Page 29 of Twisted Hearts

16Aaron

Although her head was downturned,it failed to hide the twinge of uncertainty coursing through the tense set of Megan’s body. She was struggling to gather herself enough to tell me about her past.

When she lifted her head to meet my gaze, she couldn’t hide the deep well of pain that lingered in her eyes and snatched at her rigid body. She released my hand and gripped her own. Her right hand gripped her left hand tight enough that dark green veins protruded at the back of her hand, straining to break through the skin.

“My caseworker placed me into the home of Carlos and Marina Dominquez. Carlos’ nephew, David, lived there as well. I lived there for a month before my own personal hell broke loose. They seemed like nice enough people. They didn’t beat on me and told me they liked that I was quiet and not a bit of trouble for a pre-teen. I was twelve going on twenty in street age and in life. I knew how to cook for myself. I had no trouble getting myself up and to and from school. I knew who I should and shouldn’t hang out with. As a product of the foster care system, I’d witnessed all manner of crime and violence. I’d quickly learned how to stay invisible and out of the way, but more importantly, I’d learned how to gather information, how to plan, and analyze.”

A crease lined my forehead as I listened to Megan start her story. The foster parents’ last name was ringing a bell for some reason, but I quieted my mind and continued to listen.

“I’d just started to settle in and assumed that everything would be okay when my foster father walked into my room one night and climbed into bed with me. Before I could get away, he pulled me against him. I fought him. I yelled, kicked, and screamed for help, but my foster mother and brother never came.”

Her head fell to her chest as she rung her hands, the memories obviously hard for her to talk about. She inched her words out robotically, like saying them normally might be too much. Like if her emotions merged with the words she spoke, it would break a dam that had taken years for her to build.

“The more I fought, the more Carlos liked it. He laughed through my struggling and took my innocence like it was nothing. When I finally got around to pulling myself from under the covers, I grabbed whatever clothes I could and ran out of that house with hair all over my head, crooked clothes, and no shoes. I looked every bit as crazy as people likely assumed I was.”

No wonder she was all messed up in the head. I wanted to comfort Megan, but she seemed to want to get this story off her chest more than she needed my comfort or pity, so I sat and listened.

“My foster parents called the police after I’d been out and on the streets for three days. I didn’t care how I lived. I had no intention of ever returning to that house. But, they told the cops that I was an out of control pre-teen that had run away because they refused to let me out of the house to go and see my nineteen-year-old boyfriend. It was all a lie they’d fabricated to take suspicion off my foster father and paint me as the bad girl. When the cops found me, I couldn’t even speak up for myself to tell them what had happened to me.”

Megan cleared her throat and closed her eyes for a silent moment. Her past was what was haunting her, to the point where she’d lost track of her mind for a moment.

“When the cops dragged me back into that house kicking and screaming, they asked my foster parents to explain the bruises all over me.”

Megan’s sad eyes lifted and stared into mine once more. The depth of her sorrow touched me and left me uncharacteristically speechless.

“They knew how to lie well. They claimed I’d bruised myself and threatened them with the idea that I’d pin it on them if they told the cops what I was up to. It should have been clear to the cops that I was in some type of shock, but people see what they want to see. For all the lies my foster parents told, I never said a word to defend myself because I believed it wouldn’t do a bit of good. I was in such mental anguish over being raped that my mind wouldn’t or couldn’t think past it. It seemed the only way to keep my anger at what I felt towards my foster parents from consuming me, was to stay quiet. I became obsessed with the idea of killing them. Knowing that my foster mom knew what was happening and freely helped a rapist, made me want to hurt her as badly as I dreamed of hurting my foster father.”

Megan took a sip of juice and picked at her eggs. My plate was empty. I was about to tell her she didn’t have to finish the story until she was ready, but she started up again.

“After weeks of silence and me not eating, I was not only an abused child, I started to look like one. A thinning body, dark circles around my eyes, and disheveled clothing, I went through the motions to school and back home. There wasn’t a lock on my bedroom door, so I couldn’t lock myself in. The days and nights went by in a blur, and fifteen days after my first attack, my foster father returned. He took what he wanted, and again, I fought desperately, but he was too big, and my fight was useless. I remained in my silent state, and although I went to school, I stopped paying attention in class and doing my homework. Nothing outside of what was stuck in my head interested me. All I could think about was him raping me and me killing him for it.”

I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t sit there and watch Megan struggle through what was undoubtedly the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Reading about what had happened to her and listening to someone else tell it secondhand was not the same as getting the story straight from the victim’s mouth. The emotions and omitted details made what I’d once thought of as a horrible story, real.

I didn’t know how close Megan was to the end of her story, but what she’d shared so far, had anger raging through my bones and igniting my body.

I reached for her hand and couldn’t help asking, “So this fucking foster mom knew what was happening and didn’t do a damn thing?”

“As loud as I screamed, the neighbors should have known what was happening to me. The third time it happened, David, my sixteen-year-old foster brother, cracked and peeked into my bedroom door. I guess he wanted to see what he’d been ignoring. I wasn’t sure if Carlos noticed him peeking, but I saw him and even pleaded for him to help me. David left me there after seeing what was happening to me. Three nights later it wasn’t my foster father, Carlos, who crept into my room and climbed on top of me.”

My head fell into my free hand as I squeezed my throbbing temples. I hated every part of the fucking story Megan was telling me. I bit into my bottom lip, but it did nothing to stave off my building rage. The inside of hell had been poured all over her young life, and she didn’t have anyone to turn to for help.

“After about the tenth time, I stopped fighting them, but internally, I was keeping count. I kept count of how many times they raped me. The silence and my tears helped get me through it. Locking my pain in seemed like the only way to keep my mind and body from ripping apart. I dreamed about killing myself a lot. Laura and Beverly were the only girls who would talk to me at school. They would do silly stuff to get me to laugh. They were the only two people in the world who could temporarily take my mind off what was happening to me. It wasn’t hard to figure out that they pitied me. I didn’t have to tell them the details of what was happening to me, but they were smart enough to figure it out or at least guessed.”

At this point, I didn’t know if Megan wanted my comfort or not, but I continued to grip her hand. Megan was like a fucking puzzle to figure out, a jigsaw with parts that never stopped moving. I was learning her slowly, but I was learning. There was more there than she was telling me about Beverly and Laura.

I could tell by the way she’d broken down when she thought I’d killed them. You don’t break down like that just over friends. I was willing to bet that Megan was more connected to them than she was letting on. But, I had to be patient with her because her fragile mind was likely one crack away from shattering.

After a deep, steadying breath, she continued the story but kept her eyes aimed at the table.

“The abuse went on for months, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I found out that the sexual abuse was only the beginning. Carlos was a monster. He started taking me out on weekend drives and forced me to lure other girls into the car with us. The first few times he asked me to do it, I was brave and denied his request. But denying Carlos only made the situation worse. He beat me so badly and forced me into sex so rough that I ended up in the hospital for a week. I ended up with a broken wrist and bruises all over my body.”

She raised her arm and showed me the scar on the inside of her left wrist. The huge gash I’d assumed was the result of a suicide attempt was instead the result of her being raped and beaten. I glared at the jagged line of the scar with a pinched brow until she dropped her wrist. My hand slid over hers until my thumb skimmed lightly over the puckered line of the scar.

“The hospital didn’t even do a rape test. Until this day, I have no idea what kind of story my foster parents fed the police or the hospital staff, but they fixed it so that no one was willing to listen to my side of the story.”

My grip tightened around Megan’s hand as I pulled her towards me. This shit she was sharing with me had me wanting to kill motherfuckers that were already dead.

“Come here,” I said as I urged her closer to me.

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