I groaned and flipped onto my side. My eyes felt like they were held together with dirt and duct tape, and my uncoordinated hand slapped at my face, trying to rub them open. My entire body hurt; like I had been lifting stones and running a marathon while ramming my head into a brick wall.
My hands found my eyes. I groaned again as the pressure against my eyes shot straight to my brain. I persisted; fingertips grazing grit until I could open my eyes.
I shifted on the bed, shying away from the light filtering in from dingy window.
As I curled up on my side, I felt an ache and twinge between my legs that made me suddenly sick.
And I remembered.
I heaved and threw up all over the floor of my bedroom. I pushed at the mattress until I could sit up, but the room spun. I gripped the sides of my bed with both hands, trying to steady myself while my head whipped around, looking for the next threat. Panic stole my breath and a desperation I had never ever felt before made me move jerkily.
Clothes.
That's all I needed to leave. I pitched forward out of the bed, just narrowly missing where I had thrown up, and crawled toward a pile of clothes on the floor.
Underwear.
Sweater.
Leggings.
Each step, crawl, kneel, movement reminded me of what happened.
I needed to get out.
I stuck one foot in my underwear, and then the other, shimmying them up my legs as I sat on the floor. As I pulled them up my thighs I saw the dried blood staining them.
I gave a choked cry, but my brain shut it down.
Leave. Leave. Leave. Put it aside for now. Don't think about it. Just leave.
I got my underwear on, and started with the jeans. I noticed bruises all along my thighs, on my calves, even on my feet.
A flash of memory, pushing away and being held down.
Put it aside for now. Don't think about it. Just leave.
My sweater was next, and I couldn't miss the bruises of fingers and thumbs on my wrist.
I heard footsteps and looked around for a weapon. There wasn't much, but I grabbed the lamp next to my bed. It would have to do. I stood up, bracing my back against the wall while my arms and legs trembled at holding up my weight.
The door opened and my mother stepped through.
I lowered the lamp without thinking, staring at her, her face getting blurry as my eyes filled with tears.
"Mom," I choked, locking my knees as my trembling started again, "why?"
Her face was older in the light. I could see the lines around her mouth from curing her lips around her cigarette, deep furrows on her forehead, and grooves along her nose. Her hair was a yellowy blonde, stained like her fingertips.
"Why?" she asked, looking at me in disgust, "why should you..." she asked, taking a step toward me, her voice deepening with anger, "why should you get everything?"
I leaned a little more against the wall, holding a hand against the windowsill when my entire body wanted to collapse.
"You think you're better than me?" she cried, her voice breaking, "you think you get to go to some fancy school and leave me here? You think you get to wear fancy clothes when I can't even buy cigarettes?"
I shook my head, trying to make sense of her words while holding down the vomit that was threatening again.
"You're not better than me!" she whisper screeched, "you're a fucking slut! You think, because you're fucking a McInnish, that you're like them? You're like me! You're trash! Flaunting yourself in front of the men I bring home, making them want you!"
"No," I choked out, "no..."
"You're just like me," she whispered, "and I'm done with you."
"You're my mother," I said, looking at the dirty carpet before meeting her eyes, "you let him... you helped him..."
"You deserved it," she spat out.
I shook my head, inching toward the door. My backpack sat next to it and I grabbed it, looping it over my wrist even though the weight of it threatened to pull me sideways.
I walked through the door and stopped. Two police officers, the ones who brought me here before, and an unfamiliar woman, stood in the filthy living room.
"Hi Lyric," the woman said stepping forward carefully, "my name is Deb Craft. I work with the Office of Child and Family Services. Your mom called us because she needs our help."
I snorted, shaking my head.
"I can't do this anymore Lyric," my mother said behind me, "you're too much for me to handle."
"Handle?!" I whipped around and lost my balance before catching myself, "I don't need you to handle me!"
"Lyric," Ms. Craft said, soothingly, "You're going to come with me and these officers here. We're going to help you. Take care of you."
I looked at my mother whose eyes were glittering with something... triumph?
"Did you tell them?" I asked, "Did you tell them what he did?"
"Lyric," my mother shook her head, "no more lies."
"We have reports, Lyric," one the officers, what was his name? Standish? said, "One from your mom's ex-boyfriend Tim, about you attacking him, threatening to tell people he raped you. One from a girl at school, Riley, who said you threatened her just this week, and another one from this morning, from your cousin, Garret Sorenson, he said you came onto him and threatened to tell people he raped you. You can't make up stories like that, Lyric."
"You're missing school, Lyric," Ms. Craft added, "all the time now."
My backpack fell to the ground. I couldn't hold myself up anymore and I slid to the ground, "What did you do?" I asked my mother, staring at her in disbelief, "It wasn't enough to let him rape me, you're sending me to the state?"
"I can't handle you," my mother said, raising her chin stubbornly, "you're a liar and you're going to end up pregnant or dead. You're too much for me."
"Lyric," Ms. Craft said kindly, "please don't get yourself in any more trouble. Just come with us."
I saw a booted foot near my knee and a hand reached down to help me up.
I weaved back and forth while Officer Standish held me steady. He looked at my face before asking, "What'd you take Lyric?"
"What?" I asked, as he began to lead me from the house and down the steps.
I looked over at Ms. Craft who watched us with interest, "Your pupils are blown wide open," he said, "you're pale and sweating, and you're shaking. What did you take?"
"I don't know," I answered, "I don't remember taking anything."
"We got a report of her being sick at school," Ms. Craft informed him, "Sorenson drove her home and made the report after."
"We'll check her locker later," Officer Standish said, opening a door to a police cruiser and placing me inside.
"Can I have my bag, please?" I asked, hoping my phone was inside so I could call the boys.
Oh my god. The boys.
They were going to...
The tears I held at bay began in earnest; great, ugly, hiccuping sobs overtook me. I saw Officer Standish eyeball me from the rearview mirror as he pulled away.
"It's going to be okay, Lyric," he said, "we're going to give you the help you need."
I shook my head, wiping my nose on my sleeve and wincing as I came into contact with a bruise.
It's never going to be okay again, I thought.
