Page 32 of Don't Speak
“Wh—What do you m-mean he’s dead?” I mumble.
“He didn’t come home after his errands this morning, and he wasn’t answering his phone, so I tracked his location and saw he was at the bar. W-when I got there, h-he w-was d-dead,” she stutters, sobbing uncontrollably. “Oh, Nikki. It was awful.”
“H-how?” I manage to get out.
“The place was trashed, and the safe was open. The cops believe it was a robbery. Nikki, they said someone suffocated him,” she sobs.
“Oh, Sarah. I am so sorry. Whatever I can do to help, please let me know,” I tell her, my mind reeling. I don’t know who would want to hurt Ben. He was a good man. The staff loved him—everyone did. He’d piss off a few patrons from time to time, but killing him? I didn’t think anyone hated him that much. I guess he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But why was he even at the bar today to begin with?
“Thank you, Nikki. I don’t have it in me to inform the rest of the staff. Will you tell everyone else?” She sniffles.
“Yeah, of course,” I assure her. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Nikki.”
She hangs up the call, and I stare at Dean. “I don’t understand.”
“Life can change at any moment, baby. People take it for granted all too often,” he tells me. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was a nice guy. We can send his wife some flowers or buy her a few nights of dinner so she doesn’t have to worry about anything.”
“Yeah, that sounds nice,” I agree, my eyes welling with tears. “Ben was the first person who gave me an opportunity when I arrived in this town. I applied to a few other places, but no one wanted to accept an outsider into their little circle. But Ben did. And he was always accommodating if I needed to take a few days here and there. Always stepped in to control unruly patrons until he finally told me I could handle them myself in any way I saw fit.”
I curl into Dean’s chest on the couch, the movie long forgotten. It’s quiet for a moment before I succumb to the sadness. I quietly sob. “Let it out, baby. It’s okay.” So I do. I cry for yet another loss in my life. I cry for his family. I cry for the man who lost his life too soon. I just cry. It’s one of the only things consistent in my life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Thirteen Years Old
I should tell them. This is my chance, but I’m scared. I don’t want people knowing the details of the horrors I’ve had to live through. I don’t want people to look at me differently or judge me. I definitely don’t want people’s pity. But I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live with him anymore.
I’ve been going to the same church since I was in 5th grade. My best friend is the pastor’s daughter, but she doesn't know anything about what I’ve been going through. No one does. I’vefelt utterly alone. My mother has been acting as if everything has been great, but she’s hardly sober most of the time.
I was invited to go to a church retreat a few hours south along the beach. It’s been nice to get away and be with people I consider family. I’ve grown close to the people I go to church with. I never took myself as the religious type. I didn’t grow up going to church, but my mother also didn’t hesitate when I told her I wanted to start going with Andrea, my best friend. Since I was out of the house guaranteed every Wednesday and Sunday, with a few other days sprinkled in, I took it. Any excuse, really. But I have enjoyed it. The people have been nice. They feel… normal.
There aren’t a lot of us here, about fifteen or so. We’re currently all seated in one of the hotel rooms together, and our group leader has asked us to share anything that has been troubling us or anything we want to get off our chests. It’s like he knows…
A few of my friends share fairly mundane troubles, such as failing classes, not making the sports team, having to quit gymnastics because of an injury, etc. Nothing that warrants any sort of serious discussion. We all offer our sympathies, reading a few verses about trusting God that everything will be okay every once in a while, but then it’s my turn to speak.
“I have something to share,” I tell the group, my heart rate increasing at the fact that it’s too late to take it back. My palms start sweating, and I fight back the lump forming in my throat. I immediately feel like the walls are closing in on me, threatening to suffocate me at any moment, but I push through.
“My… my stepdad. He’s been making me… do things…” I choke out. I’ve immediately captured the attention of the adults in the room, and my peers are intently staring at me. I feel like my heart is going to explode.
Sensing something deeper, one of the counselors walks up to me and says, “Here, Nikki. Come outside and talk to me.”
I do, getting up from the couch and walking with him to the front door. Once we’re outside, the other counselors resume their discussions, keeping the group occupied. He leads me to the railing overlooking the beach. I feel a sense of peace at this moment, the beach being my only sense of home in my life. My grandparents live in a beach house, and growing up, I was always over there during the summer. It was my one escape. But that sense of peace quickly fades when he asks, “Do you want to talk more about what you just said? What kinds of things has he been making you do?”
Tears start to well in my eyes. I feel a mix of emotions that I’m not sure how to control right now as they all bubble up simultaneously, threatening to crash over the walls I’ve built up for so long. I don’t let anyone in. The last time I told someone, she made me sit on my abuser’s lap while we discussed my abuse. The mountain that formed around my heart solidified in that moment, making it impossible for me to trust anyone. But I’ve opened a door I can’t just disappear back into, so I have to keep going. I think it’s time I face this fear. I can’t live like this anymore. If it’s not now, then when? These people have been like my family for the last few years. I feel like I should be able to trust them, right? They’ll believe me, won’t they?
“He’s been doing things to me… sexual things…,” I trail off before continuing, “and he’s been making me do the same things… to him…”
He remains calm and collected, not really giving me any ounce of emotion other than being someone to talk to. Then, he asks, “Does your mom know?”
I nod. They don’t know my mother. She doesn’t attend church with me, never has. They don’t know my stepdad either for the same reason. I look up at him, scared to see the pity inhis eyes. I don’t, though. All I see is concern. For me. Something I’m not used to anymore.
“How long has this been going on for?” he asks me.
“Since I was seven,” I whisper, fighting back the tears I know will come when I’m alone. Crying is weakness. I can’t show weakness.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says before adding, “Do you mind if I talk to the other counselors about what we discussed? I promise none of the children will know.”
