Page 28 of Nine

I exhale and stare down at the box.

“I don’t know where to start. There is so much to say,” I respond. I wipe my eyes again.

Trig remains quiet.

“It all happened because of my parents. They were heroin addicts with no patience and no clue on how to raise a child. They freaking hated me because I was a burden. I was something they had to take care of. I was too much work and all they wanted to do was get high. I wasn’t even allowed to ask simple questions that most kids ask their parents. You know the typical ones, like, what’s for dinner, or can you help me with my homework? They would beat me so bad I couldn’t open my eyes. My entire body would be covered in marks just as it is now. I learned to be independent pretty quickly. I learned not to push their buttons or I’d pay a price.”

I blow out a long breath of air. I don’t even know if I can tell this whole story. I drag on about my parents to avoid talking about my uncle for just a little longer.

“I remember once I had a school project and the teacher said if we all finished it, we could go to a pizza party the next day.” I grinned. “I really wanted to go to this dumb party, so I stayed up pretty much all night to complete it. I woke up the next morning with so much excitement. I was so proud of my accomplishment, but when I walked out to the living room, I found the entire project destroyed in pieces and scattered around the floor. I was furious. My parents were passed out on the floor. All of their drugs and empty liquor bottles were on the table. I screamed at them and pushed their bodies around until they woke. My father opened his eyes, stood up, and said fuck your project. He grabbed me by my throat and started smacking me around. My mother just laid there and laughed while she yelled for him to teach me a lesson.

I was just a little girl, maybe ten years old when that happened. The teachers at my school were already suspicious. I was absent a lot that year, and whenever I returned to class, I had fading bruises. They asked me questions in the past about them, but I would always lie. That day when I went to school, I told them all about the abuse and how long it had been going on. I was extremely hurt. It wasn’t even the physical pain. I was used to that. It was that damn project that tore me up. Child Protective Services came the next day and took me away. I was sent to go live with the closest family member.” I stopped and paced myself. “My uncle, Fred. He was worse than my parents were. He was a goddamn pedophile. He would wait until I went to sleep and then he’d come in my room at night. I’d feel him touching my legs and then my thighs. I would wake up and try to kick him off. He’d grab me by my throat and say that good little girls listened, and that if I kept moving he would drown me in the bathtub and bury me in his backyard next to the last girl who was there.”

Trig’s face-hardened up as I continued to talk. “As he ran his hands up and down my legs, I would lay there in fear, pouring sweat. He would smile, as if it made him happy to see me cower beneath his touch. He did this for weeks, and every time he came in, I could hear the Swan Lake song playing from his speakers in another room. The last night I was there at his house was the worst. He came in to my room and unzipped his pants and pulled his dick out.”

Trig shook his head and looked away. “He told me to stay still as he ran one hand all the way up my leg. He started masturbating as he molested me with his fingers. I cried in pain but he just yelled for me to shut up, so he could come. He forced me to watch him, said he’d cut my eyes out if I didn’t, and then when he was done he told me what a good girl I was. I never cried so hard in my life. He just laughed and said that he would really give me something to cry about the next time he came in, and that I’d like it. I was fucking sick to my stomach. I knew I had to get out. I ran away and went back to my parents. I told them everything, but they were so high they didn’t believe me. They called me a liar and a whore, and said if I didn’t stop making things up that they would call CPS to take me back to him. CPS did come get me a few times due to abuse, and I would stay in foster homes off and on, but I would always end up back at my parents, because the foster families were just as bad. I lived in that demented home of theirs until I was sixteen. Eventually, one day they threw me out and that was that. I had nowhere to go but the streets.”

“Is that where you started prostituting?”

“No. I wasn’t a boulevard teen hooker, if that’s what you’re asking.”

My voice begins to crack. I can feel another freak out coming on. My chest starts to tighten up, and my breathing becomes shallow. I’m about two seconds away from having an anxiety attack. My heart is now banging against my chest.

He looks at me. “Just like you’re trying to understand me, I’m trying to understand you, Nine.”

“Well, now that you know about my molestation, does that give you insight? Do you feel more at ease? Can you sleep better? Because I can’t.”

“I’m sorry he hurt you.” Trig looks at me with sad eyes.

I’m angry. I’ve never told anyone that story, not even Jenny. I look past Trig and spot a bottle of liquor in the corner on a table. That’s exactly what I need to numb out. I stand up and walk over. I pick up the bottle and see Brandy splashed across the label. I’m reminded of that pimp Victor, and the bottle drops from my hands and crashes to the floor. I place both hands over my eyes to cover my face. I hear footsteps in my direction.

“Nine, give me your hand,” Trig says gently.

I let my hands slide down my face as I look up at him. He’s standing in front of me.

“You need some fresh air.”

I slowly extend my shaky hand out to him. He grabs it and guides me over the broken glass. He then pulls me behind him through the living room and out the front door. We’re now standing on the porch. He stops and swings around to look at me.

“Breathe,” he demands.

I am. If I breathe any more air in I’ll pass out.

“Slowly. At the rate you’re going, you’ll hyperventilate. Look at me. I want you to sync your breathing with mine.”

He places my hand in the middle of his chest. I target my eyes in as his lungs slowly fill up with air and then he calmly releases it. I match my oxygen intake and release with his rhythm and now we’re synced up. He positions his hand over my heart. I can feel my entire body starting to ease up. My chest no longer feels like an elephant is sitting on it. I stare at his arms, his chest, his tattoos, his mouth, and then his jaw line.

“Better now?” he asks.

I nod as he grabs my hand and leads me down the front steps and over to a steep brick pathway. I find it hard to walk in these heels with the downgrade, but with Trig pulling me the way he is I have no option but to keep up. I stop and take my heels off. It’s easier to just carry them and walk barefoot. Hopefully nothing down on the ground out here will get my toes. The clean air outside hits my lungs and the sounds of nature invade my ears. My head starts to clear as I look around. The flowers, trees, and water make me forget about everything. His fingers are wrapped around mine and the walk is long, but eventually we make it down to some old well. I walk over and peek inside. It’s completely dried up, and plenty of pennies are stuck to the bottom.

“The first thing my brother would do when we came here every summer was make a wish and throw a penny inside. It was his tradition. He thought this well held magic.”

“Maybe it does,” I say, as I spin around to look at Trig. I brush my feet off and slide into my heels.

Trig grins and walks forward. My heart jumps and I don’t know why. He pulls two pennies out of his pocket and hands them to me. I reach out to grab them and he closes his hand around my fingers. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance up at him. He reopens his hand, which allows me to snatch the pennies from his palm. I ball up my fist and shake the warm coins around. Trig stands there with his arms crossed, looking at me. The way he stares at me with those eyes makes me question my outlook on men. It’s not the same way my clients look at me. He reaches into my soul with each glance and I can’t function when he does it. My focus drops from his eyes to the curve of his full lips. I want to taste them, which is strange. This yearning for a man is a foreign feeling. Maybe it’s because he heals me. Maybe it’s because every time I show an internal cut, he stitches it up before I can feel the damage leaking out from within me. Goddamn it. What is he doing to me? I don’t know what to do or say, so I turn toward the well. I close my eyes, make a wish, and toss a penny inside.

“Do you believe in magic, Nine?” he says from behind me.

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