Page 7 of We Redeemed the Rain

After months of being abused, my brain and heart finally caught up. Panic attacks became a routine part of my life. My body rebelled—collapsing in the bathroom at school, unable to get out of bed, puking for no reason at all.

It pissed Mama off when she had to leave work early to come pick me up from the nurse’s office. And trust me, I didn’t want to get picked up, but I had no coping tools. I was absolutely clueless on how to survive under so much pressure.

I’ll never forget the first time I was locked in a coat closet.

It started with a rare stroke of courage. A Saturday afternoon in mid-April. Sloan was out finishing up a job and Mama had just gotten home from the cafe lunch shift.

I hovered awkwardly in the kitchen as she fixed a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. She huffed a laugh and furrowed her brow. “What do you want, Sam? Why you standin’ there like that?”

Her eyes dropped to my hands, which I realized I was wringing.

I shoved them in my pockets.

“Uh, I wanted to…” I paused to swallow and the words didn’t come back.

She waved her light in a circle, eyes widening in annoyance.Yes?

“I wanted—to talk to you.”

I’d practiced this moment. I had to follow through. Mama and Sloan had obliterated all my expectations for them. I figured they would break up early and the nightmare would end, but no. They were going seven months steady now. I had to do something.

Mama would protect me if she knew the truth. Protect us. She wouldn’t let anything else happen. She was a distracted mother, sure, but deep down, beneath all the layers, she was still a mother. If I told her, she would believe me.

That’s what I convinced myself anyway.

She raised her eyebrows in amusement. “Oh, coming to your ol’ mom for some wisdom, I see. Fire away.” The tendons in her neck tightened as she pulled air through her light. “Wait. Let me guess. Is there a girl?”

“Uhm, no. Nothing?—”

“Did you get in trouble or something?”

I ran a hand through my hair, my nerve spinning down the drain. “No.”

“Alright, well, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me.”

Before I could back down, I murmured the words. “It’s about Sloan.” Nausea followed hot on the heels of his name. Faint dizziness crowded in, and I gripped the counter for support. Sloan could be home any minute, and the loud blowing sound from the window air conditioning unit drowned out any car engine pulling up the drive.

Mom and I were never alone for more than a few minutes at a time.

I had to spit it out.

The amusement vanished from her face. “What about him?”

I could barely form the next words. “He’s not…he’s not very nice to me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

I couldn’t meet her gaze. “He—he, uhm. He hurt me.” The words felt stupidly hollow. So flimsy a description it was laughable. To this day, I look back and cringe at this moment. It’s still painful to remember how small and inhuman I felt using the wordhurt.

“Hurt you?” She tapped out the cigarette in a tray, giving me more undivided attention than she had in weeks. “Like how?”

I lifted my t-shirt and her gaze raked over my ribcage. Her swallow was visible, a beat of worry knitting her brows. “Sloan did that?”

The back door banged open.

I dropped my t-shirt back over my belly.

Sloan stood there in his sweaty shirt and worn jeans. His smile twitched with suspicion before he made it across the threshold. “Hey, you two.”

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