#dark!chris

Even with a paper map, it’s too dark to read the tiny lines and letters. You pull over to turn on the cabin light and pore over the unfamiliar roads and ways and points. It’s not any help when you lost yourself an hour ago. The signs out here don’t have the same reflective coating as the main highways and are often hidden behind overgrown leaves.

You sigh and squint closer, hoping that you miraculously find yourself in the print. You fold it up haphazardly and drop it in the passenger seat, next to the empty bottle of water and wrappers. It’s not like you want to get where you’re going. Family reunions aren’t always happy reconciliations.

All you can do is keep driving and hope for a beacon of life. You grip the wheel tight as you roll steady but cautiously down the dusty backroad. Your intent to avoid the chaos of busy highways has backfired. You were prepared for a few extra hours of driving but not for the intense void of the country night.

Ahead, you spot a dull glow. You can’t quite make it out until you’re nearly right beside it. You stop and blink at the lit sign of the bar. Only two of the bulbs on the moniker flicker and shadows flood the lot outside the grim windows.

You pull in. If there’s life inside, they have to at least know where you are. You run your hands over your head and exhale out your anxiety. You shut the engine off and grab the map. As you get out, you tuck your keys in your pocket. It’s only then, you notice the line of motorcycles propped up closer to the walls.

You sniff as your soles crunch over the gravel. As you near the door, it opens from the other side. A man stumbles out, barely missing you as you catch the door and sidestep him. He grumbles and struggles to catch a flame on his lighter as he clamps a cigarette between his lips.

You slide inside before he can notice you. Inside, the low drone of classic rock wafts in the air and the clack of pool balls bounce. Glasses clink and bottles thump onto the bar. You glance around at the leather vests and tattooed arms. Oh boy.

You clear your throat and unfold the map as you approach the bar, using the paper to calm yourself. You look at the bar tender on the other side, a grey handlebar drooping around his lips. You lay down the map.

“Hi, er…” you pause and resist the urge to glance around a second time. “I was hoping you could help me out with some direction… please.”

You try not to let your paranoia get the best of you. Besides, you’re not some Cali blond or college girl waltzing in. You’re a grown woman with time creased in her forehead and nestled above her jeans. Your faded denim and loose tea suggest soccer mom more than bombshell.

The bartender scowls and leans in. He curls his lip as he eyes the map. You shift uneasily.

“Goin’ north or south?”

“South,” you answer. “Just trying to find my way back to the highway.”

“Quite the detour,” he growls.

“Right. Well, I’d appreciate it if you could send me off in the right direction or even help me backtrack. I just need to know where I am.”

He lifts his head and his eyes flit side to side. His lips slant. “You’re in the wrong place, honey.”

A chill runs up your spine as you sense a presence behind you. You turn and face a man glaring you down. You swallow tightly. His head is shaved, he has a thick goatee, and deep blue eyes. He wears a faded leather vest over a sleeveless flannel with the top three buttons undone, exposing tattoos over his chest, neck, and arms.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He puts his hands on his hips. A rabble of men chuckle as they watch. “Looking for a hotel? I got somewhere you can sleep.”

You stiffen and feel along the hem of your shirt. Shit. You push two fingers into your pocket, feeling your keys. They’re sharp enough… you just need to move fast.

“Now, you don’t want to be reaching like that,” he warns as he steps closer.

“I’m just looking to go. I’m passing through. That’s it.” You say.

It’s then that you realise the stillness of the place. The music is gone and everyone sits, unmoving, intent on you and that man.

“If you want to leave, go ahead and see how far you get.” He crosses his arms, his shoulders bulging.

You stare at him. Your chest flutters and your fingers tingle coldly. Adrenaline flows through you as your heart hammers.

He smirks and leans in. “Trust me, I’m the nicest guy in the place so be happy it’s not these other bastards in your face.”

Your lip quivers. “Please… I just want to go.”

He snickers and steps closer. He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on your sides. You latch onto his wrists and squirm.

“What?”

The old one? I’ll hang it out for you.” He insists.

“Oh, uh,” you turn back. You don’t know how you forgot.

You grab it from where you slung it from the bed post. He fills the doorway as you face him again. He crosses his arms, muscles bulging as he pushes his fists into his biceps. You cross to him.

“You can probably toss it.” You say. “It’s old.”

“Uh huh.” He reaches to take it from you. “That mean you wanna keep mine?”

“Um. No. I’ll send it back with Breanna.” You shrug.

He lets the wet shirt hang from his hands. He looks it up and down. His cheek dimples. His eyes flick up to you.

“You look good in it.” He slithers.

You shift and look around. You can’t get by him. “Can I… get out?”

“You don’t wanna hang around? Quiet up here.” He steps closer.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Nah? We could chill. Shoot the shit.”

“I don’t even know you.” You argue.

“You could get to know me. Fine, you wanna go outside? We can light up and work on this whole… stranger thing.”

“I don’t smoke.”

He scoffs. “Maybe you should try.” He puts his hand on your shoulder and squeezes. “You needa relax, baby girl. It’s a party.”

You stare at him. Heat creeps up your neck and cheeks. You push his hand off you. He snorts and lets his fingers flutter.

“Fine, let’s go hang this.”

He turns and struts away. You should call it a loss. The shirt, your keys, whatever. You’ll go sleep in the lobby of your building until the landlord gets in.

He gets to the stairs before you move. You close the bedroom door and traipse after him. He goes outside and drapes your shirt across the porch railing. You don’t stop. You keep going, stomping down the steps and down the walk.

“Woah, where y’off too, baby girl?”

You hate that. You're not a baby or a girl. You're done with him and all this.

“Home.”

“What about your keys?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you shrug.

He follows you. You keep walking. He catches up to you and you go faster.

“Shouldn’t be out here alone. ‘Specially when you got nowhere to go.”

“Why do you care?” You shake your head.

“Why don’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “Shouldn’t you go back to your party?”

“It’s kinda boring. But you’re not.”

You snort. He chuckles.

“I mean it.”

“Sure,” you say dully.

“You don’t like parties. Don’t drink, don’t smoke.” He drawls. “How the hell are you friends with Bre?”

You’re starting to ask yourself the same thing. You’re not like these people. You don’t think they’re fun or interesting. Who wants to live their life chasing their next buzz?

“She stole from you. How are you her friend?”

“She came to a party. That don’t mean shit.” He counters.

“No, it doesn’t,” you stop at the corner and face him.

He snickers. “You’re cute.”

You frown. “You’re not.”

He laughs louder. You sigh.

“I think I can make it from here. Thanks.” You wave him off. “Have fun cleaning up after those idiots.”

“It’s all worth it.” He says. “I got to meet the most interesting person in this shithole.”

You grumble and turn away. You take cautious steps, ready to turn back and tell him off again. He doesn’t follow.

You keep going till you get to the next corner. He’s still there, under the street light, watching you. You quickly hurry out of his sight and don’t stop until the chill leaves your spine.

Once you get your keys back from Breanna, you’re putting her on time out. She’s not going to treat you like one of her toys. You’re not Mike. You’re not going to keep going back to be tossed out as soon as she finds someone more interesting.

🖤

Your landlord charges thirty bucks for the new key. You pay it just to be done with it all. You don’t have time to sit and boil in your agitation. You have stuff to do.

Laundry. Well, unfortunately, your laundry fob is on your keyring. That means you need to go get your shit back.

You text Breanna. No answer. You huff and go to her building. She doesn’t answer the buzzer. You sneak in after an old lady with her yappy terrier.

You hammer on Breanna’s door and call her name. You stop when a neighbour comes out and tells you to shut the fuck up. Another pokes their head out to inform you that she never came home. Great, she’s probably at Mike’s.

You leave. How much is that asshole grifter going to charge you to replace the laundry room fob? You’ll just get some change and drag your stuff to the laundromat.

You go home and fill a duffel with clothes and pocket a handful of change. You spend the morning watching the rumbling machines toss your laundry. Your head is pounding with the lack of sleep.

You get home and dump your clothes on the couch without folding them. You slink to bed and fall asleep face down. You don’t wake until shadows dim the walls. You  rub your eyes and sit up. You check your phone. Still no answer from Breanna.

You make coffee and drink it at the table. You know better but you’re so damn foggy. Your whole sleep pattern is off now and you’ll be a horrid bitch at work tomorrow.

You fold your laundry and put it away. Still no reply. You try calling Bre. It goes straight to voicemail. Either her battery is dead or she’s ignoring you on purpose.

Whatever, if she wants to be mad at you because you didn’t stick around to wait for her, that’s on her. She ditched you and seemed all too happy to do so. If she wants to fuck around with Mike, then she can be his problem, not hers.

You send her a text. ‘Bring my keys off, then you can ignore me.’

You plug in your phone and grab your book. You’re just going to forget all about it. As far as you’re concerned, you never stopped reading. You slip right back into the narrative. 

Every time you close your eyes, you feel his fingers on you. If it's not him, it's that other man, Fowler. You're trapped in his car as he makes you do the worst things.

Chris grunts as he rouses. He snorts and shifts behind you, nearly pushing you over the edge. The bed isn't very big.

He stretches his arm down and grabs your ass as you cower. He growls and sits up. He digs his fingers in until you whimper.

He stands and snickers under his breath. "Baby, wasn't last night cozy," his voice is low and coarse. "Bit... cramped but... I like the way you purr for me."

You keep your back to him. Your face is on fire. He groans as you sense him stretching, the floor creaking under him.

"Don't you worry. I won't tell daddy." He taunts. "You won't either, will ya?"

You sniff and shake your head. He hums.

"Good girl."

His weight strains the floor as he treads across it and leaves. Your chest caves in as the door closes. You feel used. Dirty. Disgusting.

Your stomach twists until you have to get up. You tear the quilt and sheets off your small bed, even the pillow cases, and you ball them all up. You shove them in the duffel bag you use for dirty clothes.

It's early still. Behind the curtains, the sky is a soft blue. You go into the tiny bathroom and crank the shower on. It could wake up your daddy but you just don't care. If anything, he's still drunk enough he won't know the difference. He never really cares about what you do, as long as you don't get in his way.

You scrub until you're certain your skin might split open. You feel nasty. Like someone else. Like something else. You're not human. You're not a person. You're what other people say you are. A burden; a criminal; a good girl.

You dress in a button up gingham blouse and jean shorts. You don't have much but a few pairs of denim and some worn out tops. You step into your sandals and hike the duffel onto your shoulder. It's heavy.

You count out change from the tin you hide in an empty cereal box. It's bran, your daddy would never touch it. You got enough for a load.

You set off. The walk will keep you busy. You'll eat up half the day at least.

As you come out, you glance across the street. You don't see Chris. You flit off before you can.

You hurry through the park. You don't bother to see if anyone else is awake. You just need to get away. Even as you get to the entrance of the park, the laundromat feels so far away. You could take a bus but you would be waiting for it and you didn't bring enough change for that.

As you tread down the dirt road, tires grind in the gravel. A short single honk makes you trip. The car slows and drives right behind you. No, please.

You keep walking, moving further to the side. They don't pass.

"Girl." Agent Fowler calls through his window.

You stop and he does too, just before the bumper can touch you. You take a breath and face him. He leans out the window.

"You skipping town on me?" He clucks.

You look at the strap across your body. You shake your head.

He sighs and tilts his head. He beckons you with two fingers. "Come here."

Your lip trembles and you stop it with your teeth. You chew on it as you come around the car. As you get close, he brushes his knuckles along your arm.

"What're you doin' out here?" He growls.

You wet your lips. "Laundry."

"Huh?" He squints.

"Sir, I'm going to the laundromat. To wash some clothes." You explain. "Please, I'm not doing nothing."

He scoffs behind a smirk. "Uh huh. Get in."

"Sir, it's okay. I like the walk."

"I'm not asking," He puts his hand on the steering wheel. "Put that in the back."

You lower your eyes. You could just drop the laundry and run. What good would that do? He always seems to find you.

You open the back door and dump the bag inside. You shut it and go around the passenger side. You get in and pull the seat belt down.

He doesn't say a word as he shifts into gear. He drives down the backroad toward the main town. You fidget restlessly as you watch out the window. Each time he reaches for the shifter or the touchscreen, you flinch.

He pulls up to the laundromat. Not the one you usually go to. It's further into town.

You wait for him to say or do something. He gets out and swings open the back door. He takes the duffel out.

You get out and follow him up to the front doors. He enters ahead of you. You grab onto the bag.

"Sir, I can do it." You insist.

He drops it on the table and unzips it. You step forward and try to stop him. As you touch his hands, he goes rigid and looks you in the face. You gulp.

"I'm helping," he says.

"Thank you, sir, but I can... I didn't ask."

"Seems like you need the help." He eyes you up and down.

You shrink down. You step back and cross your arms. He pulls out the mattress sheet and shoves it into a washer. The place is nicer than the other one. The front loaders are shinier. You reach into your pocket for the change as you read the price on the machine. You frown.

He hums. You look at him. "I don't... I don't got enough change," you say.

"Keep it," he snarls as he stuffs the quilt inside and shuts the door.

"Sir?"

He takes the small bottle of discount soap from the bottom of the bag and measure it out. He uses his card to get change from the machine built into the wall, then sets the cycle. You stand dumbly to the side.

"There a reason you're washing your bedding?" He pulls a chair out and sits.

You stare at him and shake your head. He points to another chair. You sit across from him. He sighs.

"What's your daddy up to today?" He asks.

You swallow and shrug. "He's still sleepin'."

"Mhmm," he nods. His cheek dimples and his lips slant. He checks his watch. "We got forty minutes to waste."

You frown. He leans forward. He taps his finger on the table. You're confused.

He stares as you gape back. He leans into the chair and puts his shoulders wide. He sighs and drops his hands under the table. You hear his belt clink. Your cheeks light up.

He watches you coolly. You understand now. You remember what he did in the back seat. What you did.

You slide to the edge of the table and lower yourself onto the floor. You crawl under the table as he takes himself out through his fly. You push away your fear and doubt; what if someone walks in?

He pumps himself until you take him in your hand. You stroke him up then down. He groans.

You weave behind a trailer, too disoriented to know who's. You wretch and bend over, spewing into the dirty. You heave until it's dry. You can still taste what that man did. What you did to him.

You don't cry. You just kick dirt over puddle and find your way back to the roadway. Crying never got you much but more licks off the belt.

As you approach your daddy's trailer, a whistle needles between your thoughts. You stop, heart racing, and search for the shiny car. It's not there. It's only Chris.

He nears in a sleeveless tan flannel, the buttons undone, exposing the hair on his chest and muscles of his stomach. You stare at him foggily.

"My daddy won't be awake for a while," you say.

"Huh, I gotta deal with him to talk to you? What? You want me to ask permission?" He scoffs.

You shake your head. "No, I only meant... I don't know."

"I saw you head off. Everything okay?" He asks.

"Yeah, just walking." You answer. The same words you said to that man. Agent Fowler.

"Alone?" He asks. You wince. Would he know? How? No...

"It's... Peaceful." You shrug. "There's lotuses down by the bridge."

He clucks and nods. "Yeah, but Lotta no goods drive over that bridge. Headed up to the farms."

You frown. You know about the farms. That's where your daddy gets his supply. He pays them a cut to deal at the park.

"I don't go that far." You take a step back. "I gotta go make daddy's breakfast."

"Hm... You said he wouldn't be awake for a while." He tuts.

You stop short. "Just me then."

He arches a brow. "Seems like you're avoiding me or some’in."

"No, sir," you answer. "It's just early."

"Later then," he drawls. "I'll be 'round."

You trod off without another word. That puts in your stomach is getting even deeper. You just don't understand why everyone is bothering you. You mind your business. You stay out of the way.

You go inside the trailer, quietly. You know better than to wake your dad if you can help it. You take out your colouring book and sit at the table.

It's those little moments in your own, the lulls, the time you can just focus on the pencil crayons and the colours, that you cherish. You can't just stop thinking. Stop worrying about everything.

And then. It's over.

Your dad stumbles out with a belch. You're up before he makes his first demand. "Coffee."

You set to work loaded the small thrift shop machine with a scoop of off-brand grounds. He hacks over the sink and spits. You tap your fingers on the counter as you wait.

"Hurry the fuck up," he snarls and stomps past you. He shuts himself in the bathroom.

You sniff and continue to wait. Great. He's hungover.

❤️‍🩹

You do your best to clean up the trailer as your dad sits outside in his lawn chair, guzzling beer. Several times he comes inside to grab something from his room. Well, you know what it is. He's selling.

The place isn't very nice even after your effort. You sit at the table and wiggle a pencil crayon. You called work but they didn't have any shifts to pick up. You need to do something because you keep thinking. You're trying not to do that.

"Must got an extra in here," your dad snaps the door open. You feel his weight in the floor. He opens the fridge and snarls. "Goddamn clean out."

"No biggie, Ernie. I said I'd go down but a case myself." Chris leans in the doorway.

"You," your dad snarls at you. "Get over here."

You get up obediently. You sheepishly shuffle over to your dad. He shoves you at Chris.

"She'll walk down. Needs the exercise." Your dad sneers.

"Now, Ern, I don't wanna take advantage," he drawls.

"Y'aint. She got nothing better to do." Your father scoffs. "Go on and get us some beer."

Chris looks between you and your daddy. He reaches into his back pocket. He unfolds his wallet.

"Why don't you grab yourself something cold while you're there?" He plucks out several bills. "Good girl."

You take the money and nod. He shifts in the doorway but doesn't move out of it. You slide on your sandals and squeeze by him. His fingertips brush your shorts.

The walk isn't far. There's a shop off the backroad where people driving through stop for gas or a snack. You go inside and grab a case of beer. You know it by the color of the label.

"Hot out." The cashier muses. His eyes aren't on your face. You pay and thank him, that creepy crawly sensation tingling in your skin.

The cans are heavy. Your shoulders hurt as you drag your feet towards your daddy's place. He's outside in his chair. Chris sits on the steps, puffing on a joint.

"Got it," you say breathlessly.

Your dad snaps his fingers. You flinch. Chris gets up and blows out smoke as he tamps out the joint on the steps. He slips it in his pocket.

He nears and rips open the flap of the case. He hands it to your daddy. "You're welcome, Ern. You old coot."

Your dad snorts and cracks the cans.

"Why don't we go get these in the fridge?" Chris says.

You shrug. He takes the case from you and turns around. Your father slurps loudly.

You follow Chris inside. He puts the case on the floor and leans on his elbow against the counter. As he bends sideways, you near and open the fridge. You grab two cans and slide them onto the metal shelf.

"What'd you get?" He asks.

"The beer." You say as you continue to put them away.

"Huh. I told ya to treat yourself. Get an ice pop to cool down." He drags his fingertips up your arm. You're not sure if the goosebumps are from him or the fridge.

You bend to grab more cans. He pushes away from the counter. "You needs cool off in this heat. Why don't you have a beer? Lots to go around."

"I don't drink," you insist as you reach deeper for the last few cans.

He gets behind you. You feel his jeans against your thighs. His hands frame your hips. He pulls you back against him and groans.

"It'll loosen you up." He wiggles against you then taps your ass.

CIA? What would they be doing in the park? The police don’t even want to come out here most times. You don’t know much about law enforcement, only that your daddy says you should avoid them. 

You can’t let him know. You gotta try to be normal. If he knows you talked to a cop, he’d have you sleeping in the dirt. Again. He wasn’t that mad since you left the trailer unlocked and one of the locals snatched some of his stock. 

You sniff and drag your feet up the two steps to the door. You push through the flimsy barrier, the clasp clicking loudly, and you keep your head down as you enter. Your daddy’s talking to someone. 

“Ah, there she is,” the familiar voice chimes at our appearance. 

You look up as Chris, the neighbour in the opposite lot to your daddy’s, sits at the table. He smirks at you as his eyes scour up and down your body. You give a small wave. He lines a paper with the smelly green leaf as you pass the table. 

“Hi daddy,” you say as your father glares at his phone, leaning on the short counter of the kitchenette. 

“Bout time. We’re starving.” He doesn’t look up. 

You go to your corner. You usually sit at the table and colour in your mandala book or poke away at a cross-stitch. You can’t with Chris sitting there. 

You grab a sweater from the stack of plastic drawers that holds the sum of your clothing. You pull the thin ribbed cardigan over your arms as you turn back. 

“You want me to grill up some burgers, daddy?” You ask. 

“I think that’s a good idea,” he scoffs meanly. 

You once more pass the table where Chris sits. He raises the paper and glides his tongue across it. You feel fuzzy as you meet his blue eyes. He winks. 

You quick go to the kitchenette and open the freezer. You take out the frozen patties. 

“For everyone?” You ask. 

“Why’re you asking me dumb shit?” You daddy snarls. “Get your ass out there.” 

You nod and put the bag of patties on a plastic plate and grab the spatula. You quickly flee the trailer. You go out and set your handful on the table near the grill. You squirt lighter fluid over it and light the charcoal. You put the lid over it to let it heat. 

The door snaps shut again. You look up as Chris bounces down the steps, the joint hanging between his lips. He leans on the wall as he lights it. He inhales and pulls it from his mouth, making the smoke curl in on itself as he savours it. 

You don’t like the smell even though the trailer always stinks of it. You fold your arms and rock. 

“How many did ya want?” You ask. 

“Two’s fine.” He answers as he examines the glowing end of the joint. His eyes flick up to you and he grins. He extends his arm. “Wanna puff, sweetie?” 

“No thank you,” you look out at the park. 

It’s not like anyone there is rich or nothing but you know you’re nothing to envy. You know that you don’t got much. You’re stuck with your daddy. Even with your job down at the chicken shop. They only hire part-time. 

“I know, you’re a good girl. Don’t wanna be gettin’ into all this,” he drawls and puffs again. He holds the smoke in and lets it out slowly. “You take care of your daddy good.” 

You turn to the grill and check the temperature. You’ll leave the burgers on longer. You lift the lid and set it aside. You struggle to separate the frozen patties. 

He nears and gestures with two fingers. He takes the burgers and easily breaks them apart. He chuckles around the joint hanging between his lips. 

“That’s two. How many we having?” He asks. 

“Two for you, two for daddy, just one for me.” 

“One? Ah, nothing wrong with a bit off cushion, is there?” He pulls apart the patties and lays them out; six, not five. 

“I guess.” You shrug and grab the lid. You put it over the grill. 

He stays close. You don’t want to be rude so you don’t back away like you want to. You’re sweating as he sucks on the joint. He blows out the smoke around you as he leans in. 

“It’s hot out here,” he pinches the sleeve of your cardigan. “Ain’t you hot?” 

You tilt your head. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re twitchy. What’s a matter? I make you like that?” He asks. 

You shake your head. “No, sir. Just the way I am.” 

He chuckles, “sir... I like that.” 

You swallow. You grab the spatula and toy with it. You don’t know what to do. You always think he’s confusing but it might just be the smoking. 

“You look... different today.” He purrs. You flinch as he curls a finger and pets your cheek. “You know, girl, I don’t think I ever asked...” he puts out the joint on the top of the barbecue. “How old’re you?” 

You sniff and answer. He hums. “Old enough, huh?” 

His tone sends a shiver through you. You rock and peer out across the park. Brittany watches from her front porch, a bottle of beer in hand. You can’t tell the expression on her face. 

“Old enough... for?” You wonder as you turn to Chris. 

“Things,” he purrs. “Damn, girl, I can see you sweating. You should take that off.” 

He tugs at the string along the front of the cardigan. You wince. 

“I’m okay--” 

“Nah, nah, you’re gonna get heat stroke.” He steps behind you and curls his fingers under the cardigan, just around your shoulders. “You give me that.” 

You have no choice but to let him peel it off. The last time you were rude to one of your daddy’s friends, he made you dig a hole for no reason. Chris strips off the sweater and you switch your grasp on the spatula to untangle yourself. 

He tucks away the joint in the front pocket of his sleeveless flannel. He backs up as he examines your sweater. He raises it slowly and sniffs it. 

“Mm, you wear perfume or something?” 

“Um... not really,” you murmur. 

“Huh, you just smell that sweet, huh.” He squeezes the sweater as his tongue pokes out between his lips. He looks you up and down again. His eyes stop at your chest. “I like that shirt. Cute. That little ducky.” 

You look down. The little rubber duck on the white tee is a bit childish. It’s a handmedown from Dot down around the other end of the park. You shrug and feel how your nipples brush against the fabric. You resist the urge to shield yourself, not wanting to draw attention to them. 

“Oh, thanks,” you say. 

“Looks good on you,” he says pointedly. 

“Um, yeah, thank you,” you face the barbecue. 

“You’re very welcome, girl.” He growls. “I should be thanking you.” 

“You no good fucking bitch,” she spits beside you. “How many times I gotta tell you to get out!” 

You turn over and look up at her. She snarls and puffs like a rabid beast. Her glare scalds. She hates you so much. She always has. 

She slams the screen door, then the inside one. You sit up and fix the backless sneakers on your feet. You check the scrapes on your knees and sigh. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last time. 

How could you know she had someone over? You didn’t hear them. You thought she’d be happy to see the dishes done but that chore only riled her. She broke three plates before she latched onto you. Scratches blaze on your head. 

You get up and look across the street. Leah watches from her front porch, shaking her head as she puffs on a menthol. No one does anything. They only judge. Around here, it’s not exactly unusual. 

Your purse is inside, your phone too. Shoot. You’ll have to wait her out. Whoever she’s got in her room probably gave her some pills. She’ll be out of it soon. 

You’re not proud of that thought. You should be concerned. You used to be. Now you just accept what she is. You rely on it. Her addiction keeps her weak; keeps her from hurting you worse. 

You turn and trod along the street. You could go down to the corner shop and ask Darren to spot you a gatorade. He’s usually pretty understanding. He knows your mom and that you always come to pay for whatever she wanders out with. 

Twenty-one years. It doesn’t feel that long, yet it’s still an eternity. Things never change, they only get worse. Your mom’s hair turns gray and the lines in her face get deeper and her speech more slurred. You only get weaker, more tired, more passive. It’s just the way is. Why fight? Fighting only gets you hurt. 

A truck rolls by and the tires dust up dirt. You cough at the tan paint above the silver bumper. You watch the exhaust chuff out down the street and veer around the corner, just past the corner shop. 

You approach the Penny Mart and shield your eyes against the sun. The truck idles further down the street. You shrug and continue inside. 

Darren pop gum between his teeth. You wave and head for the fridges. You take out a red gatorade and come back to the counter. 

“Can I come back later?” You ask. “Mom locked me out again.” 

He gnaws on the gum and shakes his head, “uh uh.” 

“Oh?” The door chimes as another customer enters. “You know I’m good for it.” 

“Manny says no,” he shrugs. “Your mom threw a box of cereal at him.” 

“She... did?” You’re overly aware of the man behind. He clears his throat. “Alright then, guess I’ll put this back.” 

“Well, you know... I could bend the rules,” he smirks and winks. “Come in the back...” 

You grimace. “I’ll put it back.” 

You turn and march away, skin crawling at his suggestion. It’s not the first time but for him to do it in front of someone else, that’s humiliating. You open the fridge as the man steps up to the counter. 

“I’ll take a pack of lites and twenty on the pump. Throw in a red gatorade,” he says. 

You shut the door and drag your feet across the unmopped tile. This place matches the neighbourhood. You’re sure the prices help distract from the expiry dates, too. 

Footsteps circle around the shelves. The fridge opens. A whistle keeps you from leaving. “Girl, come get your drink.” 

You stop and turn to face the man. His head is shaved close but he sports a thick goatee. He wears a sleeveless flannel, the peek of a chain shimmering around his neck. 

“Um, me?” 

“Come on,” he beckons you. “Hot day out.” 

You hesitate and cross the store. People aren’t all rotten around here. Mrs. Haggin fed you more times than you can count and Ted let you hang around his garage on the hotter days. Still, strangers aren’t common and aren’t often friendly. 

“Thanks, uh, you didn’t have to do that.” 

“Two bucks,” he clucks. 

“Right.” 

Two bucks you don’t have. Pathetic. He holds the door open and you retrieve the same bottle of Gatorade. 

“Thanks again,” you say. 

“Never know. One day, someone might help me out,” he sniffs. 

He lets the door fall shut. You turn and walk away. He follows. You have a bad feeling as he stays close. He pushes the door open above your shoulder before you can. 

Stupid. He probably expects the same thing Darren wanted. You step out and to the side. 

“I can’t pay you back,” you offer the bottle. 

“Keep it,” he waves you off and drops off the pavement ledge onto the tarmac. “Have a good one.” 

“Oh, uh...” 

He walks away. Not a look back at you. You watch him approach the truck by the pumps. Tan with a silver bumper. They must’ve needed the top-up. 

You kick off the curb and drag your feet away. You’ll go down to the park and find a table in the shade. It’s swelter. The sun beats down on you mercilessly. 

You peel away the wrapper and twist the nozzle on the bottle. You drink thirstily as you step on the cracks in the pavement. ‘Step on a crack, break your mother’s back...’ 

The truck rumbles back at the shop and you hear it rolling toward you. It passes slowly and you pretend to examine the label of the bottle. As nice as it was, you’re not stupid. It’s pity. Everyone feels bad for you, but they don’t really care. 

You follow the trail through the tall grasses behind the condemned donut shop down to Smith’s Park. It’s not much of one. Mosquitoes buzz over a pond not much bigger than a puddle, tadpoles swirling in the shallows, and the trees sway over splintering benches and rotting picnic tables. 

You sit and suck on the bottle. Couple of hours and you can go home. Home... not really where you belong, just always where you’ve been. 

The brush rustles but you don’t pay any mind to it. There are coyotes around here but they’re skittish. Squirrels too but you don’t have much for them to steal. 

You put your elbows on the table and peel off the label on the bottle as the condensation soaks through. You lay it out flat on the wood. The dingy smell of the neglected boards clings in the air. 

A twig snaps. You look up as a shadow passes between the bushes. Some kids will come down to catch tadpoles. You did when you were young. Your mom dumped the toads down the toilet once they grew.  

Another crack. You twitch and look over your shoulder. You grip the bottle and turn straight. Your voice catches as you’re face with an unexpected best. A man in a ski mask. 

It’s so absurd, you think it’s a joke. Some of the hunters like to mess around but this isn’t the area for them. It’s not thick enough. They go up north. 

He’s big. The epitome of burly. He wears a grey tee shirt damp with sweat and cargo pants. He stares at you through the slits of his mask. 

“Um,” you stand. “Sorry, I was just...” 

You step over the bench and turn to head back down the trail. There’s another man. He’s in all black. He must be melting in this heat. You reel back. 

“Oh...” the back of your knees hit the bench. “I think...” you sidle along. “I’ll just...” 

You turn and run towards the thicket of wiry bushes. Before you can reach them, another man in another mask pops out. He wears a sleeveless flannel... 

You throw the gatorade at him and spin back. You’re caught by the other two men. 

“Shhh,” the one behind you hushes. 

You struggle with them, kicking the dirty, writhing as they twist your arms behind you. The man at your back secures your wrists together as the peel of duct tape tears through the hum of insects. 

“Please, who are you? Stop!” You whine. This can’t be happening. What the hell is this? 

The man in black keeps hold of your upper arm and signals with his other hand. A cloth covers your eyes. You whimper as it’s knotted behind your head. Another is shoved into your mouth. You gag. You’re shushed again. 

“It’s alright, darlin’,” you think the bigger man says. It comes from his direction as the man behind you pets your hair. “We ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

“Quiet,” another warns. “Get her legs.” 

You fight to evade their grasp blindly. You kick out and your ankles are seized and forced together. The duct tape winds around your ankles. 

Your eyes water behind the cloth. It’s more than fear, it’s realisation. You’re not going to go home, but worse, you don’t think anyone will care. They won’t even notice. 

You babble around the fabric in your mouth. You choke as you’re taken off your feet, carried between two men like luggage. You’re just a thing. Why is this happening to you? 

You squirm and shake, trying to break away from the arms hooked around your torso and legs. A hinge creaks, a car door, then another metallic whine. No, it’s not a car.  

You’re loaded into the truck bed and strapped down to the ridge metal. You blink as your eyes burn. You quiver in horror as you sense a deep darkness cast over you and the truck lurches. The door of the bed snaps shut and closes you in. 

Weight shifts in the axel as the muffled noise of the doors opening seep through. You whimper as the engine rumbles to life. You try to roll one way or the other. You can’t. 

The way they worked, so methodical, it assures you that there is no escape. There’s no loophole for you to find. You’re stuck. That suffocating realisation constricts in your chest. No, no, no. It can’t be real. 

You shudder and replay the scene in your head. It happened so fast yet as you relive it, it feels like slow motion. The large man, the man in black, the third one in his...sleeveless flannel. 

The cloying flavour of sugary electrolytes stick to your tongue. You shudder. The man in the store. He followed you? Why? 

Think about it. What did he see? A woman with no money. A woman alone. A woman wandering off into the shadows. 

How stupid. You would never expect it. Never think that anyone would bother. You always just stay out of the way and no one bothers you. Only Darren and his gross leers. Only Rob next door when his wife’s not talking to him. 

The truck bounces over the road. You can hear the other cars around you as they head into the city. Right through the mid-afternoon rush. How many people are driving by completely unaware of you hidden in the back. 

The pit in your stomach deepens and you whine. You try to scream. You can’t. You try to kick. You can’t. 

He keeps your tits together as he urges his dick between them. You whimper and turn your face away as he nearly pokes your chin. He growls. 

“I said look at me,” he commands. 

You wince but obey. You look up at him, eyes still wet but no tears falling. He shudders out a deep breath as he rocks his hips, fucking between your tits. His gaze falls to the lewd act as the sensation of his flesh against yours makes your shiver. 

He bites his lip as he continues his rhythm. He sighs as he takes long strokes, quaking each time he retracts. “Mm, you’re so warm, sugar.” His eyes flick back up to yours, irises roiling, “you’re a good girl, aren’t ya?” 

You snivel and flutter your lashes, “yes... sir.” 

“Mmhm, you wanna be good for me?” 

“Yes, sir,” you gulp. You just want it to be over. 

“Alright, sugar, then you’re gonna listen to me, alright?” 

“Yes,” your voice evaporates. 

“Mm,” he squeezes your tits then slides out from between them. He bends to kiss each pebbled nipple then craws back. He strokes himself lazily. “Good girl.” 

He drags his hand off his length and flinches. He peels of hiss shirt and you choke on a gasp. His torso is thick with muscle, hair across his chest, some trailing down to his open jeans. Your lip trembles as you stare at his face. He shoves his pants to his feet, wiggle free of his boots as he leaves them in a heap with his boxers. 

“Look at you, sitting there, so... obedient,” he praises as he quickly sheds his socks. 

He comes closer and you quiver. He rests his large hands on your shoulders and runs them down your arms. Your skin speckles in hard bumps. You curl into yourself, shaking in fear. 

“Lay back,” he growls. 

You hesitate then slowly do as he tells you. Your elbows touch the bed first then you lower onto your back completely. He grabs the top of your pants and flicks open the button and zipper. His fingers curl into your waistband and under the elastic of your panties. 

“Lift,” he snarls. 

You raise your hips and he guides your pants down your thighs and past your knees. He pulls them to your ankles and free your feet. You lose a single flat as he does. 

He bows to kiss your thigh. You wince and swat down at his head in surprise. He catches your hand and presses it to the back of his head. You whimper. 

“Sir?” You whine. 

“Shh, baby, you’re gonna be good,” he speaks against your thigh. “So you open up and give your man a taste.” 

You tense and dig your nails into the blankets. He rubs the sides of your thighs and slowly trails his fingers inward towards the inner crease. Your twitch. 

“I’m not ready, sir--” 

“You’re ready,” he pushes his thumbs into your tender flesh. You yelp and he pries your legs apart. “Mmm, yes, I see you glistening, sugar--” 

“What?” You squeal in embarrassment and try to hide your cunt. 

“All for me,” his hot breath scalds along your lips. “Isn’t it?” 

“Sir--” You choke as swipes his tongue up your folds, a quickly, cool, flick. Your hips buck and he pushes his tongue between your lips again, this time slowly, savouring as he plunges into your warmth, tasting it with a hum. 

He pulls back and smacks his lips, “mm, yeah, you are ready, sugar. Sweet and all.” 

He braces your thighs, kneading them, and slowly stands straight. He lets you go and snaps his fingers. 

“Get up,” he orders. 

You blink at him then move cautiously. You’re still tingling. You get onto your knees and edge towards the edge. 

He drops onto the bed and lays on his back. He pushes the pillows away from his head and tuts, “uh uh, baby, you get over here.” 

You stop and stare at him. He brushes his hand over his mouth, bristling his facial hair as he wets his lips. You shudder at the lurid gesture. 

“Come here,” he slaps his chest. “Sit on me.” 

“Huh?” You eke out. 

“You heard me.” 

Your chest tightens and your stomach swirls. You don’t have a choice. Still, your body feels as if it’s filled with cement. You move on your knees, stiff but hollow. He reaches for your as you get closer. His hand tickles your hip as you put a hand next to his head. 

He nudges you up. You move your knee in place of your hand and grip the head board. He helps you straddle above his face. You clench and reach down to shield your cunt. He growls. 

“No more hiding,” he wrenches your hand away. 

He grabs your hips and forces you down. He buries his face between your legs and you squeals. His tongue pushes into your heat as you lean on the headboard and tremble. His hands move down, hooking over your thighs as he holds you down. 

He wiggles his hand and growls as he laps your up. He’s shameless as his tongue makes sloppy noises against your cunt. He drags his tongue up then flick along your clit. You spasm and he circles his lips around your tender bud. 

He trails one hand up to your lower back, just behind your hip. He pushes until you tilt then urges you back. You follow the slow motion, unsteady as you quake over him. His tongue sends sparks through you, the heat nestling in your core. 

He hums and it flows through you. You creak out a wispy whine and clasp onto his short tuft of hair. You rock your hips without thinking. His fingertips sink deeper into your thighs. 

Your breath sticks in your throat, you push it out in short spurts, tension twisting and twisting. Your eyes roll into your skull and you hang your head back. Your nails graze his scalp and he purrs again, sucking on your clit as the pressure capsize. 

Your hips buck wildly as he pushes you over the edge. Your stomach knots up and your thighs draw taut. You feel the pleasure slake onto him, soaking his lips and cheeks as he drinks you in. He coaxes you through with his tongue. 

“You get me out, sugar,” he demands, “you gon’ make me do all the work? Again?” 

You snivel as your eyes gleam with unspent tears, cheeks still wet with the last onslaught, “please, sir--” 

“Don’t make me tell you twice,” he growls.  

You gulp and your gaze flicks down to the front of his jeans. You see him bulging under the thick fabric. Your heart somersaults as you shake on your hands and knees. You’ve never been with anyone that way. Never touched them. Never been touched like he did in the kitchen. 

He tugs your hair. A warning that has you lifting your hand to the top of his pants. You push the zipper down shakily and notice how he winces. You part the denim and feel along the metal teeth. You grip the elastic of his briefs and quiver. 

You tug and close your eyes. You can’t look, the fabric catches and the grunts. He grabs your wrist and flings your hand away. 

“Gonna rip it off,” he snarls and your peek out between slitted eyelids as he angles his briefs around himself, revealing the swollen head of his cock. He pulls them further down and you squeak at the sight of his length. 

You recoil but not much as he keeps hold of you. He yanks you forward and you nearly collide with him. You slap your hand on his thigh to keep from toppling as the bed bows. He takes your hand and moves it over to his dick. You squeal as he forces your fingers around him. 

“Open that pretty mouth,” he growls. 

You pout and peer up at him from beneath your lashes. His eyes are dark and sinister. His tongue pokes out and swipes between his lips. You push your lower lip out and a rocky noise rises in his throat. He pulls on your again. 

Your gaze sinks to his pelvis as his tip presses to your sealed lips. You resist for just a moment. He bucks and you have no choice but to open up. He dips into your mouth impatiently and groans. He thrusts again and you almost gag as he hits the back of your throat. 

You squeeze him and he rumbles again. He pulls you back then urges you onto him again. He moves you up and down his length, his voice wafting out between gritty breaths. Your spit smears down his taut flesh and around your lips and cheeks. As he uses you so easily, you’re mortified. 

Heat blooms in your core and your cheeks. Your tears spill over in shame as the noise of your mouth on him underlines his sultry growls. He stops you and rocks his hips instead. Saltines mingles with your spit as you huff and puff around him. 

He wrenches on your as he rams his hips and buries himself down your throat. You gag and kick your feet. He brings his other hand to your head, clasping it in his hard grip, and fucks your face faster. He doesn’t let up, not even as your body constricts and you struggle not to vomit on him. 

He just keeps going and going and going. The flood of tears drowns you as you gulp and gurgle around him. You cling to the top of his jeans as your body nearly tips over. He rolls into longer strokes, delving into your throat before retreating deliberate. Each thrust stirs your stomach. 

He grits and rasps above you. He squeezes your skull until you think it might burst. Suddenly, he pushes your mouth off of him and keeps your head aloft. He snarls between his teeth, “finish it. Keep your mouth out and finish me, sugar.” 

You stare at him and he steps closer so his tip is just before your nose. He growls and pulls a hand back to swat you. “Use your hand.” 

You flinch and pump him obediently. Your eyes nearly cross as you look at his pulsing head. The abrupt spurt has your eyes snapping shut and a sickly wet heat stringing over your face. The smell of it is enough to make your stomach lurch anew. 

He shudders and shakes as he moves his hips in time with your strokes, slowing as his voice drones into your ears and tickles your insides. He drops his hand from your head and clamps down on your wrist. He stops you and pulls you until your arm up until you sit on your heels. 

He exhales again and cups beneath his dick with other hand. He wiggles and hums. His eyes roll back as he measures his breath. He looks at you again as he lets you go. 

“Get your tits out,” he orders. 

Your lashes flutter before you can acquiesce. Shakily, you pull on the bottom of your shirt and lift it up your torso. As you reveal your stomach, he groans. You reluctantly strip it away completely and sit in your plain cotton bra. His eyes settle on the swell of your chest. 

“Damn, sugar, you’re sweeter than I thought,” he rasps. “Mm, go on, get me hard again.” He looks down as he pulls his hand back. “Get ‘em out. Play with them. Let me see.” 

You stare at him. Your eyes meet and the dangerous gleam in them puts you to action. You reach back and unhook your bra. It falls away and you shiver. You untangle your arms and brush your fingertips up your sides. 

You cup your tits and cringe. You squeeze as your nipples grow pert and he shifts his weight.