Read Online Finding Claire Fletcher by Lisa Regan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Regan
Ads: Link
the back of his neck with their heavy black boots. Triumphant, my saviors would nod solemnly at my newly unified family, as my abductor squirmed like a tiny garden snake under their oppressive feet.
From there I added variations. Sometimes my parents would take me home, and my mother would draw me a steaming bubble bath and stay with me while I soaked away the dirty injustices committed against my body. I wouldn’t have to go to school for a long time. My mother would take Brianna and me shopping.
Other times, my parents, Tom, Brianna and I would celebrate my return with a barbecue, after which we would play softball in the backyard. Brianna would sleep with me at night. My body curled into hers while she stroked my hair in the dark. And I would never have to tell her about the things he did.
In some scenarios my brother would escort me every place I went like a bodyguard, and when I was frightened, he would throw an arm around my shoulders like he always did and say something to make me laugh. Sometime after I arrived home, we would get a dog, and my family would let me choose its name.
I sustained myself on these fantasies, stories I told myself while I waited in darkness. Whenever he came to touch me, to screw me, I would go away in my head, to the day when the SWAT team arrived and I was delivered from that cold, black womb.
I don’t know how long he kept me in that room. He came many times to feed and wash me and allow me to relieve myself. Then he would come for the other. One day he arrived to find that my period had begun. I hadn’t given it much thought, but when he realized what it was, he was infuriated. He slapped me, and my arms tugged mercilessly to cover my face.
“What is this?” he asked.
“My period,” I said with difficulty, my right cheek stinging.
“How can this be?”
I didn’t look at him. I actually considered launching into the biological mechanics of a woman’s body, a lecture I’d heard from both my mother and my health teacher at school. Instead, I said, “I’m fifteen. I’ve had it for years now.”
“Fifteen,” he said but it was not a question.
I hazarded a look his way. His face drained of color, his eyes widened. He met my eyes. “How long does this last?” he asked.
If I could have shrugged, I might have. “It depends,” I said, forming each word carefully so as not to aggravate the ragged tear inside my right cheek where my teeth had cut into the impact of his slap. “Sometimes four days, sometimes seven, or anywhere in between.”
He looked down his nose at me. “You’re soiled,” he said, and his voice was the quiet of a knife’s edge.
He turned on his heel and left, his jacket flapping against his sides. I thought he would not return for several hours, as was his habit when something about me displeased him. But he returned within minutes, flying into the room, face twisted into an ugly mass of creases and lumps, like scar tissue. His fists were working before he even reached me, and I had a split second of terrible awareness of what was coming before his hands descended on me.
He beat me. Fists, knuckles, open hands beating a staccato rhythm up and down my body. I was literally like a drum, my body like rubber stretched taut over the mattress so that some of his blows glanced off me. I turned my head from side to side, frantically trying to avoid the worst of what was directed at my face. At some point, I realized he was speaking. His voice came in appalled gasps. “Fifteen,” he said. “Fifteen. Fifteen. Fifteen.”
As quickly as he entered, he was gone.
It was difficult to catch my breath. I panted, my head still turning wildly from side to side, the muscles in my neck not yet conscious of the fact that the beating had ceased. My skin stung and later, my body ached and swelled. Blood dried at the corners of my mouth and in my teeth. I longed to touch my own face.
It was a long time before he came back. He did not look at me. I felt his hands
From there I added variations. Sometimes my parents would take me home, and my mother would draw me a steaming bubble bath and stay with me while I soaked away the dirty injustices committed against my body. I wouldn’t have to go to school for a long time. My mother would take Brianna and me shopping.
Other times, my parents, Tom, Brianna and I would celebrate my return with a barbecue, after which we would play softball in the backyard. Brianna would sleep with me at night. My body curled into hers while she stroked my hair in the dark. And I would never have to tell her about the things he did.
In some scenarios my brother would escort me every place I went like a bodyguard, and when I was frightened, he would throw an arm around my shoulders like he always did and say something to make me laugh. Sometime after I arrived home, we would get a dog, and my family would let me choose its name.
I sustained myself on these fantasies, stories I told myself while I waited in darkness. Whenever he came to touch me, to screw me, I would go away in my head, to the day when the SWAT team arrived and I was delivered from that cold, black womb.
I don’t know how long he kept me in that room. He came many times to feed and wash me and allow me to relieve myself. Then he would come for the other. One day he arrived to find that my period had begun. I hadn’t given it much thought, but when he realized what it was, he was infuriated. He slapped me, and my arms tugged mercilessly to cover my face.
“What is this?” he asked.
“My period,” I said with difficulty, my right cheek stinging.
“How can this be?”
I didn’t look at him. I actually considered launching into the biological mechanics of a woman’s body, a lecture I’d heard from both my mother and my health teacher at school. Instead, I said, “I’m fifteen. I’ve had it for years now.”
“Fifteen,” he said but it was not a question.
I hazarded a look his way. His face drained of color, his eyes widened. He met my eyes. “How long does this last?” he asked.
If I could have shrugged, I might have. “It depends,” I said, forming each word carefully so as not to aggravate the ragged tear inside my right cheek where my teeth had cut into the impact of his slap. “Sometimes four days, sometimes seven, or anywhere in between.”
He looked down his nose at me. “You’re soiled,” he said, and his voice was the quiet of a knife’s edge.
He turned on his heel and left, his jacket flapping against his sides. I thought he would not return for several hours, as was his habit when something about me displeased him. But he returned within minutes, flying into the room, face twisted into an ugly mass of creases and lumps, like scar tissue. His fists were working before he even reached me, and I had a split second of terrible awareness of what was coming before his hands descended on me.
He beat me. Fists, knuckles, open hands beating a staccato rhythm up and down my body. I was literally like a drum, my body like rubber stretched taut over the mattress so that some of his blows glanced off me. I turned my head from side to side, frantically trying to avoid the worst of what was directed at my face. At some point, I realized he was speaking. His voice came in appalled gasps. “Fifteen,” he said. “Fifteen. Fifteen. Fifteen.”
As quickly as he entered, he was gone.
It was difficult to catch my breath. I panted, my head still turning wildly from side to side, the muscles in my neck not yet conscious of the fact that the beating had ceased. My skin stung and later, my body ached and swelled. Blood dried at the corners of my mouth and in my teeth. I longed to touch my own face.
It was a long time before he came back. He did not look at me. I felt his hands
Similar Books
