Page 2 of Ensnared By Silence
I didn’t have anything.
I didn’t take anything out of that horrible place. I didn’t want any memories of it.
“Did you just offer your daughter in your place at the end of my gun, you pathetic fucking piece of shit?”He roared and smacked my father with the gun, the sickening thud of metal against bone echoed through the trailer. I hurried out from behind the door and slowly slid down the hallway.
I had to get out of here before that man killed me, like I feared, and prayed, he was about to do to my father. My fingers were tacky from whatever I slipped in, and as I snuck back into my room and silently closed the door, I realized what was covering my hand.
Blood. Lots and lots of blood.
Tiffany . . .
I waited for the tears to come, but none appeared. Tiffany moved in last year after Dad’s last girlfriend left and she immediately began hitting me, at his encouragement. He never told me anything about my mother other than she left shortly after I was born, leaving me alone with a man who never wanted to be a parent. I knew nothing about their families, or whether I had siblings somewhere. Every time I asked him, he would backhand me or smack me on the back of the head until my brain rattled.
Eventually, I took the hint and stopped asking.
Grabbing the ratty backpack I used at school for the last three years, I pushed a handful of clean clothes into it. Digging through the covers on my bed, I found my little stuffed bull, Wooley-Bully, and I kissed him before shoving him into the bag. I don’t know where it came from, but it was the only toy I could ever remember having. He was with me through every painful word, fist, and . . .
The yelling continued, and I worked faster and faster, moving silently as I’d learned to do through the years so I wouldn’t upset him. Looking down, I saw my bunny slippers were covered in blood. Kicking them into the corner, I pushed my feet into the too small tennis shoes.
I didn’t know how I was getting out of this place, but I knew if I didn’t, I would be dead before I ever had a chance to live.
I pressed my ear to the door and heard low murmurs and the same hollow thumping periodically as I strained to catch the conversation. Suddenly, the noise stopped, and I held my breath, waiting for him to storm down the hallway and yank me from my safety.
BANG!
I knew a gunshot from living all these years in the Flats and my ears were ringing more than before as the smell of gunpowder drifted down the hallway, mixing with the blood and brewing a cocktail of death.
Heavy boots moved across the living room, and a voice sounded through the house.
“You can come out. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe from me.” After a long pause where I was sure he left, he spoke, his voice almost sad. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, but one day, you’ll be strong enough to put this behind you. Don’t give up, little bird.”
“W-w-who a-a-are y-y-you?” I quietly asked through the door, the fear pressing down as I waited to see if he was going to hurt me.
“I’m a figment of your imagination,” he replied, and I heard his steps moving closer to my room. “I was never here. Understood?”
Whoever he was, he stopped the horror my existence had become, and I would keep him secret for the rest of my life. Living in the Flats meant people died all the time, and no one ever really looked to see who was responsible. The police didn’t care, and it wasn’t like anyone would miss them.
“I promise.” My words whispered through the door as I placed my fingertips against the cheap wood, wishing I could touch my savior or look upon his face so I knew who to thank.
His footsteps retreated, and he said one last thing before leaving.
“You’re not alone. You never were.”
With those cryptic words, his footsteps moved down the rusty stairs and into the darkness. I waited minutes, maybe hours, listening for his return or for my dad to pop up and say it was all a terrible joke. The crusty brown stains on my hands reminded me it was very real.
Finally, I hiked my backpack up and opened the door, looking out and glancing back and forth, waiting for the sneak attack that never came. With slow steps, I slinked down the hall and flipped the switch on in the bathroom before flipping it off just as fast. Tiffany was obviously behind the bloody shower curtain. The proof of her death spilled over onto the floor and soaked into the flimsy rug.
I hated them and all the horrible things they said and did to me. All the painful slaps and hungry nights as he gave to her but never to me. She flaunted his love for her in my face and told me no one would ever love me. He reminded me daily that no one wanted me, and I should be grateful for him.
I was grateful they were dead. What kind of monster did that make me?
I had to get away from here. With deliberate steps, I walked into the living room and found my father slumped over on the floor with a blanket from the couch covering him. Blood pooled around his body, seeping and crawling across the floor. I said a silent ‘thank you’ to the mysterious murderer for hiding their bodies from me. Strange as that may sound, I was grateful he killed those two assholes.
My head was on a swivel, and after determining I was alone, I ran into the kitchen and washed the evidence of Tiffany’s death from my hands. Scrubbing and scrubbing, I couldn’t get the discoloration to come clean and a part of me worried they would be stained forever.
I changed clothes in the washroom, pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the laundry. I kept glancing into the living room, watching the door for the dark stranger to return. Yanking open the kitchen cabinets, I grabbed the last four cans of tuna, a can opener, two stale granola bars, and filled my reusable cup from the church with tap water.
Keeping my eyes moving, I stepped out of the sliding glass door and peered around to see if he was waiting for me. My hands shook and my pulse was racing as I surveyed the yard, searching for him in the shadows. After a minute, I jumped down the stairs and started walking away from the backyard, away from my murdered abusers, and away from their shed of horrors.
