Page 41 of Moth to a Flame

“How old are you?” For some inexplicable reason, this matters to him. His brown eyes are squinted and evil, and heputs his face an inch from mine. “Whisper it to me. Scream, and you’re dead.”

Whisper? It’s a wonder I’m not throwing up. The late-night snack I had with my best friend, Tillie, is about to expel itself from my stomach. My heart races, remembering all the horrible things Dad’s ever written about.

When my attacker licks his lips, my fear grows tenfold. No, not true. It detonates inside me like a C-4 explosive, destroying my insides.

There’s nothing left but fear. I’m terrified. I’m frozen.

I’m going to die out here.

“How. Old.” The question is asked while I’m being dragged behind the bushes. To the trees where no one would see me.

“My name is Regan Everglow.” My last resort. Make him remember I’m a real person.

They do that in horror books and action movies. Very rarely, it helps. Like if the villain has a relative with my name. Or if he realizes I’m a person, not prey.

I’m a person. I’m a person. I’m a person.

“Didn’t ask for your name.” The tall, terribly horrifying man doesn’t care. My feet drag across the grass as he pulls me further inside the wooded area. “Age.”

“Please, stop.”

He shoves me to the ground, and he smells all wrong. Rotten apples. Too sweet. Too overwhelming.

“Age.”

It’s too late when I notice the baton he has in his holster. When he pins his groin to me and spits on my mouth.

He has a baton and a knife. He has my arms pinned over my head.

He’s going to kill me.

He’s going to take what isn’t his, and I can’t do anything about it.

Reality finally sinks in.

The snack I had at Tillie’s is acid in my stomach. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes.

My body breaks out in shivers, and it only makes him harder. Makes him spit on me again.

Vaguely, I feel his hold on my wrists loosening.

But I can’t run, can I? He’s only released me so he could punch my ear.

Everything fades to black.

Stay awake. Stay awake. Fight.

The world is spinning. I’m close to blacking out.

“You really should’ve told me how old you were when I asked.” A hand on my jeans button. On my zipper. “You didn’t, and you’ll pay for it. Oh, are you going to pay.”

“Help.”

“Help. Help. Help.”

I wake to the sound of my quiet, terrified voice and to a knock on the door. I think I heard a knock. It’s never clear with these dreams, what’s real and what’s not.

It’s even less so after the news Dad delivered to me today.

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