My Abigail: A Psychological Thriller

Chapter 8: Luficer

"Come up here," Father yelled from upstairs. He always yelled. There was no talk; there was only yell.

"Busy," it called. it was in the kitchen, trying to make something for lunch.

Lunch was always a hard task, and so was dinner. it never knew when he was going to get called upstairs.

it dreaded the upstairs. The creaking steps as it slowly went up. The walls with chipped paint and broken nails sticking out. The chains that clinked around his ankles with every step it took. it had never seen sunlight. Once, a long time ago, it thought it had. But maybe that was a dream.

it still had dreams at night. But sometimes they turned to nightmares. And sometimes a worse thing happened. it woke up.

"Get up here right now," screamed Father.

Father was angry today. It was never good when Father was angry. it knew that. But Father had been angry the day before, and the day before that. There was no break for it this time. it hated that.

it left the sandwich on the counter with the peanut butter and the honey. "Coming."

The stairs didn't creak this time. it smiled. it hated the creaking noise of the stairs. it hated the noises Father made upstairs. The groans and the moans and the screams and the shouts and the whimpers. Young girl, old girl, young boy, screaming boy, shaking girl, hurt girl, dead boy. But Father didn't make all of those noises. Other people made those noises. Father just caused them. Father forced.

"Hurry up," Father said. "I need your-"

"Here." it stepped in front of the door to Father's toy room.

There were chains on the walls, and mats on the floor. Strange shaped objects sat in a chest, along with a bunch of smooth, silky rags. it had asked what they were. Father said they were clothes for people to wear, but to it they didn't look big enough to be clothes. Clothes were supposed to cover things.

The lights were turned down in this room. There were no windows. A small, it-sized cage was in the corner. it knew that cage well. it knew this room well. It was often a place where it stayed.

"Today?" it asked.

"Today I'm going to show you some of my toys." Father grinned wickedly. "Sit." He pointed a gnarled finger at the bed.

it sat down on the filthy, unclean bed and frowned as Father began to unbutton his pants and take off his shirt.

"What?" it asked.

Father turned around and stared at it. "What do you want?"

"Already?" it asked sadly. it hated this Father. Father was better when he was not angry. When he left it alone.

"Not yet." Father put a hand down and began to touch himself. "Just getting ready."

it closed his eyes. it wanted to puke. But when it had puked last time, Father had done terrible, horrible, nasty, filthy things. And Father had liked it. And it had puked more.

"Open your eyes," commanded Father. it obeyed. There were tears in it's eyes.

Father opened a drawer. He took out chains and handcuffs and a large, funny-shaped thing. it pointed to it and Father said, "I'm not going to tell you the names. I'm just going to show you what they do."

Father moved to the other bed. it looked and saw a large lump. Father ripped away the sheets and it saw a naked girl not much older than itself. She was crying, her face red and her eyes wide and terrified. There were strange marks on her body, not tattoos- it had seen tattoos before. it had never seen marks like these before.