Page 12 of Out to Find Freedom

I hadn’t thought I’d remember them so clearly after everything.

My mind should have shredded the memory of that night, but it hadn’t. I met that night over and over in my dreams. I pictured them perfectly in my nightmares.

In the hope that one day my drawings would help someone.

If they didn’t kill me first.

What I couldn’t remember was what the girl looked like. I hardly saw her face—just a glimpse of red hair, a side profile of pale skin, a splatter of freckles over her cheek.

That was when my dreams screwed with me, because in them, I was that girl on the couch. Then on other nights, I was Donny being shot in the head.

They happened so often that I tried not to sleep. Even after two years. I’d thought they’d lessen somewhat, but they hadn’t. Maybe it had something to do with still being trapped. Still feeling alone. Forgotten. Or maybe I just couldn’t forget—and, in a way, I didn’t want to.

Naturally, the tragedies would plague me in the wakingandsleeping hours. As they should. Donny deserved to be remembered, as did Mrs Minna, and even the young girl. Yes, I knew they had family to mourn them also, but I’d been there. I’d been through it with them. They died because of me, so it was my sin to remember, to keep living and feeling the event of their deaths, their pain.

Sniffing, I put the notebook aside and got up from the bed to stretch. I walked over to the toilet room. That was where I was soaking the sleeves I’d torn up to use as a pad for when that time of the month kicked me in the guts. I had to be inventive for a lot of things. For the cold nights where I had no socks to wear, I found a pair of long woollen gloves in a box and used those, washing them when the days were warmer and I hadn’t needed them. For blankets, I had a thin one and used the extra clothes I’d found. Some jackets, hoodies, even a long winter coat that looked like it came from the seventies based on the multicolours over it.

I wasn’t sure where or who the clothes belonged to. I couldn’t see Gloria or Lenny ever having worn them. However, it didn’t matter. I needed them. Even if they smelled of mothballs.

After wringing out the sleeves, I took them into the basement and hung them over boxes. It would take a while to air dry them, having to flip them over and over, but they’d get there. They were stained, of course, but using them again and again was better than ruining my only pair of underwear. Underwear that nearly dropped off when I wasn’t wearing pants, jeans, or shorts. I’d lost a lot of weight. Too much. But I couldn’t do anything about it.

My head dropped forwards, chin nearly hitting my chest.

My fucking life was devastating.

What was I honestly waiting for? To turn twenty-five and then be killed once they got my inheritance? Why didn’t they forge my signature? Why didn’t they get me to sign something now and then kill me? Why wait? Unless they liked the torture. Or maybe the lawyer or whoever was in charge of the inheritance needed to see me in person to sign it over?

If that was the case, would that be my chance of escape?

A fire lit inside my chest. Stupid hope played with me once more.

But if they did have to take me out of the house, I might have a chance to do something to get away from them. Then I would race to Harriet’s, to save her before saving myself and calling the police to ruin Gloria.

The new fire spread throughout my body. I felt giddy. A small laugh fell from my lips, so I slapped my hand over my mouth. With wide eyes, I tilted my head to the side and listened. No one approached.

Did I honestly dare to hope I could escape them?

Then again, what was wrong with hoping? It gave me a new strength.

Since I was nineteen, I had six more years to put up with what I was.

Six more years.

Could I do it?

I glanced at the bed, the notepad.

I would try.

God, I wanted to, because it meant I might live. Live and be lucky enough to have found some type of happiness. Maybe even a happiness like I’d seen in the women who visited next door. A life around people who cared.

When I heard a noise from next door, I rushed over to the window, hopped up to stand on the bed, and looked out.

Ryan stood on the back deck with a beer bottle in hand. He’d taken a shower; his hair still glistened from the water. I watched as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink.

Why did I suddenly wish I were that beer bottle?

That was a strange thing to think.

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