Page 33 of The Devils Melody
“Hey, Jimbo. Can you have someone come pick up my bike from the bar? If it gets scratched, I'll have their ass.”
“Never call me Jimbo again and we have a deal.”
“Anything you want, Slim Jim.” With that, Kage hangs up on him and hands me back the phone.
“Wren was wrong. You’re the insufferable one.”
Kage grins like he’s proud of himself, still dragging on that cigarette as if we didn’t just nearly come to blows over Wren. I think he knew deep down I wasn’t going to hit him no matter how bad I wanted to.
“I get it. If I were you, I’d hate me too. Now, let’s go get some McDonalds before we spy on Dick. I think you’re in need of a happy meal.” He tips his chin towards the murder wagon. This is just another one of our fucked up adventures to him. “Oh and after Micky D’s I need to make this,” he points at a bite mark, presumably Wrens, on his neck “a little more permanent.”
I don’t respond, just shake my head and walk towards the SUV, unlocking it with the keyfob. Kage hops in the passenger seat, still smug as hell, like he didn’t just throw gasoline on a fire and walk away whistling.
11
Wren
THE SONGBIRD
Age 6
The floorboards creak beneath my fathers heavy boots. I know it’s him. I memorized the exact path he takes every night after I’ve been put to bed. Memorized the pattern of his steps, slow and uneven, like he wants me to know he's coming for me.
My fingers tighten around the edge of my blankie, pulling it up over my head like a forcefield that could actually protect me. The door opens and that familiar feeling of deadly butterflies swarm my stomach.
“Wrennie,” he slurs, soft and sickly sweet. The way he always sounds when he wants something from me. When something is about to go terribly wrong.
I squeeze my eyes shut, praying he’ll leave. That this time, he’ll turn around and forget that I even exist. But the bed shifts under his weight and I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My body is locked up like it’s trying to vanish from the inside out.
There’s a rustle of fabric, then his arm wraps around me, pulling me into his side. Sometimes he falls asleep like this and I'm safe for the night. Today is not that day.
His breath is warm and rancid as it hits my cheek. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into my neck. “My pretty little girl, just for me.”
The panic rises in my chest like a scream that’s caught in my throat; my voice, stolen like it always is. I stay silent. I’ve learned over the years that saying no to my father will only result in more pain for me.
My fingers curl around my blankie, trying to hold myself together. I squeeze my eyes tighter, willing myself to vanish. Maybe if I disappear hard enough, it won’t be real. Maybe I’ll wake up, and mommy will come. Maybe this time?—
His hand moves over my belly.
Please, no. Please, not again. Please. Please. Ple-
Iwake violently, gasping as if I’ve been ripped from underwater. The scream doesn’t make it out of my throat, much like when I was a kid, but it vibrates through my whole body. Quickly, I sit up drenched in sweat, my hands are shaking as I grab my sheets like they’re the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
It takes a few seconds for me to realize where I am. The light streaming through the window is soft and safe. The walls aren’t covered in dark shadows, there’s no creaking floorboard, no poison sweet voice. Just me, alone in my apartment.
What the hell is happening to me? I haven’t had nightmares this intense since high school. After my father was arrested, they were a constant presence tormenting me night after night, until they eventually faded away. They were a constant reminder of the trauma I went through allthose years, and I was glad they were gone. Now they’re back and I don’t know why. They’re far too close to the memories I’ve spent so many years trying to forget. I guess ever since that night Rich grabbed me, the nightmares started to creep back in.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I rest my forehead against them as I try to breathe through the shaking.
It was just a dream. It’s not real. Not this time.
I sit there for a while, curled into myself, letting the silence stretch on long enough to tempt me into staying in bed for the rest of the day. But I won’t. I can’t.
I get out of bed, the floor cold and solid under my feet, and head for the bathroom. The girl in the mirror is pale, her eyes bruised from lack of sleep, but she’s standing. She’s alive and doing her damn best.
I splash cold water on my face and pat it dry, watching the water drip from my chin as it washes away something that’s invisible to everyone but me. The past can claw at me all it wants, but it doesn’t get to win. Not today.
Not ever again.
