Page 61 of For Fillies and Monsters

With shaky fingers, I pull up Gus’s contact. I’ve never used it, not even for work purposes, but I had insisted the first night he lived here that I have it.‘What if the cows got out?’I had said, but I think we both knew it was more than that. I dial, holding my breath, and attempt to count backward from fifteen. I don’t make it to thirteen before the other line clicks on, silence meeting my own.

After several seconds, Gus’s voice fills the line, and I sag to the floor at the foot of his bed. “Stetson, what’s wrong?” He sounds more concerned than irritated, and that does weird things to my stomach.

“Uh, I just woke up from a bad dream and saw your truck was gone, and I just—” I’m fumbling, I know it, but there are no good substitute words for saying‘I thought you left me’. I can almost see him smirking on the other side, and that ignites a flicker of annoyance in my stomach.

“You worried about me, Little Filly?” His voice is husky, and the rasp of it makes my toes curl.

“Just odd that you would be out so late.” As soon as I say the words, I want to bite my tongue. Unwanted images of him andthat woman, whoever the fuck she was, that smells like cheap perfume and sex, crash into my brain.

Is he with her right now? If so, why would he answer?

He chuckles, and I instantly know he knows what I’m thinking. I want to scream, but I continue to bite down on my tongue, drawing blood.

“I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, when things are especially fucked up, I go for a drive. You know, I spent the better part of twenty years living in the cab of this pickup. It’s not home, per se, but it is safe. And sometimes, I need that feeling.” He says the words so casually, but I hear them for what they are: a painful confession. This is something he hasn’t ever shared with another person, likely barely acknowledged for himself. Yet he told me.

“I’m sorry. Not having a home is the worst,” I whisper back, hoping he does not feel pitied, but instead, identified with. We are the same in that aspect—never having a place to call home.

“I know, Stetson. Sometimes, a person can be your home…” He stops, his sentence hanging unfinished between us. I wait, holding my breath, afraid to dispel whatever temporary peace is hovering over this magical line, but then he sighs. “You really should go back to bed. I’m headed back to the house now, but we will probably have a long day tomorrow.”

I stare at his bed, his bag of clothes and gear, and the little framed picture of his family; I have the overwhelming urge to cry. I can’t explain, but I can’t lose him. Not like this.

Be honest, Stetson—not ever.

I shuffle, stand up, and stare out into the darkness past his window.

“I don’t want you to leave.” I should be ashamed of the words, embarrassed by the admission. But I’m just not. Today has wrung too much out of me, and here in the anonymous darkness, I feel safe to express at least that much to him.

“Never, Little Filly.”

TWENTY-SIX

STETSON

February 14th, 2014

My feetsilently pound against the loose gravel road. The sun is barely tearing its claws through the peachy evening sky, and I’m grateful for the soft light it still shares with me. I have to get away; by tomorrow, I have to be gone for good when he realizes I didn’t die in the driveway the way he planned—like he hoped I had.

I still don’t know how I woke up. I’m not sure I believe in God—I wasn’t raised with such values. But something about surviving what I have, waking up when I should be fully swallowed by the darkness of death, has me wondering if there’s more out there.

I’ve always planned to escape, but today, I’m doing it.

I’m getting out or I’m dying. And I think a greater force is on my side, guiding me, pushing me forward, giving my exhausted, abused lungs the strength to fill with air, my weak, shattered heart the will to keep pumping blood. My throat is raw—my windpipe crushed and bruised from Gibson’s assault making it feel like I’m inhaling shards of glass. But I will keep running, keep breathing in ragged, sawing gasps, until I get out of this town or he catches me.

I won’t stop for anything.

Small, dusty paved sidewalks come into view, and I have to keep pushing my feet forward so I don’t fall to my knees and cry. I made it before nightfall, just like we planned all those months ago. She—Linda—will drive down the main street right as full darkness claims the Texas sky and take me from this place, this life, thishell,without another person seeing. That way, he won’t know where I went;that way, he can’t find me.

You did it, Stetson; you’re getting out.

My hair blows untamed around my face, and I quickly pull the strands back into a loose braid. Slowing to a forced casual walk, I look down at my t-shirt and jeans, dusting at the red sand covering them. Small plumes of the dust float off of me, and I hope that I don’t look as ragged as I feel. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the small tube of concealer I always keep on me and dab the pale liquid around the base of my throat. I don’t have a mirror, so I just rub the cream into the especially tender spots and pray I don’t see anyone.

It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.

The single street light in Moztecha flickers to life, casting an ominous shadow across the sidewalk. I continue forward, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. There are rarely any people out at this time of night; it is a small town, after all. If they are out, they are at dinner or the local bar and will pay no attention to the girl who is always wandering the town this late in the evening.

It’s just her routine—that weird girl who always wears the same clothes and refuses to talk to anyone. She’s a freak, and clearly into drugs, or worse, this time of night. Probably selling her body—I know she’s loose with it, anyway. Trash. That weird girl is just another piece of trash our precious little town must endure. Why don’t her parents have better control of her?

The words race through my mind the way they always dowhen I walk around the small square at night. I remember hearing them for the first time, and how I wanted to scream, cry, beg them to save me. But that’s not what people do here—they protect only those who are in their circle.

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