Prologue: Reed
10 years ago…
When I was younger, I would curl into a ball in some ill-forgotten corner of my grimy room, holding out my arms in front of me. I would imagine touching the inside of my safe haven before I came into this miserable world. I would imagine myself, or try to drag up the memories, of me in the womb. I would picture my mother touching her stomach, touching me through the shell of her skin. I would also try and remember, and if not, imagine, me ripping her apart.
I imagine that’s why my father rapes me.
It started when I was 4—I could remember everything about that night, as much as I try not to. He had snuck into my small room, which was more of a closet than anything. His hands were warm and his stale breath smelled of whiskey. Usually he would beat me (the blood excited him more than any prostitute would), but tonight he didn’t. I can remember me stiffening for the blows that never came. Even at 4, I knew not to make a peep; it only angered him further.
Instead, he gently caressed my cheek. “My Annabel,” he crooned. I froze; I had only heard that name once before, in one of his drunken rages when he bellowed ‘You killed her! You killed my Annabel!’ He caresses my cheek again. Then he took me.
Over the years, I learned many things, even if my father didn’t let me go to school. He said murderesses aren’t allowed in school, they’d kill them too. And I believed him.
His four cardinal rules were so:
1) You killed your mother.
2) You deserved to go to jail; you were lucky to be with me.
3) This was his right.
4) Never, ever speak.
I had never broken these rules; it had been just over 3 years since that night when my father put a bag over my head. I didn’t dare to move. He bound my hands too, and half carried, half dragged me to his old car. He threw me in the trunk; I could see that much from the hood over my face. The rough rope dug into my wrists, and when the car lurched forward, I rolled, causing friction between the rope and my skin. The harsh sting told me I had broken skin, the warmth seeping down my hands only accentuating that fact. I only bled when I fell, or hurt myself in any other way, if father beat me, or if he got to rough late in the night. Afterwards, he would always whisper ‘I’m so sorry Annabel’. That was the only time I was allowed to turn away from him, when he thought I was my mother. He would gently tuck me in. I don’t cry anymore. Crying says your weak, or implies you feel—my now, I’m so numb I can’t feel myself anymore.
The car stopped again, and I was thrown against the back once more. The trunk opened and I was dragged out, pulled up a set of stairs, and thrust towards the ground.
The door opened. A woman’s voice sounded out. “What do you want William?”
My father’s voice was nervous, but excited too. “I brought payment. Take the girl, use her for anything. She won’t fight you.”
The woman’s voice rang out again. “And who is this?”
“My filthy daughter.” I don’t flinch at his words; he’s called me worse.
This time, her voice has anger in it. “You would dare sell your own daughter?”
“She’s no use to me. I’ll do anything to settle my debt.” His voice was tough, strong, and I knew this tone well. He would lose it soon, and hopefully not with the woman.
“I will take her; in exchange you leave and never come back.”
“But—“ She cut him off.
“Unless you want Kage to come after you.” He swallows.
“No ma’am.”
“Go.” When he doesn’t leave, she repeats herself, more forcefully this time. “Before I get Kage.” He flees.
I feel a pair of smooth, cool hands, so unlike my scarred ones, take hold of my upper arms. The sack is taken off my head. I blink a few times, to clear my vision. When I look at the owner of the hands, I am shocked. She’s gorgeous and clean, and I feel paltry in comparison.
She takes one look at me, and I’m whisked off. My bloodstained and ragged gown is taken away and I’m stripped and placed in a bath by some very kind and helpful servants. I let them scrub at me and preen me.
When they were finished and I was pruney, they pulled me out, drying off my skin with a soft smelling towel. They rubbed me down with a salve and pulled a cotton dress on me. It was embroidered and colorful.
I looked at myself in the mirror; it was only then that I saw I had red hair and green eyes. Someone had loosely braided it; it went over my shoulder to my stomach.
“Miss?” A voice called out. I turned towards the voice. It was a servant. I had read about them in one of mother’s books; it was one of the only things my father wouldn’t touch.
“Ah,” He said, walking in. “You look well. Do you like the dress?” He walked towards me. “Spin.” I did so slowly. He nodded.
“Good,” He said. He reached over to pat my hair, and I flinched and ran from him. He would hurt me. “Miss!” He cried out after me.
I ran past fancy hallways, down mahogany stairs, and into one man.
I glazed up at him, terrified. I cowered from him, crouching on the ground, rocking back and forth.
“Sir!” Said the servant’s voice, full of relief. “Your wife took in William’s payment, and she’s run off—“ He stopped and looked at me. I looked back at him through my hair, then continue to rock.
“She’s scared Nathan. What did you do?”
“Nothing wrong, I hope sure. I just tried to pat her hair.” Someone screeched.
“Kage! Nathan! If you have done anything to that child, so help me God I will hang you out in the yard by your—“
“Who is this?” The man, Kage I presumed, asked.
“That ruffian, William, who stacked up a considerable debt at you casino paid his debt by her. He sold his own daughter, Kage, who would do that?”
“I don’t know love, but what I mean to ask is for her name.”
“Oh.” I looked up at them. The woman from before, dressed in plain jeans and a tunic now, knelt down.
“What’s the matter, little one?”
Silence. I knew how to write words, how to read them, and how to listen to them, and knew how to speak them, but I was to practice talking quietly. My father never let me talk.
“Can you speak?” She asked, her voice filled with worry. I mimed writing and Nathan, the servant, went to go get me some and a pen. He set them down in front of me carefully. I picked up the ornate pen, dipped it in the ink and wrote:
My father will never come back?
They quickly read it. “No,” said the woman with certainty.
I can talk?
They looked at me like I was crazy. I probably was. Kage spoke this time. “Of course, my butterfly.”
You won’t hurt me?
“Never!” Said the woman. “We have taken you from him, forever.” She held out a hand and I took it as we rose to our feet. My dress was wrinkled, my long hair tangled. She dropped my hand.
Kage tried to touch my head but I flinched and backed away into a wall. The woman stood in front of me a respectable distance away.
“Why won’t you let Kage or Nathan touch you?” I picked up the paper and wrote another note.
I don’t like being touched much, especially by men.
“Why?” All three of them chorused. I wrote another note down.
He would rape me and beat me.
“Oh honey,” the woman said. “He will never hurt you again. We’ll have him arrested and charged. We’re your family now. Me and Kage and Nathan and the other servants. My name is Amy. What’s yours sweetie?”
I cleared my throat. “I was never given one.” My voice was rough but clear and I liked the way it echoed through the halls.
She gave me an aghast look. She snapped her fingers. “Kage, go shoot that piece of shit.”
He walked out, waving at me as he left. “On it.”
“You can pick a name for yourself then, sweetie. Do you want to look or—“
“Reed,” I said with certainty. “Reed is my name.”
I hugged her.
Only Nathan looked at my last note.
Thank you.