Page 106 of Hidden Empire

Suffocation, knives held to my throat, no food for a week, even pouring water down my throat until I almost drowned. Anything he could do to me without leaving evidence behind, he tried it.

“And this went on for years?” The dark sound of Apollo’s voice pulls me out of my memories, and I give him a trembling nod.

“That’s why I got the chain for my door,” I confess. “It kept him out when he was too drunk to break in, so thankfully, the frequency of the games wasn’t too bad because of it sometimes.”

“But he found ways around it?”

“He stopped just doing it while I was in bed,” I mutter, shrugging. “Coming up behind me with a knife to my kidney while I was getting a glass of water. Implying he put rat poison in my dinner so I couldn’t eat it. Jumping on me and tying a plastic bag around my head while I was walking around the house. He got creative.”

Sometimes the anticipation was worse than the assault. Like walking around on eggshells constantly with no hope of reprieve.

“It was all horrible, and I genuinely did think he’d kill me one day. Accidentally or on purpose, I expect him to. He took advantage of my size and used his weight against me. I was never sure that I’d be able to fight back.”

“But that changed recently?” Apollo guesses.

“He changed the game,” I whisper, a stray tear leaking out of the corner of my eye. “He didn’t want to just taunt me, he wanted to actually hunt me.”

I take a few breaths and hug my legs tighter to myself.

“One night, he pulled me out of bed. He’d come in through my window just to pull me back through it. Before then, I could feel him actively holding back wherever he would touch me—avoiding making too many bruises, so I couldn’t have proof. This time? Every touch hit like a punch.”

The way his fingers dug into the flesh of my arms and legs, I knew something was different. Like the stakes had been risen, and no one prepared me for how high they could go.

“Bruce tossed me out of the window, and I hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. While I tried to scramble to my feet, he jumped down after me. He wasn’t stumbling around, but he still stank like vodka, and I knew he’d been drinking, but less than normal. He wanted to have his head for whatever he was planning, that much was obvious.”

My stomach churns, discomfort becoming unavoidable.

“I’d fallen asleep in my clothes the night before,” I tell him. “I was actually trying to stay awake because it was safer, and I’d gotten into the habit of ditching class to sleep in the auditorium at school. Which is most of the reason that my grades are abysmal.”

That and the lack of care. How was I supposed to give a fuck about studying for calculus or world history when I didn’t know if I would be alive to take the test?

“My legs were pretty well covered by my jeans but my t-shirt wasn’t enough to keep me from shivering and having bare feet didn’t help. When I stood up, it was like they were already frozen to the muddy grass beneath them.”

Luckily, they weren’t actually stuck in place.

“Bruce told me to run and that when he caught me, he’d kill me. I could only keep breathing for another day if I made it until the sun came up. He said he wanted a good hunt, so he’d give me a two-minute head start. So I ran.”

Tightly, he asks, “Where did you go?”

“The closest neighbor’s house was toward the back, through the forest behind the house, and across this river that separates them. I ran that way, counting to sixty twice before I started screaming. I knew he’d hate it, but I didn’t care. I knew he was going to kill me this time; there were already bruises blossoming on my arms, and he couldn’t let anyone see them. They might believe me if they did.”

Unfolding my legs, I look down and wince.

Slowly, I peel off my cotton socks, exposing the bottoms of my feet. The pale skin is polluted with scar after scar. Little knicks and big slashes, still angry and red but for the most part healed. They’re still sore when I stand for too long, but they haven’t bled since the hospital sealed them all up.

“The rocks, twigs, and branches scattered all around the woods really tore me up,” I say, leaning back so that he can see the injuries. “I could smell that I was bleeding, and every step hurt worse than the last, but I just kept running and screaming as loud as I could.”

Apollo’s jaw ticks, the action being the only crack in his calm, cool, and collected facade. I want to ask him to hold my hand or something, but I can’t figure out how.

“I was so scared, but more than that, I was furious,” I admit. “My feet hurt so bad, and my lungs felt like they were actually on fire in my chest. So, I fought back. For real this time.”

“Where did you find a knife?” Apollo asks.

“A knife?” I question, eyebrows dipping in.

“You stabbed him. Seventeen times according to Officer Brian.”

“Oh,” I murmur, shaking my head. “I didn’t use a knife.”

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