Page 13 of For Fillies and Monsters

“You stupid slut. When I catch you, you will not only pay for the disrespectful words you spoke to me, but for destroyingmyproperty.” His voice is like oil, all slimy and thick.I hate it.But more than the man it is attached to, I hate the way it makes me shake. I hate the control it has over my body.

I vault down the wooden stairs toward the expanding darkness in front of me. My arms pump frantically, whooshing through the darkness like wind through a wind-chime—a zing to my cacophony of death. My hair rips free of the braid I have it tied back in, the strands of gold blurring my vision.

If I can just get to the gate at the end of the driveway—maybe someone will drive by. Maybe someone will see me running.

Hear the crescendo of my dying song.

But I have never outrun him. And tonight is no different.

His meaty hand, rough with peeling skin, clamps down so hard on my arm that I’m wrenched back, landing straight on my backside with a wheezing cry. The air whooshes from my lungs, and I greedily suck in gulps of air—I know what’s next, and I’ll need every gasp I can get. My fight or flight is already fully engaged, and so, even though I’m inhaling air like it might be my last—because the truth is, it might be—I’m angrily flailing my arms, trying to push up. Trying to hit him.

Trying to get away.

“Fuck you, you little slut. You should have never been born. But we take care of your worthless ass, anyway.” He stands above me now, his broad frame filling every corner of my vision; his rank sweat and booze-filled scent filling my every sense. My hands slash toward him wildly, but he barks a laugh, the alcohol and adrenaline pumping through his poisoned veins numbing any effect my blows might have. He peers down at me, spitclinging to his chapped lips, his face flaming beet red, even in the darkness.

I kick again, trying to connect with his knee, his gut, his nuts. But he is too big, too tall, and my will to fight is quickly fading. Normally, I could recuperate and get better and stronger between these horrible nights. But this is different.Heis different. Something snapped inside of him; I see the dead hollow look in his eyes every moment of every day. He hates me, hates my very existence, and the only thing that will fix that is my death.

Death by his hands.

There haven’t been days or weeks between episodes of violence. There have been only hours. Not because he has gotten re-triggered or re-drunk, or any of the other reasons fathers spiraled into a fit of rage at their daughters. But because I hadn’t died the first time today.

Or the second.

I sob, the sound hoarse and hollow in the inky night—my final act coming to its climactic end. Tears cascade down my cheeks, landing in puddles of sandy dirt around my head.

I cry for my mom, knowing she will be alone and even more broken once I am finally gone. I cry for the future I will never have, and the love I will never find. I cry for the eighteen years that I have been alive, enduring and hoping and dreaming of a better future. A future where I would turn eighteen and leave. I cry for the day that today was supposed to be.

The day I was supposed to get out.

“Scream, you little bitch. No one will hear you,” he spits, dropping to his knees on either side of my waist. His weight presses down on me, but I hardly notice. I know I should be focused on breathing, on surviving. But I’m tired, and I don’t care anymore.I have lost.

“Apologize for what you said.” He leans over me, his bodyvibrating with his unspent rage. His gray eyes are large and wild, frantic, crazed as he hovers over me.

The conductor of death.

I cry harder, screams tearing from my throat as sorrow so violent and grief so heavy wash over me. I don’t bother responding. I hadn’t said anything to him, and it won’t make a difference, anyway. My crime was that my mother had wished me a happy birthday—my eighteenth birthday, to be exact.And he knew I could get away from him now. He knew he had lost the race.

But he hadn’t. Because I am here, still dying beneath his hands.

I stop kicking my legs, flailing my arms. I stop sobbing and screaming. In an instant, the world around me grows eerily quiet, save for his wheezing breaths.

And then he starts to squeeze.

I don’t fight him; I have no more fight left in my abused body. I tried fighting, and I failed. I failed at this fucked up life, and I am done.I wantto be done—with this life, this fight, this heartache. I wished for this life with him and the symphony of our making to end every year for my birthday. And every year it has gone unanswered. Except this year it looks like my wish will finally be granted.

Just not in the way I’ve hoped.

I open my eyes a final time, my vision blurry with tears and sand, to see his smile—thecruelestsmile. He is punishing me, as he always does—it makes him feel like he is atoning for his own sins.

With fingers still clamped around my aching throat, he raises my head and squeezes tighter yet before slamming me back into the dirt. I stop fighting, stop seeing, stop breathing.

And the final hollow, ringing note, the very last strum of my existence,blares in my ears.

March 16th, 2024

I jolt awake, boozy sweat beaded across the surface of my skin. I can’t suck in air fast enough, my chest too heavy and tight. I search the room, frantically looking around for danger, forhim. Pressing my fingers to my chest, I will my pounding heart to slow down, relax,not explode.

I scream hoarsely, thrashing in the sheets wrapped tightly around my clammy body. I pull at my arms, legs,anythingto free myself from the grip the soft fabric has on me. They’re strangling me, and all rational thoughts quickly flee my body. Breathing in short, jabby gasps, I sob, the sound hysterical and out of place in the silent night filling my bedroom. I can’t be tangled up like this;it’s too close to being choked.

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