Page 1 of Don't Speak
PROLOGUE
Twelve years old
I can feel him standing there. Watching me.
He thinks I am sleeping, but my heart is racing with the anticipation of him coming into my room. Sometimes, when I pretend to be asleep, he leaves. Other times, I’m not so lucky…
You would think I would be used to this by now. I still remember the first time he came into my room in the middle of the night. I was seven. People say I am mature for my age,but I just think some children are forced to grow up faster than others, thanks to the cruelty in this world.
I hear the beer bottle slosh as he takes another drink, gulping as he swallows. The blood is rushing to my ears, and I am afraid my rapid breathing will catch his attention. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.
I’ve thought about screaming, but the threats rattle my brain like a headache I can’t quite shake. If you tell anyone, I will kill you. Bad girls get punished. If you tell Mom, I’ll have to kill her, too.
I just want it to stop. I’ve given up on the idea of having a normal childhood, unsure of what that means anymore. My mom drowns herself in alcohol every night, allowing him an advantage of creeping into my room several nights a week.
He still stands there, drink in hand. A tear slips from my eye, and I’m thankful that I am lying with my back to the door this time. Otherwise, that would have been all the encouragement he needed. He likes seeing my tears.
It’s quiet for a moment. And just when I think he’s left, I hear the clink of the beer bottle being placed on my dresser, and the mattress suddenly dips behind me, the weight of the man I call my stepfather kneeling on the bed for what will be another night of misery. The tears start falling faster, knowing there is no escape.
Another piece of my soul dies tonight.
CHAPTER ONE
I wake with a jolt, my heart racing and my body covered in sweat.It’s just another nightmare.
Grabbing the glass of water on my nightstand, I take a few drinks and notice the time. It’s 6 am, and just once, I would like the ability to sleep in. These nightmares are becoming more frequent.It’s been fourteen years. You’re safe.
Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle my way to the bathroom and start the shower. Simba, my orange Maine Coon, greets me with his demands for food. “Alright, alright. Come on,” I tell him, walking toward the kitchen. I quickly fill his bowl and return to the bathroom, climbing under the soothing hot water of theshower. Instantly, I feel the tension leave my body. Closing my eyes, I let the warmth envelop me. Showers, for me, can go one of two ways. Either they relax me and wake me up for the day to come, or I just get lost in here, a prisoner in my own thoughts. Luckily, today is the former.
Once I’ve finished my shower, I step out and grab a towel. For a moment, I just stare into the mirror. The bags under my eyes are getting bigger, no doubt from the lack of sleep I’ve been getting. I’m exhausted, and it’s getting harder to recognize the person staring back at me. I don’t know which is worse—the physical toll my body is taking or the psychological warfare occurring in my brain.You’re dirty. Tainted. No one is going to want you.
My mahogany-brown hair falls to the middle of my back, and my lifeless emerald-green eyes stare back at me, my fair skin a stark contrast to the midnight-blue towel wrapped around me. I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me and haven’t for quite some time. Depression is abitch. I was doing well for a bit, finally experiencing what it’s like having serotonin, but it all changed when I picked up the newspaper and sawhim.
“Escaped Convict Still Missing,” the article read. Sean Edwards, 58, escaped from Huntsville State Prison two weeks ago, and authorities have yet to locate him. He may be armed. We urge the public to maintain their distance if found, but please call your local authorities to report the incident.
My heart sank when I sawhispicture, and I had to fight off a panic attack. My nightmares started back up that night, and I’ve had this odd feeling of being watched since. Most of the time, I chalk it up to being paranoid. There’s no way he would know where I am. My social media accounts are private, and I try to avoid posting images that have identifiable buildings in the background.
Snapping myself back to reality, I remember that I don’t have to be at work until this afternoon, so I send a text to my best friend.
Me: Brunch this morning?
Amelia: When and where?
Me: 9 am, Cereal Killer Café.
Amelia: See you there.
Amelia and I have been best friends for eight years. We met while working together at a veterinary clinic and haven’t gotten sick of each other yet. She’s my person. The one I can talk to about anything, free of judgment. Unless I am wrong about something. Then the heifer doesn’t hesitate to judge and call me out on it.
Swiftly getting ready, I throw on some clothes, blow-dry my hair, and put on some light makeup. I decide to wear my ripped skinny jeans, Linkin Park tee, and black Vans today, choosing comfort as always. It’s only 7:30 am, so I still have some time to kill. Grabbing my current read, I plop down on the couch, snuggling under the nearest blanket. Simba jumps up and curls up next to me, taking his first morning nap. I’ve been having a hard time putting this one down. It’s about three men, and one of themusedto be a cop who may or may not kill people now, one of themisa cop, and the other one kills people for a living. Well, only the shitty ones, that is. The banter is hilarious, and it even has this cute buffalo character. It’s interconnected with another book that I’ve already read. I loved that one just asmuch. It was about a mercenary and a mortician who both fell in love.So cute.
After getting through fifteen chapters, it’s time for me to head out. Grabbing the keys to my Hyundai Santa Fe, I snatch my purse off the counter and give Simba his goodbye pets. He loathes being touched, only wanting love on his own terms, but he occasionally tolerates chin scratches and head pets. Whoever said that orange cats are just different wasn’t lying.
Walking out the door, I turn around to lock up and make sure the alarm system is set. I moved into this house three years ago. It’s a cozy two-bedroom, two-bath with an open floor plan. The kitchen is beautiful, featuring a blue marble backsplash, white granite countertops, and an island in the center. The selling factor, however, was the soaking tub in the primary bath. That thing has gotten plenty of use since I moved in. It’s magical.
I make my way to the car, unlock it, and slide into the seat. I hardly ever leave the house, preferring the comfort of my own home, you know, away from people, but I need this time with my best friend, so I start up the car and head toward Cereal Killer Café.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot, and I can’t throw my car into park fast enough. Amelia is waiting in her car, ever the antisocial bitch, but as soon as she sees mine, she gets out and walks toward me. I may be biased, but my best friend is gorgeous. She’s sporting a grunge tee, jean shorts, and a pair of Vans with her curly copper hair up in a clip and her green eyes nestled behind round-framed glasses. It’s been a few weeks since we’ve gotten together; work often gets in the way, so I’m excited to spend time with her.
