Page 237 of Ruin Me Gently

Standing there. Watching.

Her arms were crossed tight over her stomach, hands gripping onto her sweater.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop him.

“Mommy!” My voice cracked.

My bedroom door came too fast, and he yanked me back by the collar of my t-shirt, throwing me inside like I was nothing.

My feet caught on the rug, and I hit the floor, my hands catching rough carpet.

The door slammed behind me.

The lock clicked.

No, no, no—

I scrambled up and lunged for the handle.

Definitely locked.

“Mommy!” I slammed my fists against the wood. “Mommy, please! Please help me!”

Nothing.

I hit harder, palms stinging.

“Mommy! Stop him! Please!”

My breath shuddered, my throat burned, my hands curled into useless fists.

“Don’t cry.” I sniffed hard, swallowing the sob back down. “You’re a big girl. Big girls don’t cry. Brave girls don’t cry.”

I wasn’t a baby.

I was strong.

I forced my arms to drop to my sides, forced my knees to stop shaking, forced my breathing to slow down.

Slow. Quiet.

“Good girls are quiet.”

I dragged myself over the carpet and shuffled toward the window, pressing my forehead against the glass.

The world kept going.

A car passed. A woman walked her dog. A group of kids played in the driveway across the street, kicking a soccer ball between them.

One of the kids fell down. Within seconds, his mommy was there.

She kneeled and brushed dirt off his scraped knee, and then she hugged him, big and tight.

I pressed my fingers to the glass.

I didn’t need that.

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