Chapter 4

Four

Iwake to the sound of the front door slamming closed, the foundation rattling with the force of his lingering anger. I thank whatever deity for the reprieve, for the opportunity to rest before he comes home and continues his abuse. I listen for the sound of his car starting, the garish thing he insisted he needed as a statement of his success rumbling to life a second later. When the sound of the familiar engine fades, I try to move but I can't.

I can barely breathe.

There's no way to know just how many bones are broken right now. I know my ribs have suffered, and judging by how painful it is to breathe, that might be what ultimately kills me. It's not as if I can go to the doctor, not when the only one around for miles is the one who caused the pain.

There's something wrong with my leg too, but that pain is nowhere near as severe as my head. I gingerly press my fingers to my skull, feeling the bumps and bruises there. My face is swollen, my eyes refuse to open, my lips are split in multiple places, and there are cuts all over my face. I'm pretty sure my nose is broken. There's pain in my neck that worries me, but at least I stopped bleeding so severely. As I slept, I bled all over the attic floor. Now it's dry, making my dress stiff and uncomfortable. I try to reach for the numbness, if only to dull the pain, but it doesn't work. I'm cursed to feel every ache and bite of agony. Every time I try to sit up, my ribs scream at me and I collapse back to the wooden floor.

I still try. I won't die here. I refuse to die meekly. This attic won't be my coffin.

I try over and over, splitting wounds anew and making them bleed again. I don't know how much blood I have left to lose, but I don't care. I have to get out. I have to run. I have to escape.

My body is a traitor, though, and no matter how much I try to move, it's determined to stop me.

I collapse back to the wooden floor for the hundredth time, panting from my attempts and sweating with the exertion. I can't. Fuck, I can't.

As I lie here and stare up at the ceiling, the sun shines mockingly through the tiny window. I watch as dust motes dance through the rays, stirred by my movements. It almost looks like snow, like the bliss of a winter morning. I watch them dance across the light and yearn for something bigger. I gave my life to Roger, and he'll take all that I am if I stay. My body, my freedom, and my life hasn't been mine since my father died—not since I gave in and married to save my mother.

My existence has been a long line of disappointments.

As I clutch the joker card in my fingers, I realize I've been searching for the feeling the circus gave me all my life. The excitement and wonder have eluded me, and the strange child I was grew into a woman who bent to the whims of others when she should have fought.

Now, I'll pay for it with my life.

I don't cry. Instead, I recall that time of happiness, when I'd been carefree and my father had let me run through the tents. I return to the feeling of having my face painted, the wet brush moving across my skin as it smeared paint in a perfect design. I refused to remove the face paint for days. My mother was embarrassed by it at the grocery store when the other mothers stopped and stared. I remember the boy and the way his dark eyes caught mine and held. I remember the fortune teller, her words echoing in my mind.

Life will not be kind to you.

God, I thought she meant my exams at the time, not this horrible tragedy.

My fingers squeeze the card tighter, crinkling it, and my heart hurts for the child I once was. I was so full of wonder, so eager to chase the magic, but now here I lie, dying in an attic, my body broken and beaten. I will never be that innocent again. I will never dance through a circus, carefree and happy like I did as a child. She's gone, and soon, I'll be gone too.

How long before I bleed out? I don't know, but I hope it's sooner rather than later. I hope Roger doesn't return only to patch me up and force me to keep living. I can't do this anymore. I have to get out, either physically or by death. Either option is better than this.

My injuries are worse than I thought. I slip into darkness before I know what's happening, waking up later to find the rays coming from a different direction. How long have I lain here? What time is it? There are no clocks in the attic, and I don't wear a watch. I listen for sounds around me, relaxing when I only hear the creak of the floorboards as the house settles. My body feels heavy, and when I try to move this time, it still doesn't respond. My legs won't budge, and my arms may as well be boulders. They are unmovable. My entire body feels as if a great weight sits on top of it and holds me down. I can't even lift my head. All I can do is open my eyes and peer up at the dust motes still dancing like a beautiful ballet, somber and quiet to commemorate my death.

I enjoyed the ballet when my mother took me to it, though her dreams of me being a ballerina were dashed when I was refused entrance into the ballet school due to my gangly legs. Instead, she insisted on taking me to the performances. It always made me happy, the costumes intricate and pretty. I never understood how those were okay but the circus ones weren't. They were all performers.

The rumbling of a car engine rises outside, and I hold my breath, begging the universe to let it pass our driveway, but it slows, and I hear it pull in before cutting off.

Roger's home.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

I try to move again but it's pointless. I can barely breathe. I'm powerless to stop whatever happens next. If only I'd die. It's the one thing I can control now, and I refuse to be subjected to his whims until the bitter end.

I get to control this.

"Die," I rasp, willing myself to escape. "Please, just die."

That's rarely how the Grim Reaper works. He can't take me until my body gives out, and despite my pain and brokenness, it stubbornly hangs on. I'm going to suffer at Roger's hands again until he finishes with me.

Tears trickle from my eyes, finally able to drip free now that true fear is taking hold. I don't want this. I don't want him to find me.

The front door slams shut. I'd flinch if I could, but all I can do is close my eyes to the agony of what's coming. I hear him stomping around downstairs, the footfalls as angry as they've ever been. Today must have been a bad day at work, and he'll take it out on me. He'll make sure I know each grievance he had with his office or patients, and he'll hurt me for each one.

"Die," I rasp again as I hear him ascend the stairs with great big stomps. "Please."

"Ember," Roger calls, the sound echoing beneath me. I can feel his voice through the wooden floor. "I'm home."

"Die," I grunt, gritting my teeth as if that will help. "Just fucking die."

"Are you still alive up there?" he calls, amusement in his voice. "Sure would be a shame if our fun ended early."

He's right below me now. He's coming. All he has to do is climb the small attic staircase and open the door.

"Please," I croak, begging an entity that's not there. "Please."

Panic fills me as I hear him start coming up the small stairs. Although I can barely breathe, my chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, making my aching ribs shoot shards of pain into my heart.

"It doesn't matter if you died," Roger remarks behind the door. "I'm going to fuck you regardless."

My stomach roils, and I stare at the door in horror as he stops just outside it.

"Please," I beg one last time. "Please, let me die."

I'm not so lucky.

The doorknob turns, and tears spill over my lashes and down my swollen face, cutting through grime and blood on my skin. I can't move. I can't move. I can't . . . I'm not strong enough.

"Ember," he coos, "I'm going to have such fun with you."

I stare in horror as the door begins to open, the loud squeak of its hinges echoing around me.