Page 105 of For Fillies and Monsters

Stepping out of the car, the old metal creaking, my legs tremble.Will my mother be mad at me? Will Gibson be here? Am I already too late?That thought spurs me on, but I hold my breath, afraid to breathe the same air ashimonce more.

Driven by unseen forces, my legs break into a sprint toward the old barn. The paint is fading and chipped, and the corrals all but crumbled and falling apart. The barn door swings open on its hinges, and I know with a sinking feeling, Poppy is in there. Barreling into the barn, the shade from the roof making it hard for my eyes to adjust, my breath saws in and out of my tight lungs.

Every hair on my arms immediately stands up, and even over my own hammering heart, I can hear him…and his labored breathing.

My eyes adjust further, and I halt suddenly to stop myself from ramming right into his hunched back. He’s on his knees, greasy, stringy hair hanging over his face, head bowed. His rancid sweat and booze-filled scent nearly knocks me over, and I gag, unable to fight the downpour of memories washing through me.

Stumbling back, I reach for anything solid to steady myself.

He’s smaller than I remember, shorter and thinner, years of wear and tear breaking him down. I straighten, realizing I’m not as small as I once was. His skin is clammy, wrinkled, and a tinge green from all the years of working and surviving on alcohol—his liver has to be a black rock—and I silently curse God that he hasn’t died from it yet.

But maybe it would be a mercy, a kindness, and Gibson doesn’t deserve such things.

I continue to stare at him, fear and anger warring through me, and his shoulders continue to rise and fall, his chest heaving. The sounds of liquid filled lungs dragging across his rib cage, his body all but given out. He’s frozen, not even noticing me, his eyes glued to the floor.

Pulling my gaze from his back, I trace his line of sight and nearly collapse. In my hurry to get in the barn, and then scramble to get away from Gibson’s back, I didn’t notice the figure lying on the floor.

There, my mother is sprawled out, her body covered in a pale green dress that fits so loosely to her rail-thin frame. Bones push angrily against the skin on her shoulders, wrists, and jaw. She’s so drawn in and skinny that I wonder when the last time she ate was.

Did she want to die of starvation before Gibson could finally kill her? If so, she was unsuccessful.

No matter how gruesome it is to see her so skinny, it is the bruises around her neck that keep drawing my eyes. Finger-shaped marks layer around her throat, ranging from a faded yellow to crimson, to a deep purple that borders on black. They layer so deeply that it looks like she’s wearing a collar. Her eyes, once a beautiful pale blue, are wide open as she stares at the ceiling, sunken and surrounded by dark purple pillows.

She looks worse than I could have ever imagined. And now the vision of her like this will forever be branded into my mind,my soul—the fabric of my every thought and feeling.

“She should be waking up any minute.” My tear-soaked eyes snap up to look at the man now standing over my mother’s body.When did he get up?His voice is hoarse and shaky, as if he’s scared. Scared she won’t wake up. Scared he has finally gone too far.

I snap, rage like I’ve never known pouring through my body.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You fucking killed her!” My voice is a violent whisper, shaking with my rage. Gibson doesn’t turn around, his breathing seeming to come a little faster.

“She always does this. She’s gotten more dramatic, too, taking longer and longer to wake up. But she always wakes up. She wouldn’t leave me. She wouldn’t fucking dare.” His voice cracks, the emotion in it making me shake. Tears drip off my chin, grief and hatred making them fall swiftly from my sore eyes.

“She left you. She’s never waking up!” My voice grows in volume, bordering on a scream now. He turns on me, and I know it’s not the sound that broke his trance, but my words.

His head tilts, his hazy eyes raking over my body, as if noticing me for the first time.

“I always knew you’d come back.” It’s all he says before he lunges at me.

I’ve been afraid of this moment my entire life, and now that it’s finally happening, I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. This time is different—I’m different—and even though I’m not convinced I deserve it, I will get a different ending than my mother.

I jump back, both faster and far more sober than Gibson. His eyes widen, as if he’s realizing I’m not the same caged girl he chased ten years ago.

Did time not pass for him?Doesn’t matter—it did for me.

Something cracks in my chest—the sensation flooding with me with a warmth that spreads just under my skin. Acceptance. I welcome its heat; this is always how my story was supposed to go. For better or worse, whether I make it out of this alive or not, I was always meant to be the one to exact my own justice.

Some small part of me recognizes how fucked up that is. It’s not morally right to consider the ways I might get my justice for the crimes this evil man committed to me and to my mother all those years. But I lost interest in doing what’s “right” when it came to this snake the first time he wrapped those bony fingers around my neck.

I am no victim. I may have been once, but that girl is gone and dead. I am the villain of my own dark and twisted story, and I will get the ending I deserve, even if it earns me a permanent place in hell. I have no one to lean back on.

And in this terrifyingly still moment, I see with clarity that I don’t need anyone.

I can be my own monster.

“If you come near me, I will fucking kill you.” Fear courses through my veins, but my voice does not waiver. A slimy smilecreeps across his face, and I have the good sense to run. But I’m not running because I’m afraid of when he catches me; this time I will be ready.

Racing toward the tack shed, my feet pounding harder and faster than they ever have before. How many times have I run from him and feared he would catch me? How many times had he caught me and I did nothing?

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