Bartered
Chapter Seven
I wake up the next mornin' to the sound of the Mockin' bird in that blasted old tree in the backyard. I hate that damn bird. Always told Pa I's gonna shoot it one day fer wakin' me up so early on the Lord's day, the one day I's blessed to git a spare hour of sleep 'fore church services.
That bird is just a tweetin' an the sun is spillin' into the woodshed from outside; the thin line of hot light fallin' across my face. I raise my head, wincin' from the stingin' on my rear-end an legs. My face feels funny. The tears an the dirt's caked on one cheek, the dried particles flakin' off my skin with each grimace.
Besides the bird, I hear male voices driftin' through the cracked door from outside. One voice is low an gruff, the other loud an insistent. My name is spilled a few times, an from the chorus of bass an treble, I realize the gruff voice belongs to Pa an the insistent one belongs to Eddie.
"I need to speak to her, even if just for one minute."
"She ain't here, boy," my father grunts.
"I've looked all over town. She's not at the pharmacy, the grocery store, nowhere. None of her friends have seen her. I know she's here."
"I'm gonna tell you now just like I told you this mornin'. She. Ain't. Here," Pa emphasizes.
They's a distinct sound of a scuffle: boots slidin' across dirt an grass; grunts an curse words, slammin' doors.
"Go in that house an I'll shoot you dead!"
I tell myself I should stay put an be quiet. The good Lord wants us all to mind our folks, but I can't find it in me to lie on that ground any longer, not when Eddie's life is at stake.
I try to call out, but my throat won't work, 'cept to swallow down dust. Nothin' but a croak comes out, soundin' like an old, toad frog. My legs won't work either. I git up as far as my knees, 'fore the pain takes me down; the sting an burn of the strap remindin' me of who I am, an how I'd gotten here. I fall from my knees to the red earth, then drag myself across the packed ground with my elbows … the one good part of my body that still seems to function.
I make it to the doorway an grasp the wooden handle, my ragged nails diggin' into the dry, cracked wood. Somehow I'm able to stand, although it's difficult.
The sun waftin' in assaults my body, an a newfound odor burns my nose. I ignore the smell of my own urine, my face burnin' hot. I stumble from the woodshed just as Eddie bursts through the front door of my home, pausin' an starin' at me from the porch.
"Eddie," I whimper, my voice findin' life.
Pa stands in the yard, trainin' his sawed-off shotgun on Eddie, but Eddie don't pay him no mind. Them long legs dart passed him across the yard, an he's by my side in a flash. I cringe an tremble when his hands touch me, the soreness runnin' bone-deep.
"I'm taking you with me. You're leaving here whether you like it or not."
I don't like bein' told what to do, but I ain't in no shape to argue. Eddie opens the door to his motorcar an prepares to assist me inside. As the door swangs open, the smell of daisies pours out. I brang my eyes up to meet the direct gaze of one Ms. Hale.
She's just as purdy as can be, with her blonde curls pinned to her head in gentle waves, an gaudy ear bobs dancin' from her ears. Them blue eyes widen as she takes me in, covered in dirt an bruises, smellin' like piss. I ain't believin' Eddie's forcin' me to sit next to this gal, who smells like a field full of wildflowers while I smell like a pig sty.
"You brought your fiancé to meet me," I crack, wincin' at the pain shootin' through my ribs with my bitter laugh.
"Fiancé?" they both ask, their voices drippin' with mutual confusion.
"Bella, this is Rosalie Hale," Eddie murmurs, frownin' when I narrow my eyes on him. "She's engaged to my cousin, Emmett. They just arrived from Knoxville to visit me."
I don't respond, but I feel a might bit guilty assumin' Eddie's been cheatin' on me an all. I feel guilty leavin' with him, too, since the beatin' wound up bein' my own fault. If I'd just took the time to ask him 'bout Ms. Hale I wouldn't be in this predicament. Pa wouldn't have beaten me, an I'd be workin' the fields right now 'stead of climbin' up in some fancy motorcar with a gun trained on me.
"You git on outta that car, Isabella," my Pa spits, cockin' the gun, the barrel trainin' back an forth between me an Eddie.
"No, sir. I ain't gonna do it."
"You really gonna leave Ma, Alice, an Lil 'Un here while you ride off into the sunset with Mr. Cullen?" Pa asks, laughin' a cynical laugh.
'Bout that time Alice bursts through the door an onto the porch. She's got the Lil 'Un in one arm, an a bag brimmin' full of clothes an diapers in the other. She skids to a stop once she spies Pa clutchin' our grandpa's gun.
"Git in that house, Mary Alice."
I holler at her to come to me as Eddie's steadily helpin' me inside the motorcar, but all she does is stare. She stares an backs across the porch, them thin lil bird legs stumblin' a bit, 'fore her pallid face an dark hair disappears inside.
"I can't leave my sister an the Lil 'Un," I whisper.
"You can," Eddie responds, hesitatin' 'fore he slams the door behind me. "And you will."
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