Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
My breaths grow more regular, my pulse slows in my ears, and my body relaxes as I track the release of energy in every muscle group.
The trembling starts almost immediately, a sheen of sweat forming on my upper lip and the back of my neck.
The nightmare is different, taking me back to Tennessee rather than my childhood home.
The less familiar area makes my skin itch, but I keep my eyes forward, walking through the compound. Women rush past me, screaming at the sight of my rifle pointed and ready for action. They've been hurt so badly by so many people that they can no longer distinguish the good guys from the bad guys.
I'm working alone, tasked with making it to an outbuilding.
I step around a wall of cars created to block the entrance to a row of smaller shacks. These are less taken care of than the ones I passed upon entry, and I have no doubt this is where they kept the women. Their accommodations are not as important because that's how the men who run these types of places feel about the opposite sex. They're tools, possessions, things to use and discard rather than precious commodities who should be worshipped and protected.
I turn, the barrel of my rifle pointed ahead. A woman steps out of one of the small shacks, a black eye and split lip being the first thing I notice.
"You need to leave," I tell her. "Out the front."
"I can't," she sobs. "They'll kill me."
"None of them will live to see another day," I vow. "Where is she?"
The woman shakes her head, the movement making her more than a little unsteady on her feet.
"Where is she?" I demand again, with a slightly harsher tone.
I understand being afraid. I understand the systematic abuse these women have gone through. I understand self-preservation, but I have one goal here.
"Where?" I snap, the tip of my gun lifting in a threatening manner.
The action makes me feel small, and I hate the power I'm wielding over her, but I'd burn the world down around every other person to find her.
"She's my mother," I snap. "Where is she?"
The woman sobs, but she lifts her arm, pointing past the row of shitty cabins.
I look over my shoulder before glancing back at her, a fear settling deep inside of me.
"You're sure?"
When she nods, I want to drop to my knees.
I want to retrace my steps and leave this place immediately, but I know I can't.
I promised I would bring her home and keep her safe.
"I'm so sorry," the woman says, but she disappears on the breeze, her body turning to smoke right before my eyes.
I don't freak out.
I don't question why she's gone.
It happens all the time.
Everyone leaves.
It's just what they do.
Monsters die, but the damage they do is always left behind. The pain and trauma are always too horrible to recover from.
I head toward the area she pointed to, my steps growing slower as I close the distance.
The hill of dirt blocking my view seems like a gift, a way to give me one last chance to change my mind, but duty calls me forward.
I knew this would be her end. I was too weak for too long.
He always had the upper hand.
We were always meant to be his victims.
No amount of therapy could heal the wounds he inflicted on us.
I escaped, but my mother stayed. She believed her love for him would win in the end.
I swallow, a lump of fear and hatred for my father forming inside of me and growing like cancer with every step.
I know what's on the other side of the hill. I know the sight of it is going to change me forever, but I still can't stop the movement of my feet carrying me in that direction.
Pain covers me. Guilt for being weak, creating a million tiny slashes on my skin, the hope of bleeding out before I climb the hill of dirt is a real consideration.
I prepare myself, knowing damn well there's no preparation I can make that will ease the heartache of seeing the one woman I've always loved fall victim to that man for the last time.
I see the ankle first, the bluish tint of her skin telling me all I need to know, and I don't know if it's a way to punish myself, but I can't stop my eyes from moving further up her body.
Rags cling to her skin, the fabric of her dress tattered and stained with blood and dirt.
Tears sting my eyes, my mind urging me to let one of the other guys handle this, but I know seeing her this way is my penance for not being strong enough to stop him.
Her frame is different from what I remember from the last time I saw her. She's not rail thin, her own alcoholism having done so much damage to her body.