Page 1 of Injustice and Absolution

PART ONE

PROLOGUE

DELILAH

Seven Years Ago | Age: 13

Daddy is here.

Rubbing his hand over my bare shoulder, tucking my loose hair behind my ear.

He’s using his calm voice. The one I’ve learned to fear more than his anger. It's always followed by the touch I’ve learned to fear more than his backhand.

He’s got the same look in his eyes I remember seeing in them the first night he came to me. I was seven, and it had been two weeks since my mother overdosed, leaving me alone and unprotected...

With him.

“My lovely Lilah...” he coos.

I lunge up from the sweat-soaked mattress with a gasp. My chest heaves as I try to suck air into my lungs. Nausea that’snormallycoupled with my recurring nightmares rockets through my stomach at an alarming rate. Twisting my body, I lean over the side of the bed and have just enough sense to aim for the trash can I don’t remember being there before I went to sleep last night.

Between dry heaves, I feel a soft, warm hand rubbing circles on my back. The touch startles me until I remember I’m not in my bedroom. I’m not even in my trailer. And my father isn’t the one in bed next to me.

Maggie is.

I want to tell her to get off, that it reminds me ofhim, but I don’t. She’s just trying to help, and as my only friend, I don't want to push her away.

“Are you okay?” she questions, her tone thick with concern.

I look up at the wall I’m facing and catch sight of Maggie’s dresser. The clock on top of it shines brightly.

1:23 A.M.

Once my stomach no longer feels like hurling itself out of my body by way of my esophagus, I take a breath and fall back onto the bed.

“Yeah,” I answer, running my hand across my mouth. “Did you put the trash can there?”

I finally meet her stare, noticing the sheepish look on her face.

“You get sick in the middle of the night a lot,” she picks at her blanket.“It’s happened the past three times you’ve slept over.”

The way she says it isn’t accusatory. It’s not littered with disgust. The care and concern in her voice is almost too much for me to bear. I know she wants to ask why I get sick, but mercifully, she doesn’t. I’m sure she’s going to want to know the reason for my frequent night sickness one day, but I don’t know if I’ll ever have the guts to tell her.

“Thanks,” I look away from her. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

It’s been six years since my father first started coming to me at night. In the beginning, he insisted it was because he heard me whimpering in my sleep. He would rub my back, massaging away worries I never remembered having. The more it happened, the more his touch drifted to other parts of my body.

As it began to occur more frequently, even my young mind was able to piece together that what he was doing wasn’t right. I used to lay very still and quiet, pretending to be asleep when I heard his footsteps creeping softly down the hallway. This was always followed by silent prayers for him to enter his own bedroom instead of mine.

Rarely were they answered.

And pretending to sleep didn’t keep him away for long.

So I started to hide at bedtime. Sometimes in my closet. Other times I’d slither beneath the crawlspace under the hallway of our trailer. Not only would he get mad that he had to search for me, but our time together would be much worse once he finally found me.

Soon after, he began threatening punishment if I wasn’t in my room at night. Now I no longer hide. I don’t pretend to sleep. I’ve learned that the sooner I do as I’m told, the quicker it will be over and with less proof of his violent touch.

Opening the door to the bathroom, I turn on the overhead light and take a good look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot. My tear-stained skin isflush from the exertion of getting sick.

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