
"What woman?"
"The woman who's going to take you away," he said. "She's coming to take you, just like I said she would because you tell nasty stories about me at your school."
Bella shook her head, fear clouding her vision. She had not told stories. She had kept her mouth shut. She had told no one about the hitting, or the grabbing, or the shoving, and the yelling…
"I don't want to go to jail!" she cried. "I was good! I didn't do a bad thing…"
"Too late for that, little girl," he menaced. "Just hope that this lady doesn't take you right away. You'd do well to be on your best behaviour, or she'll take you away tonight and you'll go right to prison."
Bella, unable to help herself, broke down in tears once again, her confused little brain flooded with images and ideas. She saw bars and jumpsuits—maybe striped, like she saw on television. She saw a mean old guard, making sure she couldn't sneak away, and all kinds of other bad kids who had broken the law. Some of them would be mean to her—she was almost sure of it—and some might even hit her worse than her daddy did. Hitting, she knew, was bad, but her daddy hit and had never gone to jail—how hard did you have to hit to get put in there?
"Come downstairs!" bellowed Charlie. She hadn't even noticed him leaving. "They'll be here in a few minutes!"
Drying her face on her sleeve, Bella plodded carefully to the door, her mind racing. How could she undo this terrible mistake she had made? What would she say when this lady—Bella was not sure exactly who she was—came by and tried to snatch her? Would she run away? Would the lady leave her be?
"Get over here!" Charlie shouted. "Jesus Christ, girl…"
Bella rushed to the living room and saw her daddy with a garbage bag, tossing all his beer cans into it as he straightened up. She noticed the curtains had been closed—she could not see the driveway outside—but she could see her reflection in the black television screen.
Her hair was a mess—all tangled and frizzy—and her eyes were red and puffy.
"When she asks you why you're crying, say you're sick," said Charlie quietly, kneeling down behind her. To her surprise, he grabbed up the hair from the nape of her neck and tied it back in a messy ponytail—it felt like it would fall out, but before she could fix it he had lifted her onto the sofa.
Lying down with an old quilt covering her, Bella watched in utter confusion as he turned on the television, putting on Nickelodeon instead of the ballgame.
"What…?"
"Shut up," he hissed. "Watch the cartoons. And remember—you're sick."
"Okay."
"Good. Don't say anything about your arms, either."
"Am I going to jail?" she asked, her voice small. "I didn't mean to be bad…"
"Not if you play this right," he said. "Be a good girl for once and do as you're told, and everything will be fine."
"She won't take me?"
"Not if she thinks you're just sick," he said. "Now shut up and watch the show. I'm trying to think."
Bella, though she had many more questions, closed her mouth and bit her tongue. SpongeBob was on—she was almost never allowed to watch it—and she sure wasn't about to give up the chance.
The show had almost ended when she heard the knock on the door—a loud, firm sound that made her jump. Her father cursed—he was peeking through a gap he had made in the curtains and Bella could just make out an unfamiliar black car. Her stomach was leaping with butterflies—was this the woman he had threatened her with?—but as he went to open it, she pressed her face into the pillow.
"Remember… you're sick," he murmured, passing her to answer the door. "If she suspects anything…"
"I'll go to jail," she thought. Shivering, she kept her face hidden.
"Can I help you?" asked Charlie, his voice rough as he opened the door. Shaking, Bella waited, listening to the voice on the other side.
"Good evening, Mr. Swan. My name is Shirelle Williams. May I come in?"
"Who are you, exactly?" asked her father. "I have a child in here, and I don't let just anyone inside."
Bella bit the pillow to stop from crying.
"Shirelle Williams," said the woman again. "I'm from the Department of Children and Family Services. I'm here about a call we received about your daughter, Mr. Swan…"
Bella, unable to help it, felt herself lose control of her bladder as her father let the woman inside. Hidden under the blanket, no one could see it, but the wetness made her uncomfortable. This woman would take her away. She would send her to jail. She would have to leave her town, and her daddy would cry, and she would get a great big smack from some mean kid who had done bad things…
"I can't imagine what this is all about," said her father. He sounded serious. "Bell's just on the couch… she wasn't feeling too well. I think she's coming down with something…"
"That's unfortunate," said the stranger. "May I speak with her?"
"I'd really rather you didn't," said Charlie. "She's exhausted. Came home off the bus and barely said a word even to me. I think I made a mistake sending her in this morning… I should've kept her home to rest."
"I'll be brief," said the lady. "I'm only working on preliminary information as it is… we just received the call this afternoon, but it's always best for me to come straight to the source."
"What was said?" asked Charlie. "Bella and I have never had any problems before…"
"There have been accusations of abuse," said the lady. "Someone in the community expressed concern about your daughter's wellbeing."
"The teacher," sighed Charlie, shaking his head. "She's always disapproved of me. She thinks it's strange that I'm a single father raising a daughter… she said as much when I went for report card interviews last year."
"I can't tell you who made the call," said the lady. "That would be a breach of confidentiality."
"You don't have to," said Charlie. Bella felt the lady sit down at her feet. Her father's hand rested on her hair. "I know well enough who it was."
"Who it was isn't important," said the lady. "What is important is whoever it was is concerned with the wellbeing of your daughter. I'm sure you can appreciate that."
"Of course," said Charlie. He was patting her head now. "Of course I want my baby safe. But as you can see, she's fine…"
"Isabella?" The lady made Bella shiver. "My name is Shirelle. Can I speak with you for a little while?"
Her father's hand, still running gently through her hair, tightened slightly, and she lifted her head from the pillow. The wetness under her was still seeping into the couch—she was still so afraid—but she met the lady's eye with a wary, anxious gaze.
"Hello sweetheart," she said. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"
Bella shrugged.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asked. "Your daddy says you're sick."
"Yeah." Her voice was rough from crying.
"Were you sick at school?"
She shrugged.
"Dunno."
Charlie grimaced.
"She had a cold last week," he said, and Bella's face flushed at the lie. "I thought she was over it, but I guess not…"
"With all due respect, Mr. Swan, I need to hear from Isabella."
"Just don't feel good," she grumbled. "I was watching SpongeBob."
"Do you often watch SpongeBob?" asked the lady. Her teeth were very white. "I do."
"Sometimes."
The lady was holding a clipboard—something Bella had not noticed before—and she made a careful note.
"Someone mentioned to me that you had a little tumble," said the lady. "They thought your back might be sore."
Bella, glancing worriedly at her father, shook her head.
"No."
"You're not hurt?"
"No." She could feel the bruise throbbing as she spoke.
"Can you look at me, honey?"
Bella peeked up.
"I'm going to ask you a very important question, and I need you to tell me the truth."
"Okay."
"I'm going to ask your daddy to step into the kitchen—maybe he can make you some hot chocolate for later…"
"I'd rather not," interrupted Charlie. "She's my daughter, after all. And I really don't know you..."
"If you don't cooperate, Mr. Swan, I'll be back tomorrow with the Sheriff and we'll have a full-on interview at the police station."
Charlie froze.
"No need for that," he said quickly. "Bella, you be a good girl. Listen to Miss Williams and do as she says."
Bella stared. Her mouth was dry though her eyes were damp, and when he stepped carefully into the kitchen, she knew he would be listening.
"Now honey," began the lady, "has anyone ever touched you?"
"Yeah," Bella frowned. That seemed like a strange question…
"Has anyone ever hurt you?"
Bella shrugged.
"Sometimes."
The lady made another note.
"Does your daddy ever hurt you?"
The question, put so bluntly and suddenly, made Bella freeze, and she stared, wide-eyed, at this new lady.
"…no."
"No?"
She shook her head. She could see her daddy's face peeking around the corner, though she knew the lady couldn't—daddy was behind her.
He gave her a thumbs up.
"Okay, sweetheart," said the lady. "Thank you for answering. I'll leave you be for the rest of the night, but I'll see you again shortly. This is for you."
She handed Bella a small piece of cardboard—she could only make out some of the words written on it.
"That's my business card," she said gently. "See that number there?"
Bella nodded.
"If you ever need anything, or if you ever feel unsafe, you call that number and ask for me. Do you remember my name?"
"Miss Williams," she said, remembering the name her daddy had used.
"Good girl," smiled the lady. "Thank you for speaking with me. I'm glad you were so honest."
The guilt, sudden and cold, sank deep into her belly, and her face went red as the lady retreated.
She did not like lying—that was what bad girls did.
"I'll be in touch, Mr. Swan," said the lady. "Thank you for letting me in."
"Yeah," said Charlie. "Thanks for checking on her. But you can see she's fine…"
"We take these calls very seriously, Mr. Swan," said Miss Williams. "We'll be in touch."
"But she's fine…"
"And we're going to see that she continues to be," smiled the lady. "Have a good night. Don't forget to call if you need anything, Isabella."
Bella could only stare.
"And feel better."
When the lady left, Bella tucked the blanket more firmly under her chin.
"You see what your idiocy costs me?" asked Charlie. Bella had to strain to hear him—his voice was only a dull rumble over the buzzing of the black car's engine outside. "Do you see what your stupidity has done?"
"I'm not stupid," protested Bella. She hated when he said this—it made her feel silly.
"You are stupid," he growled. "You're stupid, and useless, and a waste of goddamn space."
She curled up tighter under her quilt.
"Do you understand that I don't like having to do this?" he asked finally, breaking a long silence. "You know that I don't want to hit you?"
Bella frowned. When he turned to look at her his face was curiously blank—Bella felt her anxiety rising as she struggled to read him. Was he angry at her? Annoyed? Sad?
"But you make me do it," he laughed softly, shaking his head. "No matter what I do with you, you never learn. So I have to hit you. You understand that, don't you?"
Not knowing what to say, Bella nodded.
"I just want you to be a good girl," he said. "All any daddy wants is a good girl…"
"But you said you're not my daddy…"
"Stop interrupting!"
She flinched.
"See what I mean?" he asked. When he reached the sofa, he hauled her upright. "You never listen. Why can't you just listen?"
"I do…" She clenched her eyes shut. Any minute now, he would be in her face...
He jerked her off the couch.
"You don't…" She had expected him to shout some more, and she cracked her eyes open when he trailed off.
Silence.
"What the hell…"
Bella was exhausted. Her brain, usually so attuned to his moods and temper, was so slow on the uptake that it took her almost thirty full seconds to realize what he was staring at. When he had yanked her off the couch, the old quilt had fallen to the floor. Bella's head had left her pillow behind, and though her pants felt wet and cold, she did not realize that he had seen the dark stain on the centre cushion until his hand shot out and he slapped her, hard, on her backside.
"You little pig!" he barked, his hand stinging her still-tender flesh. "You disgusting little pig!"
"Ouch!" she cried, scrambling to wrap her hands around her bum. "Stop it!"
"You pissed on my couch!" he roared. "Why the fuck," his spittle hit her face, "would you piss on my couch!?"
"I'm sorry!" she cried, flushed with mortification and fear. "I didn't mean to!"
"You're done," he growled. His hand on her wrist was tight. "You're so goddamn done. Get in that closet. I've had it up to here," his hand swiped out a good foot above her head, "with you."
"No, daddy!" she wailed, the meaning of his words suddenly sharp and clear. All exhaustion had fled from her—how could she be tired with the looming threat of such terror flooding through her? She was so afraid of the dark, and the small space made her so anxious…
"Shut your mouth!" he bellowed. "This will teach you to piss on my things…"
"No!" She so rarely shouted at him. "No! Please!"
"Shut up."
"No!"
"You're done! You've pushed my buttons too many times today..."
"I'll be a good girl!" she wailed. His hand was on the closet knob. "I won't be bad!"
"Shut up!"
"Please!"
The door was open.
"No!" Her voice had risen to a shriek. In a sudden burst of speed, her free hand swiped out and the dirty nails on ends of her little fingers sunk into the flesh of his arm, scratching with all her strength. He grunted as she clawed hard enough to draw blood, her feet scrabbling desperately on the hard floor outside.
The dark of the closet felt like the maw of a great, rabid beast. If he got her in there—if he shut the door on her—it would surely devour her alive, and she would never come out again…
"No!"
"You little bitch…" The struggle, which her father had been trying so hard to avoid that night, came to a head when his temper snapped and he lashed out at her again, his hand colliding with the side of her head.
Once.
Twice.
"No!" she cried, unfazed. "Please, don't make me…"
"Get in there, you little beast!" he shouted. "That'll teach you you to claw me..."
Her heart was racing. Her hands were clammy, and her face had lost all its colour and redness. She kicked him, she struck him, she even sunk her little teeth into the hairy, fleshy forearm pushing against her chest, but no matter how she hurt him he would not relent. He hit her, and pushed her, and she was sure her bruises would be black come morning, and because he was so big, and she was so little, she could not stop him from shoving her, hard, into the furthest, darkest corner.
"No!" Her voice was hoarse. "No!"
"That's what you get," he said, reaching for the door. It only took a few seconds for him to get it closed—but to her, it felt like an age. She tried to scrabble back out—she could not stay here in the dark—but he was too quick.
"Get back!" he shouted, grabbing the little wrist blocking the door. "Move!"
"No," she pleaded, taking his fingers in her hand. "No, daddy, please…"
"Shut up!" he bellowed. "And move your arm, or I'll break it."
She did not believe him.
"Please," she gasped. Her face was sticky with tears. She could taste salt. She could see his eyes, so hard and cold, as they lingered on her face, before he put his weight behind the door and…
CRACK!
Bella did not make sense of the sound until she felt herself falling backwards, hitting the floor of the closet with a resounding thud. The door closed when she fell, though she did not notice it immediately as her vision had gone suddenly white. Gasping for air, she felt the sharp, shooting pain fly from her wrist all the way to her shoulder as the bolt lock slid into place outside the door, and her entire body began to shake. It was a long, deadly quiet moment before she was able to take in air, and the wail she let out was so loud that it hurt her own ears.
She had never felt such pain before in her life.
"Shut up!" shouted her father, his voice filtering in as she bawled. "I warned you!"
The room was suddenly dark. Even the feeble light seeping in under the door was blotted out. Her entire body hurt, and her arm was on fire…
She screamed until she lost her voice.
A/N: Let me know what you think! I'm sorry Charlie is such an asshole.
