The summer air hung heavy and still, thick with the smell of overripe tomatoes and something acrid I couldn't place. It clung to the sweat beading on my forehead, even though I was already shivering. It was always cold inside the house, even in July. Mr. Henderson, my foster father, called it "efficient." The kitchen clock ticked, each second a hammer blow against my already frayed nerves. 7:00 AM. Time for the morning "check-in." My stomach lurched; the meager breakfast of stale bread and weak tea would be a torture, not sustenance. I'd learned to eat only in secret, tiny bites hidden in my room when the sounds of his movement were distant enough.
"Lydia!" His voice, rough and impatient, sliced through the silence. "Get your ass down here."
I braced myself, a familiar tension clenching my shoulders. Slowly, I pushed myself from my bed, the worn mattress a cold comfort. My reflection in the cracked mirror was a stranger: gaunt face, eyes shadowed, a girl who barely resembled the one in the faded photographs tucked under my pillow. I shuffled down the stairs, the old wooden steps groaning a mournful protest under my weight.
At the base of the stairs, I hesitated, just long enough to let the swell of nausea settle in my gut. The linoleum in the kitchen was always colder than it had any right to be, and I stepped onto it like I was crossing into enemy territory.
Mr. Henderson sat at the kitchen table, legs spread wide, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug, the other scrolling his phone. The flickering light from the bulb above cast his features in hard shadows—deep lines, grease-slicked hair, yellowed eyes that tracked me like prey.
"Bout damn time," he muttered, not looking up.
I stood in silence. I'd learned not to speak unless spoken to. Words gave him more fuel. I kept my hands tucked behind my back to hide the tremor. My bones ached from sleeping too still, afraid even in dreams that a shift of the mattress would bring him stomping in.
He finally looked up, sneered. "You still look like shit."
I didn't answer. My throat was too dry anyway.
He gestured to the seat across from him. I moved without a word, lowering myself onto the edge of the chair. The cold metal scraped against the bruise on my thigh. I flinched. The plate in front of me held two slices of bread, stiff and curling at the corners. The tea beside it was more murky water than anything else, no sugar, no warmth.
"Eat," he ordered. "I don't wanna hear any gagging this time. If you puke it up, you'll be licking it off the floor."
forced myself to tear the corner of a slice, chewing slowly. I didn't swallow right away. Sometimes it sat better if I waited. He watched for a moment, then grunted and turned back to his phone.
"I got a buddy comin' by later," he said, voice casual, but something in it made my blood run colder. "You'll be polite."
My stomach dropped. I nodded, staring at the tabletop where a faint ring of water had stained the wood like a permanent bruise.
The rest of breakfast passed in silence. I counted the seconds between each tick of the clock, each breath, each moment I wasn't being hit or dragged or mocked. These were the good minutes.
When I finished, I stood. "May I go get ready?"
He didn't respond at first. Then, "Don't take long. And wear something decent. You're not a damn corpse."
I nodded again and walked quickly—never too fast, never like I was running—from the kitchen, through the hallway, and back up the stairs. I shut the door gently behind me and leaned against it, heart pounding. I waited.
Nothing. No footsteps. No sudden yells.
I let myself slide down to the floor, arms around my knees.
Up here, I had an illusion of safety. The room was sparse—just a thin mattress on the ground, a plastic crate of folded clothes, and a cracked window. But this was my whole world. I'd carved space where I could. A single torn notebook under the mattress. Three old paperbacks hidden behind a loose panel in the closet. The faded photos under my pillow: me and Talia at age four. Me and… Jamie. Seven years old, toothless grins, mud on our cheeks, sun in our hair.
I let my fingers drift to the corner of one picture, gently tracing the edge.
"I'm still here," I whispered. "Somehow."
My breath fogged the window. Outside, the sun had risen fully, casting the yard in golden light. But it never felt warm here. Not in this house.I stood slowly and peeled off the sweatshirt I'd slept in. Underneath, I wore a long-sleeve tee—thin, too big, but it hid the bruises. I tugged it straight and opened the closet. My fingers lingered on a light blue dress. It still had the tag. A gift, months ago, from a caseworker who never came back. Mr. Henderson had laughed when he saw it.
"Trying to look like someone'd actually want you?" he'd said.
I didn't wear it. Not after that.
Today, I chose jeans and a plain shirt. Armor. Not that it would protect me from what I knew was coming.
At 10:32, I heard the knock on the front door.
At 10:33, he called for me again.
My hand shook as I gripped the doorknob.
I stepped into the hallway, every breath like glass in my throat. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my sleeve, pulling it lower over my wrist, hiding the fingerprint bruise just starting to fade.
The front door was open. Sunlight spilled onto the threshold, too bright, too sharp. I squinted instinctively, but the warmth stopped there. It never crossed the line into the house.
The man on the porch was older than Mr. Henderson. Thick neck, pale, sunburned skin, a grin too wide. He smelled like sweat and gasoline, and when he stepped inside, he looked at me like I was a vending machine he already had the quarters for.
Mr. Henderson clapped him on the shoulder like they were war buddies. "This here's Lydia. She don't say much, but she's obedient enough if you don't give her options."
I didn't breathe.
The man's eyes lingered. "She's small."
Mr. Henderson chuckled. "You wouldn't believe how much of a pain she used to be. Learned her place, though. Right, girl?"
I nodded. Tiny. Robotic. Like a puppet that wouldn't work right if you pulled the string too fast.
"Take him to the den," Mr. Henderson said to me, then turned back to his friend. "Lemme grab the stuff. Be there in a sec."
I walked, barefoot on cold tile, leading the man into the den. I didn't speak. I knew better.
The den was the darkest room in the house, the curtains always closed, the air heavy with dust and whatever chemical made the furniture smell slightly off. The door clicked shut behind him. I stayed near the wall.
He didn't sit. He watched me. And something about the silence stretched too long. He took a step forward. I took one back. Another step. My breath hitched. I didn't want to be here. I never wanted to be here.
"Don't be nervous," he said, voice syrupy and wrong. "You're the quiet type, huh? Pretty eyes for someone so…"
His words trailed off as footsteps approached. The door opened sharply. Mr. Henderson held a plastic bag of something—cans, I think—and a bottle of liquor under his arm.
The man chuckled, low and hungry. "Think I like this one."
I froze.
"You wanna earn your keep today, Lydia?" Mr. Henderson asked, tone light but with that undertone that made my teeth hurt.
I didn't answer. The man stepped forward again and reached out, fingers brushing my arm.
And I flinched.
Hard. Instinctive. Involuntary.
Like a spark had jumped from his skin to mine.
The mood shifted.
Mr. Henderson's smile dropped. "What the hell did I say about acting up?"
My mouth opened—but I didn't even know what sound I was trying to make. An apology? A plea?
It didn't matter.
The bottle slammed onto the table. "You want me to drag you back up those stairs?"
I shook my head, throat thick with panic.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
But it was too late. He came toward me.
And the world became a blur of fear, pain, and shouting. I heard the man laughing. Heard myself scream. Heard the crash of something breaking—glass, maybe—and then nothing else for a while.
⸻
When I woke, it was late afternoon. The light outside had turned golden again, warm and soft—but still, it couldn't reach me.
My cheek stung. My ribs ached. My jeans were across the room, and my thighs throbbed. He'd done it again. Maybe both of them had. My hands shook so badly I couldn't hold the bottle of water I'd stolen from the kitchen. I tried to drink but spilled most of it on the floor.
I curled back into the corner of my mattress. The silence was worse than the noise. It meant he wasn't done yet. Or maybe he was. Sometimes I didn't know which was worse. I curled tighter, pressing my forehead to my knees. And then—soft, almost too soft to hear—I whispered it.
"Jamie."
Like maybe, somehow, he could hear me. Like maybe the universe would remember we had a promise once. Like maybe someone, somewhere, would still come.