Page 5 of The Tattered Gloves
HUNGER GNAWED AT my belly, making sleep impossible.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mind would conjure a mental image of the kitchen, filling it with food. Rather than barren cupboards and empty shelves in the refrigerator, there would be plates of ham and cheese, fresh bread, and no peanut butter anywhere.
I hated peanut butter.
My mom must love it because she constantly bought it, believing it was a stable source of nutrition. I thought my doctor would argue with her on that one… if I actually had one.
I tossed once more, adjusting my lumpy pillow under my head.
Sleep never came.
Growing even more frustrated, I sat up, looking at the door with longing.
“Don’t leave your room. Ever.”
Her instructions had been clear. Ever since I’d sprouted boobs, I was to stay in in this room until morning. But she’d had some early clients arrive before dinner, so I’d been stuck in here without food for hours.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
Breakfast maybe?
I needed food.
Maybe just this one time…
Quietly moving across the room, I wrapped my hand around the doorknob, my body on high alert. I could hear the music across the hall — my mother’s attempt to drown out the noise.
It was exactly the sign I needed.
Turning the knob, I stepped out into the hall.
Freedom at last, I thought.
Until my body was jerked backward.
And I was plunged into darkness.
Forever.
As my body came awake that first morning in the unfamiliar house filled with handmade crafts and goofy art on the walls, I noticed the lack of silence almost immediately.
Tugging my knees into my body, I lay still, my hands still shaking from the dream that wasn’t a dream at all — just a memory on repeat.
A man coughed down the hall, and I heard a toilet flush. My heart instantly began to race, thumping in my chest like a scared little firefly caught in a glass jar.
My fight-or-flight instinct took over, but there was no fight in me. I wanted to flee.
But I couldn’t move.
I was frozen.
A door opened, and heavy footsteps echoed against the old wooden floor. My fingers dug into the yarn of my gloves as I tightly wrapped the quilt around my body, hoping to become invisible.
Head down.
Don’t look up.
Never make eye contact.
