Escape

1 - Touch

 1 - Touch

            “Why are you so quiet, Ava? Come on. There’s nothing to worry about.”

          Yes there was.

          He tugged my dress. “Ava, we need to go. You don’t want to go to church?” I shook my head. “What would God say?”

          God would say you’re a twisted, perverted man that isn’t worth the hottest place in hell.

          Then he bent down on his knee. “Now, what did I tell you?” He put a finger to his lips. “There’s nothing to worry about.” He reached for my dress and I moved away, but then he held me firmly. He smoothed out the yellow cotton, decorated with pink and red flowers. We rarely went to church, but today—of all days—he’d decided we all go.

          My mom came into the foyer where we stood. “I’m ready.” She was just as reluctant, and just as afraid to say no, as I was. It was a shame that a nine-year-old and a twenty-five-year-old had so much in common.

          “Good.” He stood up and took my hand. His was warm and sweaty, so big it could wrap around mine twice.

          The black pickup truck was boiling hot. I didn’t even want to put my seatbelt on because it burned me whenever I touched it. My body was still very sore as the wheels wobbled down the dirt path; it took all my strength to not show it. She glanced back at me with a look on her face.

          “Ava, what’s wrong?” I shook my head. “Ray, she doesn’t look good.”

          “She’s fine,” and his tone shut her up. It was a long, tense silence until I spoke up.

          “I don’t want to go to church,” I whispered. At first I thought no one heard me.

          Then I saw his expression in the rearview mirror. He put his lips together. “We have to go to church baby,” she replied carefully.

          “Why?” Because he said so.

          “Because it’s good for us. All of us.” She rolled down the window and clipped up her jet black, straight hair. Along her jaw line, the back of her neck, near her hair line, were bruises. Some were purple and lack, others were fading to her warm, yellow-ish skin color.

          “Mommy…”

          “Emily, put your hair down,” he demanded, and the locks fell instantly.

          Even at nine, I know the hold my step dad had on Mom and I. We were tightly strung puppets and he was the puppet master. When we left church, he and Mom shook hands with the pastor. Those same rough, ruthless, suntanned hands that put the bruises on my mother’s body, that scarred the both of us, body and soul.

          On the ride home, I watched the grass fields pass us in a blur. Raven, Pennsylvania was a small town in southern Pennsylvania; I’d lived there most of my life. It wasn’t like most small towns, though. People weren’t tight-knit around here. No one knew anyone else’s business, and I think it was mostly because no one wanted anyone to snoop into our own. We couldn’t have been the only family with secrets.

          Slowly, the bruises grew on my mom and I. He told us to cover them with makeup and wear clothes that showed minimal skin—even in the summer. He didn’t need to worry about the biggest bruises, the scars that cut into us so deep they were forever imprinted there. No, he didn’t need to worry about those. We dealt with those alone, in silence.