Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Careful not to disturb her, I reach into the closet and find my overnight bag. I set about stuffing it with clothes, books, and finally, the photo I keep hidden from my father.
I trace my fingers over the four faces staring back at me. My own looks almost unfamiliar. My smile is genuine because it isn’t hiding pain like it is now. I was barely eleven years old, but puberty was clearly setting in. Next to me is Molly, at eight years old, grinning coyly at the camera, blonde hair in wisps around her pale porcelain face. My beautiful mom is nestled between us both, her long, fair hair swept into a bun. I touch her face in the picture, tears narrowing my throat to nothing.
Our mom looks so proud of her kids; her eyes show so much love.
God, I miss her voice, her smell, her energy. Everything.
The void in my heart grows wider as I linger on the scene.
My grandma stands behind us all, her arms spanning the people she loved so dearly, guarding her brood with pride. Her face is crinkled into lines, telling of a life of joy and pain.
I have her eyes. If only I had her grit.
I swipe at a lonely tear and shove the photo deep into the bag, along with a pad, pen, and a few bills. Instead of making for my bed, I climb in beside Molly. She shifts and settles closer, her warm hands reaching for me as I scoop her against my body.
“I love you, T!” Her voice is a fragile whisper.
“I love you, too, Mollymoo. Sorry, I woke you.”
“I’m glad you did. Dad told me you’re going tomorrow. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I’m so sorry, Molly. I’d never choose to leave you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know. But I’m scared. What’s going to happen to us?”
“I don’t know, Moll. But I promise I’ll find a way to get you out of here. I won’t stop ’til I do. Do you trust me?”
“You know I do.”
“Good.”
She takes a deep breath, and as her body tenses, she swallows hard, gulping back tears.
We’ve both learned to stifle our emotions because what’s the point of crying when no one cares to fix what’s making you sad? I fill the silence so she doesn’t have to.
“I want you to go to The Bakehouse tomorrow morning. They’re expecting me on shift. Saturdays are busy. They’ll need someone. Speak to Natalie and explain you’ll stand in until I come back. Don’t tell them where I’m going. Say it’s a family emergency.”
“But I can’t. I don’t know anything about the bakery. I won’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay. I’ll call Natalie in the morning and give her a story. She’ll look out for you. It’s a good place to work. And an escape from here. You’ll always have something to eat.” I hope the last part is the clincher. Despite her not having a huge appetite, sweet treats are a different story.
She inhales again, and I hug her closer.
“Listen, there’s something else you need to know, but you mustn’t tell Dad. In the back of the closet, where the floorboards are loose, I’ve stashed some dollars. It’s for an emergency. I’m leaving it for you. Make sure you get some healthy food, you hear me? But hide it from Dad so he doesn’t suspect anything. You need fresh fruit and vegetables. Don’t forget. Candy won’t build your body right.”
Her swallow is a crackling sound of tears locked in the tunnel of a tightly clenched throat. She turns her face into my body, and she jerks just once with a sob she didn’t have the strength to hold inside.
“I love you, T—”
My heart breaks. “I love you, sweet girl. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m going to be fine, and I’ll find a way for us to be together. Maybe this is our path to freedom. Maybe this is the way we’ll escape.”
I say it as much to convince myself as Molly. The flicker of hope snuffs out as quickly as it ignited.
The unknown is as bleak as the arid rolling plains surrounding this town.
My heart is dust.
After a few minutes, Molly’s breathing turns quiet and steady. I’m so tired, I could sleep for a week and still quake from exhaustion, but rest is elusive. The seconds tick past, stretching endlessly into the night, and my thoughts spiral.
Sometime later, the front door bangs shut, and the staggering steps on the floorboards downstairs alert me that my father is home.
My pulse quickens. The time on the clock reads 2:03am.
I anticipate creaking on the stairs, and I brace myself in the haunting darkness. When the house is silent again, I realize he must have fallen asleep in the den.
Morning comes, but no joy accompanies the first rays that break through the gaps in the drapes.