We're at a party, and I'm talking to one of my friends when she comes up behind me and yanks my arm, pulling me away from my friend. "We're leaving," she snaps.

"But – but I want to stay," I whisper, because I'm young and naïve and haven't learned yet.

"Oh, you want to stay?" she mocks me. "You want to be a slut?" And she yanks on a clump of my hair, dragging me after her.

I whimper, trying to extricate myself from her grasp, squirming away from her hand. "Please let go, ma'am. You're hurting me!"

She tightens her grasp and walks faster, and I can hardly keep up. She's shorter than me, but she's stronger, and I have to take two strides for each of hers.

My scalp feels like it's on fire, but I know better than to try to push away her fingers. "Please, ma'am," I beg, ashamed that I've been reduced to this, but there isn't anything left for me to do. "Please, I'm sorry. I'll be good. Just please, let go."

She does, and it sends me reeling. I fall backward and hit the ground, and because I'm young and naïve and haven't learned yet, I burst into tears. My shirt is torn, my elbow is bleeding, and my head feels like someone is hitting it with a hammer. I feel like I must have twisted my ankle, because it throbs when I try to get up, and eventually I abandon the effort and sit back down on the ground with tears in my eyes.

I expect her to help me to my feet and wrap an arm around me, gently soothing the pain, but she doesn't. She narrows her eyes and tugs on a clump of my hair once more, yanking me to my feet. My ankle hurts so much that I can barely stay upright, and I fall again.

"Get up," she snaps, not loosening her grasp on my hair. "Stop snivelling. God, you're such a baby."

I duck my head in shame, because I know she's right, but my ankle feels like someone is hacking it off with an axe.

When I finally get home, I climb into bed and try to sleep. My ankle is purple and swollen, and in the morning when I hobble into the kitchen for breakfast, my mother examines my ankle. "It's broken," she says sharply, moving my ankle to test for mobility. "Alexandra, what did you do?"

I shrug helplessly. What is there for me to say?

She sighs. "I'll call the doctor."

I shake my head. I can't have her calling the doctor. He'll want to examine me, and I can't let him – or my mother, for that matter – see the bruises that trail up my legs and snake between my thighs.

"Alexandra, this isn't up for discussion. You need to have your ankle looked at. I can call Dr. Abrams, or I can have Ellen take you to the emergency room."

I chew on my lower lip. "I'm going out."

"No, you're not."

I glance at the clock. I'm supposed to meet her at the local coffee shop in ten minutes, and it's an eight minute walk. My anxiety level skyrockets; she doesn't like me to be late.

"You're not going anywhere except the ER," my mother says firmly.

Tears rush to my eyes. I don't want her to hit me again, and I know she will if I don't show up. But I don't know how to explain this to my mother.

She sighs. "Go back to your room, Alexandra. I'm going to call Dr. Abrams and he's going to come take a look at your ankle."

"I have somewhere I need to be."

"What could possibly be more important than your health, Alexandra? Really."

"I'm meeting a friend."

"Well, you can call her and tell her you'll be late."

If only it were that simple. "I can't."

"Well, you're going to have to. Now go upstairs."

"Bitch," I mutter deliberately, and she smacks me.

"Don't you dare talk to me that way, Alexandra."

I cross my arms. "Or else?"

Her face contorts. She leaves the room to get something, presumably an implement with which to punish me, a hairbrush or even a belt, and I bolt.

I hobble all the way to the coffee shop, where I'm punished again for being late, and then I have to beg her to let me spend the night with her, even though my body is screaming in pain, because I don't want to go home and be beaten for the third time that day by my mother.

"Alex?"

I start awake, and it takes me a moment before I realize where I am. Oh. I'm with Olivia, in her bed, and it was just a dream – brought on by all that thinking about my mother, I guess. I'm okay. Olivia's here. I'm safe.

I don't realize I'm trembling until Olivia starts to gently rub my arms to warm them up. "It's okay," she says, and kisses the crown of my head. "I'm here. I've got you."

I try to calm myself down, but I can't stop shivering, and there are tears in my eyes. I don't even know how they got there.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. I can't.

She kisses my hair. "Okay. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but if you ever want to talk, I'm here."

I lean against her and try not to cry. "We were at a party. I was talking to another girl and she thought I was flirting with her. She called me a slut and I – I argued with her. She was pulling on my hair, and then when she let go, I fell, and I twisted my ankle. And then the next morning, my mom punished me, and then she did again when I went to meet her at the coffee shop – because I was late."

Olivia cradles my head in her hands. "You didn't deserve that, Alex. No one should ever hurt you like that. Ever." She kisses my forehead. "I will never do that to you."

"I know," I murmur, and wrap my arms around her. "I love you."

She smiles and kisses my hair again. "I love you, too, princess. More than anything."

I rest my head in her lap and close my eyes. "What time is it?"

She starts to thread her fingers through my hair. "4:27. Do you think you'll be able to get back to sleep?"

"I'll try," I say in a small voice.

Olivia keeps stroking my hair. "Your hair is so soft," she says, smiling at me again. "It's beautiful. Just like the rest of you."

I smile back and snuggle closer to her. "If you'll hold me, I know I'll be able to sleep."

"Of course." She takes me into her arms and holds me close, gently rubbing my back, the soothing rhythm lulling me back to sleep.

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