Chapter 3 — Life Doesn’t Work Like That

I woke up Monday morning with my mother’s voice in my head. Her soft voice whispered through my ear, telling me that I wouldn’t be safe there. “If he gets upset, hide under the bed. He won’t pull you out. If he hits you, then you run out of the house, screaming. I don’t care what time it is. Just run.” Those soft words slithered through my thoughts, and I ended up laying there, listening to them.

My mother had told me these things every morning that she had to drop me off with my father when I’d been younger. She’d tuck me into the backseat, get into the front, and she’d repeat this until she felt certain that I heard her. And I’d sit in the back, wondering why she thought my father would hurt me.

I’d only ever visited him for a few days at a time. At most three, if the weekend ran long. Not even every weekend. So, I’d just been this little girl, unsure why my mother kept saying such horrible things about my father. It hadn’t made any sense to my young brain.

Then she died, and I had to stay with him permanently.

Sitting up, I wiped at my face, but didn’t find any tears. I stared at my hand, convinced that I had to be seeing wrong. Nope, no tears on my hand. I’d gotten so used to my place in this house, and my father’s life, that I couldn’t even shed tears for his treatment anymore. I didn’t matter to him, and it seemed like that didn’t matter to me.

“Run. I don’t care what time it is. Just run.” My mother had said. She meant the words, too. Even with this fuzzy memory of mine, I could still see the seriousness in her eyes when she told me to run. I could see that she meant every word that she said.

I rubbed my sternum and looked out my window. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the streets remained empty. All the Nightmares had gone back to their houses and would probably stay there until night fell once again.

I wasn’t a little girl anymore, who could be forgiven for ignoring the laws. If I ran out of this house, then my punishment would be more severe than a spanking when my father caught up to me. I had to be cleverer than that. Which meant that I had to do something that would be infinitely unpleasant but would save me in the long run. I hoped.

Getting out of bed, I shuffled down the hall to my bathroom. I checked my feet first, looking at their soles. The spots where I’d cut myself stood out, but they didn’t look too damaged. Then I went about my normal business, walking carefully so that I wouldn’t rip more holes in my poor feet. They had suffered enough.

While I brushed my teeth about thirty minutes later, the siren went off again. It let us know that we could walk out of our houses once more. I heard my father banging around the kitchen moments later and smelled coffee. If I lingered in the bathroom, then he would be gone by the time I left.

The banging went on for nearly three minutes, and then the sound of jangling keys met my ears. I waited a heartbeat before stepping out of the bathroom and looked down the hall. I could see into the living room, but not much else. The garage door went up and then back down, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief.

He had left. Finally.

I went into the kitchen and opened the pantry for my cereal.

The shelf sat empty. I found the box in the trash, with all the cereal dumped out. My father must’ve still been upset with me. With that option out, I grabbed a granola bar and choked it down. It tasted just as bad as I thought it would. I ran my tongue across my teeth, but it felt like sandpaper.

I went into my room, and stood in front of my six remaining books, the only undamaged one on top. They all went into my bag, because I worried about my father damaging them more if he got the chance.

Run. I don’t care what time it is. Just run.

Those words kept whispering through my head, making a shiver run down my spine. My mother died years before and I didn’t think about her too often anymore. But those thoughts screamed, as if part of me knew that if I stayed in this house… I wouldn’t make it out of high school.

Yesterday had been a blessing compared to some of the things my father had done over the years.

I didn’t wait around the house like normal. After slinging on my backpack, I started walking toward school. My eyes strayed to the houses across the street, and I wondered if any of them watched me, the way that I had watched them the night before. Maybe the younger kids, the ones that didn’t know what humans looked like, or what we did.

I hoped that they didn’t view me as a monster, the way humans had been taught to view them.

The school loomed ahead, and I felt my feet slowing down and my resolve starting to weaken. I told my legs to keep going, to carry me forward. It took more willpower than I thought myself capable of to keep going, and each step felt like something stabbed at my feet, trying to keep me from moving.

They hadn’t opened the gates yet, so I stood there, my back pressed against the bars, watching everything around me. The trees had started to lose their leaves, since we had gotten into early October. Soon, all the trees would change color, and on rainy days, they’d look like dreams splashed across the sky. I loved those days and would spend hours in my backyard. Even after it rained, I’d find it hard to peel myself away.

A security guard came up to the gate and unlocked it. He gave me an odd look as he did, clearly wondering why I had showed up more than an hour before school started. I didn’t say anything to him. The front of the school held the main office, nurse’s office, and a few other rooms. Beyond that, the rest of the school waited. Several buildings, all of which looked square and boxy.

I didn’t go to my first class. I turned into the main office and found a woman already sitting behind the desk. She had on a pair of headphones and looked about as interested in me as I would a bug. Clearing my throat, I walked up to her. “Um, excuse me?” I asked.

The woman glanced up, her eyes already bored. “What?”

“Do you know when the counselor will be in?”

The woman raised an eyebrow and ran her eyes over my outfit. I wore faded jeans, and a t-shirt that had skeleton cats on it. I supposed that she felt the need to judge me while I stood there.

“What do you need to see them for?” she asked.

I cleared my throat again and glanced around. “That’s private.”

The woman’s eyes somehow got colder, and I felt like she had started drawing conclusions that didn’t make me look great. “She’ll be in soon. You can take a seat over there and wait if you wish.” The woman gestured to a row of plastic chairs. The same kind that littered the school.

I thanked her and went to sit down. It took a grand total of five seconds before I pulled my book out and started reading. Anything would be better than having to make eye contact with that woman while she tried to decide what kind of trouble I’d gotten myself into. I got lost in the stories I’d brought with me instead.

The woman’s drab voice brought my head up. “She’s here.”

I glanced back at the row of offices and found only one with a light on. My heart started to beat faster, and my mouth went dry. “Thank you,” I said to the receptionist from hell.

The woman sitting behind the desk in the counselor’s office looked normal. She had blond hair pulled back in a bun. She wore modest makeup, but enough to make it clear that she cared. I always thought that professionals needed to wear blush, because how else would you know they were serious? God, I hated this already. Her suit looked gray, and her shoes black. She had feet tucked in under the desk and had already turned her computer on.

I knocked on the doorjamb.

The counselor lifted her head, and smiled at me in that professional, disinterested way that they all seemed to have perfected before they made it out into the field. “Hello,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

“May I come in?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Of course.” Mrs. Jackson—according to the nameplate on her desk—rose up and gestured to the chair across from her. It looked like a practiced move to me, but I couldn’t imagine why she would bother doing something like that.

I came into the room, and sat down at the desk, listening to my heart beating erratically.

“What’s your name?” the counselor asked.

“Whilda Plier,” I said.

Mrs. Jackson turned to the computer and typed on it for a second. A little frown pulled at her lips. “I’m afraid that I’m not your counselor. I have the students that are A through H. You want Mr. Hillock, across the hall. He should be here in ten minutes, fifteen at the most.”

“Can’t I just talk to you?” I asked, confused.

“If this is about your grades or school, then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for Mr. Hillock. I know it might seem silly to you, but we have rules that we have to follow…?”

“Whilda,” I said, again. “And this isn’t about school.”

“Oh? Then what’s it about?”

My throat went dry, and I almost walked out. I didn’t want to talk to any of the counselors about this, but now that I’d gotten into the office, I didn’t want to wait again. Not for another counselor that might ask if I had an appointment or might tell me that I had the wrong one, again.

If I blurted it out, then she would have to help me, right? It would be her job to help me.

“My father,” I said, forcing the words out of my mouth. “I want to know how to get away from him.”

The woman’s face changed immediately, and she sat back in her chair. “Get away from him how? As in move out, move in with another parent?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I just need to get away from him.”

“Why?”

My voice sounded reedy and breathy when I started talking. “He’s violent. When I do something wrong, or I accidently break something, he gets violent. He tosses my room around, breaks my things, pushes me, hits me.”

Mrs. Jackson nodded as I spoke, her eyes remaining on my face. “So, you want us to file some kind of report?”

The tension in my chest eased, and I said, “Yes.”

Mrs. Jackson sat forward and started typing on her computer again. I watched her fingers and wondered if it could be that easy. I come into this office, tell her that I need help, and she just hands it over. All my worries seemed silly now, because I had been so convinced that I’d have to talk her into it. That I’d have to beg for help.

She clicked on something and sat back again. “Whilda Plier, right?”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound exasperated.

“Your grades are very good,” she said. “You have A’s in most of your classes. B’s in the others. You don’t have a history of disciplinary issues, and all your teachers seem to think you’re very nice. Quiet, but nice.”

She looked up my record?

“Here’s the thing, Whilda,” Mrs. Jackson said, leaning forward. “I’ve worked at this school long enough to know that sometimes kids make mistakes. I’ve had plenty of students walk in here, and lie about being abused by their parents, grandparents, stepparents. They want revenge, and they don’t usually know what havoc they’re wreaking on themselves in their attempts to get it. I’ve gotten myself in trouble, believing these stories too fast. Now, I look for evidence. And I don’t see any evidence of your father hurting you.”

“What?” I asked. “I’m telling you that this happened.”

“Yes, and I’m happy that you feel safe enough to come to us for help. You should always do that. But I have to look out for you. None of your teachers have ever reported behavior that would make them think you’re being abused. We haven’t seen bruises, scratches, or any other kind of injury. You walked in here, fairly calm, and told me this, but how am I supposed to know if it’s real.”

“Because I’m telling you it is,” I said.

Mrs. Jackson sighed. “By law, I’m required to report this. Do you want to know what’ll happen after I do that? This report will go to the principal, who will then send it somewhere else, and it’ll eventually find its way into Child Services. They will investigate it and decide whether or not you need to be removed from the house. That process usually doesn’t take too long, and you want to know something else? They won’t remove you. They’ll look around your nice house, and talk with your calm father, look at your untouched skin, and they will decide that this was all a misunderstanding. Then I’ll get talked to by my boss, and you’ll get into trouble with your father. Does that seem worth it to you?”

“They might help me,” I said.

“No,” Mrs. Jackson corrected me. “They won’t help you, because they are overworked, and if they don’t see something severely wrong in your house, they don’t care. They won’t care. You’re a senior in high school. You have a few months before you turn eighteen, right?”

“March,” I said.

“There you have it. You can make it that long. When you turn eighteen, you can get a job and move out. For now, though, you’re better off forgetting that this ever happened. If you really want, I will file that report though.”

This odd whistling sound took up residence in my head as I started to stand up. My backpack felt heavy on my shoulders, like someone had filled it with bricks. That whistle got louder when I stared at the woman, who watched me with such calm, empty eyes.

“You are a joke,” I said.

Mrs. Jackson blinked. “What?”

“You are the exact thing that’s wrong with this system. I’ve spent my entire life hearing teachers tell me that I can trust them, and I can talk to them. Just tell someone, they always say. Someone that can help you and keep you safe. But this is what happens when you tell someone. They explain to you why you’re lying, even when you’re speaking the truth. You deserve to walk in front of a bus.”

The counselor shot to her feet, her eyes furious now. “Excuse me, but you will not say such things, or take a tone like that with me.”

“Why not?” I asked. “It seems like everything that could go wrong already has. Do you know how much willpower it took for me to walk in here, for all the other students that have ever come to you for help to walk in here? I had to convince myself that my life mattered more than my secret. Then I had to sit there, and pry every word from my throat, believing that it would save me. That you would save me. Instead, you’ve pissed in my face and told me that I need to toughen up. Oh, I’m almost eighteen, so it’ll be fine. It’s not like seven months could kill a person. It’s not like I haven’t survived years of this, right?”

“You need to calm down.”

I laughed. “What are you going to do? Send me to the principal? Please do, because then I’ll tell him what you said and did. Maybe he’ll have more of a heart than you do. God, wouldn’t that be great?”

“Young lady!”

“Fuck you,” I said. “Fuck you for thinking that you know what’s happening in my life. Fuck you for deciding that your career is more important than the very people that you’re supposed to be helping and fuck you for thinking that it’s not worth it to keep someone from dying. Just… fuck you, and I hope that you die. Fuck all this. I’m so sick of this.”

I turned to walk away from the red-faced counselor, and she shouted after me. “I’m filing a report on you!”

“Go ahead!” I said, wheeling around on her. “You think I won’t tell them why I cursed you out? You think I won’t do my best to get you punished for everything you just said to me? You’re wrong. If you try to make my life harder, I’ll do my best to ruin yours. I’m not putting up with your bullshit.”

She might as well have had steam coming out of her ears when I turned to leave. I marched through the hallway and didn’t look back. My outrage had given me strength that I shouldn’t have been so keen to throw around. Yes, that woman infuriated me. But we all knew that she could ruin my life a lot easier than I could ruin hers.

***

The rest of the day, I waited for the principal to call me down for a little chat. That never happened. By the end of my last period, my nerves had been shot. I felt like a zombie, and not a freshly risen one, either. One that had been running around for a few days and had rotted out in the Texas heat.

I walked home with that same feeling, staring straight ahead of me. I felt like I could put aside the rage that burned in my chest if I stopped thinking about it. That didn’t happen. It just kept burning hotter and hotter. How dare that woman even exist in my world?

The house was quiet when I got inside. A quick look around told me that my father hadn’t come home yet. He probably got roped into pulling a double shift. He would be too tired to scream at me when he got home. Not that he always screamed. Not that he always terrified me, either.

That scared me the most. That sometimes, my father seemed to genuinely love me and want me to be happy. He’d make elaborate dinners for my birthday and get me presents. When I brought my bookshelf home—the one he destroyed—he helped me carry it into my bedroom.

Waiting for him to blow up at me sometimes felt worse than when he actually did get angry. The tension would have me jumping at shadows. My world didn’t feel safe when my father stayed calm for too long. He had robbed me of peace of mind.

Shaking my head, I went into my bedroom and sat down. It looked emptier without my books in it, and my nightstand had been unsalvageable. Everything about it depressed me, but I sat on my bed, staring at the wall.

All the rage drained out of me, and my shoulders slumped. I still felt outraged that the woman didn’t believe me, but that outrage seemed distant now. Who would believe me, if she didn’t? My father had done some nice things to me, after all. When someone walked down the hallway, they would see pictures of me at those birthday parties. My father had some in his room, too, and up in the kitchen. They all told a story about a nice house, with a nice family.

Who would believe me, when my father had put up evidence of how good he could be? How wonderful? Who would believe me, despite how my mother fought to get away from him, and how I wanted nothing to do with him? It felt like a trap closing in around me, because I had done what I could to escape.

Law stated that I couldn’t get a job until I turned eighteen. Which meant it would be another year or so before I had any money saved up to leave. God knew Dad wouldn’t send me to college, like most parents tried to do.

I wrapped my arms around my stomach and tried to remind myself how to breathe. It hurt. Every breath hurt, because it felt like another stab to the chest. I would be stuck for so much longer than that counselor told me I would. Unless I wanted to go to a shelter on my birthday, of course. Nothing bad ever happened at shelters.

I’d tried. I’d actually tried, and she had turned me away. Maybe one of the other counselors would listen to me, but I couldn’t help hearing her words over and over again. Telling me how the social workers would say that nothing bad happened in this house. I had cleaned everything up so thoroughly I couldn’t even point to something as proof of my father’s anger.

Trapped in a cage.

The garage door started to go up, and my heart stuttered in my chest. I waited, listening for the sound of him coming into the house. If he threw the door open, then I would know that something upset him. If he came in quietly, then I could breathe again. or at least try to.

“Whilda!” my father screamed at the top of his lungs, and it felt like the world froze. “Get your ass out here, right now!”

I got up and made my way over to the door. My hand reached for the knob, and I saw how it shook. The world froze for that heartbeat, where I watched my hand shake, and thoughts could go through my mind. Thoughts about what he would do to me, and what I had done to deserve it.

It didn’t take a genius to guess what happened. I’d pissed off the counselor and threatened her, so she called my father. She had doomed me to another confrontation with him, as a warning to leave her alone. The woman had no heart, and I felt bad for all the other students that went to her. All the kids that thought she would help them and learned too late that she just wanted an easy paycheck.

Then the world started to move again.

“Whilda!” my father screamed so loud that it felt like the house shook.

No, I thought. My hand reached forward… and locked the door. I turned away from it while my father shouted my name and obscenities. My heart began to thunder as I rushed across the room.

I grabbed my backpack, which held what little cash I owned. The window opened easily, just as my father hit the door with his fist. I heard something crack, and assumed he’d put a hole in the wood. I didn’t pay attention to that, too focused on popping out the screen.

It came loose, and I crawled through my window. I didn’t care if the neighbors saw, and I didn’t care if they called the police. I just had to get out of there.

My father slammed into the door with all his weight, and I started to run.