Page 29 of Daughter of a Monster

“Stop,” I say, reaching toward them. But even though I open my mouth, even though my lips move to form the words, no sound comes out. “Stop!” I scream. But there’s still no sound other than the snivels coming from the girl.

My father yells but I don’t know what he says. His face is twisted and red. His hand lifts into the air and he slaps her, the force of it whipping back her head.

Grabbing the end of the rope knotted in the ceiling above, he yanks on the cord, ripping her hands above her head. She struggles to get to her feet on time as he pulls. Her cries are louder now, turning to sobs.

But my father doesn’t stop. He’s pulling his belt out from the loops, making his intention obvious.

“No!” I reach for him but fall. It’s as though his body is made of nothing more than mist. “Stop!” I get to my knees in supplication, but he doesn’t see me. I’m invisible.

Raising the leather he whips it across her backside with a crack. She screams. He does it again and again.

I scream. I yell. I plead.

But it’s useless. I cannot be heard. I cannot be felt.

I am in hell, forced to watch my father abuse this girl and being powerless to stop it.

I wake up crying. The water is cold. The screams still sound in my head. They howl and wail, moaning and sobbing. Tears stream down my cheeks. I splutter through the sobs, unable to draw in enough breath. Rain pelts against the window. Thunder rumbles in the distance. And it’s only then that I realize the screams are nothing more than the wind.

I’d been so happy to come here, so relieved to be safe and away from the people who knew who I was that I almost forgot. How naïve of me to think that I could go see him without repercussions. I thought I’d been able to start this new life unscathed, but he’s followed me here.

There are still tears falling down my cheeks as I step out of the bath and dry myself. My reflection shows a ghost of a girl. Pale. Shivering. Long wet hair. Storm-filled eyes.

I turn away, ashamed of who she is.

It hits me how alone I am. I’ve always had my mother to call if I needed to. Even if I didn’t do it very often, I knew she was there. All I had to do was pick up the phone. But now it lies discarded, the only thing it’s good for is the songs it contains.

My chest is tight. My hands tremble as I run the brush through my hair. Wrapping my bathrobe around my shoulders, careful not to focus on the furrow of my scar, I take a deep breath and assume first position. I slide into second, then third, fourth and fifth, repeating the motion until my breathing calms and the tears stop falling.

There are so many thoughts and emotions crashing through me with no release. I need to get them out, but I cannot call or message my mother. Or even my therapist. There is no way to communicate and no one to communicate with.

Unless I write. I could write her a letter and let everything spill onto the page. I may not send it, but at least it would give me a chance for release. But I need a pen. And paper.

The door groans as I pull it open slowly. The sound blends in with the howling wind and pelting rain. The floors are cold on my bare feet as I slip down the stairs. The kitchen proves fruitless, no pens or paper in sight. There are none in the dining room either. Although Alma showed me the library, I’m uncertain which direction it’s in so I creep down a passageway, hoping to stumble across it.

The deeper I go into the bowels of the building, the more it deteriorates. Gone are any painfully recreated details of the architecture and in their place are crumbling walls and broken windows. I wrap my arms around my shoulders as the wind slips in through the gaps. Drops of rain seep in through the cracks in the ceiling. I know I should turn back but I’m unsure which way to go, or even where I’ve been. The rooms all look the same. I start to run, feeling the desperation of needing to see something familiar. Bursting through a door, I almost fall down the steep steps that tumble downwards.

I know this isn’t the way. I should turn back, but something compels me forward. I’m in a dark hallway lined with doors. Even though I feel like I must be below ground, the howls of the wind are still strong, sounding like the screams of the girl in my dream. It’s only then I notice the small slits of windows high on the wall, showing the ground level outside. I test the handle of one of the doors, but it’s locked. There’s a faint glimmer of light coming from the crack of the open door. Voices rise above the howl of the wind as I get closer. I can’t see much; the light is too dim. But then there’s a crack of lightning and I see a man on his knees, Jericho leaning over him. He’s holding something and the man cowers against the wall shaking his head vigorously. There’s blood smeared across his cheek.

With a terrified jump, I run back the way I came, racing up the steps and slamming the door behind me. My heart is hammering in my chest. I press my back against the wall, needing the security of something strong and immoveable behind me.

“Miss Berkley?” Jericho’s head appears around the door. His brows are pulled together in annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

I try to stop my voice from quaking. “I was looking for the library.”

“Were you down there?” He points behind him. I shake my head, too scared to tell the truth. He slips through the door and closes it firmly. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

Closing my eyes, I draw in another deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

His fingers are around my throat as I’m pressed to the wall. My breath is tight, constricted, but I don’t try to get away. I don’t resist.

“Are you all right, Miss Berkley?” There’s a hint of concern in his voice and I nod my head, trying to assure him I’m fine even as my heart still races. I know what he’ll be seeing. A girl pressed against the wall, face flushed, breathing heavily, eyes closed and muttering numbers.

“I wanted to write my mother a letter.” My words come out more like pants of breath than a sentence. “But I didn’t have any pens or paper so I thought there might be some in the library.”

“This way.” He steps forward and starts walking down the dark corridor. “Didn’t Mrs Bellamy explain this area of the Sanctuary is out of bounds? It’s still under construction. You could’ve got hurt.”

I can’t stop picturing the man cowering against the wall. What was he doing down there and what did Jericho want from him?

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