Page 11 of Liar Byrd
Months pass.
In six months, I turn eighteen, and I lose so much weight my periods stop.
No one can make me eat. What little they force into me, I throw back up again.
I feel like a wraith, a shell of myself, going where people tell me to go, eating what someone puts down in front of me.
Lost.
Broken.
“Byrdie, perhaps you can play something.” There is a push in Jeremiah’s voice as I sit beside him in the dining room.
An order.
Quiet and meek, grateful for the chance to put space between us, I walk over to the keyboard and take my seat. He leaves the keyboard out now, with its stool ready for me to play whenever he wants.
I play one of the songs that Jeremiah likes. He will leave me alone if it’s something he likes, even if it’s something I hate.
My mind wanders as I play.
Later, we eat. The men are sitting together. The women serve first before they can eat. Now that I’m eating again instead of refusing to eat so I can die, I’m back to serving with the women.
“Can you get more bread?” Sophia asks Chandra.
“I can get it.” I need time away from people so I can breathe.
My period came, and Jeremiah won’t touch me when I bleed. But my period is slowing, and he has noticed. He will touch me again. Maybe tonight.
The other women smile gratefully, and I walk to the kitchen to gather the bread.
Keith went into town to buy supplies, things we can’t grow, bake, or make. The truck is still parked a few feet behind the kitchen, with its bed open. As I carry the bread out, a shiny object catches my eye, and now that I’ve seen it, I can’t look away.
The keys are in the ignition.
My heart squeezes, and I hug the bread tighter against my chest.
“You can’t get away,” I whisper under my breath.
He will catch you, and he will kill you, Byrdie. Don’t do it. This is a test.
There is no escape from this place.
I walk away from the truck, still hugging my bread.
One step.
Two steps.
But what if…
My steps slow.
Don’t, Byrdie. This is a trap Jeremiah set to catch you out. He knows you hate him, and he wants an excuse to punish you. Don’t.
I keep walking.
One foot in front of the other is all I let myself think about. All Ieverthink about these days. Except how much I wish God would strike Jeremiah dead.
