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When I insisted she at least call the doctor, she scoffed. I guess since she went to medical school, she knew everything about everything. I wanted to press the issue, but she waved away my concerns and said she’d ask Rand to bring her some meds from the pharmacy where he works.
I know I’m only fifteen, but I didn’t know pharmacists could just bring home medicine. I thought they needed a prescription too, but maybe not.
Stupidly, I let her easy dismissal of my concern get the better of me, and I slammed the dishwasher closed. The next thing I know, Rand had me pinned to the fridge with a thick, meaty hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing tightly as he snarled like an angry dog.
He yelled and screamed and called me all sorts of names. He told me I was ungrateful and worthless and a spoiled little bitch. He ranted and raved about breaking my spirit.
I kept my eyes locked onto Mama the whole time, silent praying for her to make him stop, but she just sat there on her barstool with her head bowed and her eyes closed.
What kind of mother sits quietly while someone chokes and yells at her kid?
Sick or not, she’s a coward, and I told her as much when Rand finally removed his hand from my throat.
Rand didn’t like that, though. He backhanded me and told me not to speak unless spoken to.
I know he wanted a reaction from me, for me to cry and beg for forgiveness, but I refused, which made him big mad.
He roared like a lion and then grabbed me by my hair and dragged me back to my room. Before he slammed the door in my face, he said if he ever caught me out of my room after seven again, he’d lock me in the basement for a few days to teach me a lesson.
He’s a monster, and I hate him.
I mean it—I really, really hate him.
My biggest regret is not telling Ms. Maggie how awful he is when I was still allowed to see her, because now I’m trapped here with no way out.
Worried, Nora
Dear Diary,
This entry might be hard to read, but I have to write it down.
Back when Mama first gave you to me, she told me to put my pain to paper, so maybe if I let it all out—and I mean all of it—the crack of Rand’s palm and the heel of his boot won’t hurt as bad.
I’m pretty sure he broke two of my fingers and cracked my ribs tonight. I was able to tape my fingers together pretty good, but I’m pretty sure my ribs are a lost cause.
I know from movies that I need to wrap them, but it hurts too much.
Moving in any kind of way hurts. Even breathing hurts.
I guess I should start at the beginning though, huh?
Mama’s still sick. Sick-sick. This so-called virus has gone on for months now, but she and Rand keep acting like everything’s fine and dandy.
You know, I never got the saying about “denial being more than a river in Egypt” until now. Mama talks like she’s going to wake up better any day now, but she won’t.
I’m starting to wonder if she’ll ever get better. I’ve learned better than to ask, though. That lesson came courtesy of two black eyes, a busted nose, and a split lip.
But what hurt even more than that was Mama’s indifference.
It sounds bad, but I think she doesn’t speak up when he hurts me for fear of him hurting her instead.
If she wasn’t sick, maybe we could leave. Maybe we could run away and never look back. But she is, and I can’t leave her here alone with him. I won’t.
Mama hasn’t left her bed for almost two weeks now, which means it’s now my job to keep the house clean and to make all of Rand’s meals. Meals I’m still not allowed to enjoy.
Today was hard, though. He wanted a roast for dinner, and I don’t know how to make it. I tried asking Mama, but she wouldn’t wake up. I’m not allowed to use the internet, and Rand took my phone away months ago, so… I winged it.
Which was apparently the wrong thing to do, because Rand was furious when dinner was not only late but inedible.
