Page 16 of Hurt for Me

2009

As she described the last four years of her life to Viv, Rae wasn’t connected to her body. She was a spirit floating back in time, like inA Christmas Carolwhen Scrooge revisits his past, seeing but unable to change all the aspects of his life that plagued him.

She told Viv about her mom’s affairs, the ones her mom didn’t think Rae knew about, and how she had left Rae and her dad. She told her about her dad’s addiction and his overdose, and she barely perceived Viv grasping her hand tight. When she told her about her mom refusing to help her leave California, Viv cursed under her breath.

But when she tried to explain why she was in California and everything that had happened with Clint and the bad men, it felt like she was conjuring evil to come find her. Yet, she told Viv everything. Well, almost everything.

She told her how Clint was the only offer of stability she had at the time, and how he had said he loved her and wanted to help her become a famous singer, something that seemed so idiotic to believe now. Shewas an okay singer at best, although she’d been better than anyone at her high school.

It was harder to stay disconnected from her body when she told Viv about the Santa Monica house, the one near the endless expanse of ocean that both enticed and frightened Rae the first time she saw it. It was less a house and more a prison, and she began shaking when she recalled the first time Clint had woken her from a dead sleep, his body heavy on hers as he forced himself into her. They’d had sex many times before then, but this was different. She told him she didn’t want to, and he covered her mouth with his hand until he came. Then he pressed his mouth to her ear and said the thing that made her want to be dead like her dad: “This is what you’re good for. Better get used to it.”

She would never get used to it, not with Clint, not with the others he brought to the house. She cried so much, Clint complained about her turning off the men, said she was losing him money. That’s when he held her down to inject her with a drug of some kind. She never knew what it was, but it made the world go fuzzy and dreamlike. It made her not care as much what her body did so long as her mind could wander. Eventually, she stopped fighting Clint on it and welcomed the drug hitting her system, washing away all the pain.

If it weren’t for Beth, Rae might’ve stayed in that drug-induced stupor, not caring if she lived or died.

The first time she saw Beth at the house, she thought she must’ve been someone’s daughter because she was so young. Unlike Rae with her rounded hips and full breasts, Beth was flat chested with a short, boyish frame. She used to ask Rae, her big blue eyes pleading, to braid her long white-blonde hair. As she braided, Rae soon learned the girl believed she was waiting for her aunt to pick her up to go live with her. When Rae asked her where her mom was, Beth said in the tiniest voice, “Mommy went to heaven.” She couldn’t bring herself to ask where her daddy was, but she did learn Beth’s age. Nine.

“What happened to Beth, Rae?” Viv said, a quiver in her voice.

Rae kept her eyes focused on a large painting Viv had hanging next to the kiva fireplace hulking in the corner of the living room. It was of a dark-headed woman lazing on a chaise lounge, honeyed light dappling her skin, her face placid. When Rae was alone in the condo, she’d stretch her body on Viv’s couch, imitating the pose and the woman’s languid expression, wondering what it must feel like to have no cares in the world.

“Rae?”

Rae continued to look at the painting as she finally got the words out. “It was my fault.”

“What was your fault, hon?”

She should’ve done something more to protect Beth, but she didn’t know how. Beth had been in the house for a week, and she was getting restless. When she wasn’t crying, asking when her aunt was coming for her, she was angry, throwing herself on the floor, kicking the walls, and screaming as loud as her little lungs allowed. Clint wasn’t happy. The men who came in and out of the house weren’t happy either.

So, Rae made the mistake of asking Clint when the aunt was going to arrive. “Never,” he said as if she should already know.

“Why is she here, then?” Rae had asked, but she knew. “No, they can’t. Not with her. She’s only a little kid.”

Clint shrugged. “Not up to me. I don’t create the menu. I just pick up the ingredients.”

Horror seeped in, taking over her body, and Rae shoved him hard. “No! I won’t let you!”

He grabbed her shoulders and slammed her against the bedroom wall before getting right in her face, his nose touching hers. “Fucking bitch, it’s not up to you! If some fuckers like tweens, it’s not on me. I’m just waiting for her handler to get back to the States and get her ass out of here. But if she doesn’t calm the fuck down real fast, we’re going to have a big problem.”

“How?” Rae said, her voice shaky with anger. “How can she ever calm down in this place?”

He released her and ran his hands through his dark hair and over his face before looking at her dead on. “You’ll find out soon enough unless you can get her under control.”

But how do you control a scared child? Rae once read an article about a man who’d gotten stuck climbing in a canyon. To get free, he used a dull pocketknife to slowly cut through the muscles and bones in his forearm. When Beth was in one of her rages, Rae imagined the girl rolling around on the living room floor, biting through her thin forearm like a trapped wild dog.

She tried to calm her, though. So many times by offering to play with her or doing her hair, but it didn’t work. Rae was so focused on trying to keep Beth placated and quiet she realized she wasn’t getting as many injections from Clint, which put her on edge and made it harder to be patient. And she needed all the patience with Beth, but the girl knew something bad was going on in the house. After two long weeks, she knew there was no aunt coming for her. And all hell broke loose.

It was a Saturday night, and Clint and some of his customers were watching a boxing match on pay-per-view. Beth had gone to the kitchen for a drink of water, and one of the men went to the fridge to grab another beer. Rae watched from the living room couch as the man began teasing Beth, blocking her from filling her glass at the sink, his hands reaching out to tickle her. She backed away from him, but he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her. Beth didn’t waste one second. She screamed louder than Rae had ever heard a human yell and kicked, her little legs pumping up and down like pistons against the man’s thighs until he dropped her on the floor.

Instead of running back to the smallest bedroom, where she had been watching a show on a little TV, Beth began picking up dishes in the kitchen sink and smashing them on the old linoleum floor.

Clint jumped up from the couch and disappeared down the hallway. When he came back to the kitchen, Beth was still smashing dishes, Rae failing to calm her down. By the time Rae saw the syringe in Clint’s hand, it was too late. He jammed it into Beth’s neck.

Rae caught Beth before she fell and gently laid her on the kitchen floor. She did her best to push away the shards of broken glass and plates surrounding them. She watched Beth, who was so still. Too still.

“What did you give her?” she said to Clint, who was back to sitting on the couch.

“Same thing you all get. It’s called shut-the-fuck-up juice.” He laughed, and some of the other men joined in.

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