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I.
Click.

The sound of the cell door opening. Always at night. Always when it was dark, enough. Then the all too familiar face of the monster, the beast, that leaves only fear and pain in its wake. Especially fear. As always he lifts a finger to his lips, a gentle gesture. But really a sign to shut up or else (who would hear her anyway). Or else. And she didn’t want to find out what “or else” might be.
He moves towards her on her hard, wood-like mattress. Then he is there; so close she can smell the whiskey and vodka on his breath. At least he was drunk; it wasn’t as bad when he was drunk. He was clumsy and out of it. The worst was when he hadn’t eaten. Then he became hungry. Hungry for everything. Hungry for her. But he was drunk now. So it would be quick. He got closer, and in the dark she could see him smile. A smile that was horrible, but at least a warning.
Then pain. Unbelievable, yet unusual and familiar pain, and the smile. The monster’s smile. And then he’s laughing. It’s terrible when he laughs. But she doesn’t cry, she can’t, she doesn’t even know how. All she knows is the emptiness and the fear. And the pain. When it first started she thought that it would stop hurting, eventually. But it never did.
She closes her eyes, tries to ignore it. She can’t. She didn’t think she could. His breathing slows and he gets up. Still smiling, he walks towards the door. He turns at the door. “Don’t worry baby, tomorrow daddy’ll buy you a pony.” Then he was gone.
She hated when he said that. Her whole body cringed, a delayed reaction. Normally she was empty, but after a visit from daddy she at least felt something. Being full of pain was still being full. And at least he never stayed long afterward. At least that.

II.

Click.

The sound of the door. But during the day it meant freedom. During the day it meant release. She was out of bed and dressed. During the day the beast slept. She was safe, for now. He was sleeping.
She went into the kitchen. She didn’t bother looking in the fridge, she knew what she’d find: half a jar of mayo, spoiled cottage cheese, an empty box of cocoa puffs from last year, and a pair of dark orange socks (she didn’t know why they were there and she didn’t bother asking). She didn’t go in for the fridge; she went in for the third drawer on the left. There wasn’t any food in it; it was full of random crap. But it had a false bottom under which lay a collection of money in crumpled bills and loose change.
It wasn’t her money, it was his. But he didn’t know about it. He would come home drunk and leave some money on the table; she’d take it and put it in the drawer. He’d always forget. That was how she got her “lunch money”. Sure she had a job, but that money went to cigarettes and what he made her give him for rent (although she didn’t doubt that he spent it on liquor).
The drawer money got her food, and maybe a thrift store shirt or some duct tape for the souls of her shoes (or lack there of). She grabbed some bills and walked out the door. It was about a mile and a half to school, but she only walked the half. Then there was the bus. She liked the bus, you could just sit there looking at people and imagine they were worse off then you.
Then there was school. A bunch of people pretending to learn what another bunch of people were pretending to teach. And the teachers, who didn’t want to be there about as much as the students, would swear, and yell, and tell you to shut up. And the students, who really didn’t want to be there, would push you and yell at you, unless you were their friend. And people kept few friends. But it didn’t matter to her, she never talked to anyone anyway and she had learned to shut out the yelling. All she had to do was walk to class and sit.
Every now and then she might pantomime writing just to have something to do, and it made some of her teachers feel a little better because they couldn’t see that she was faking (the teachers who could see her would curse and tell her to stop trying to be funny cause it wasn’t working).
The teachers thought she took their bullshit, but she just ignored it. School was pointless anyway. Both her teachers and her knew she wasn’t going anywhere anyway. And it didn’t matter either. As soon as she was eighteen she could escape.

III.

Ring.

End of school. Time for work. She walked back to the bus stop and waited. There was a very sad, and very dirty, homeless man sitting next to her. She felt bad for him. Then the bus came and she got on. She waited for her stop and got off.
She worked at Pete’s Pet Shoppe, it was ok. No one hassled her and the pay was alright. She loved it because it gave her an excuse to be away, but she hated it because it meant she would have to return soon. She dreaded going back. During the day she could pretend everything was cool, pretend she didn’t care about anything. Pretend lived in a great house with a cool mom and some cats, instead of her run down prison with him.
She restocked some shelves, then worked the cash register for a while. Then it was six. She got her bag from the back room and left. She walked down the street to the seven eleven. She bought some chips, a burrito, a coke, and a pack of cigarettes.
She walked outside, lit one up and started on the chips. She walked to the bus stop and finished her cigarette. The bus came and she started the dreaded trip back. The ride was always way too short. Then she was at her stop. She reluctantly got off and started to walk. She wished she could walk slowly, but she knew he would be home soon and she wanted to get there first.

IV.

Click.

She opened the front door to see if he was there. She didn’t hear anyone. She hoped he was out getting piss drunk and wouldn’t be back till the next day. But she usually wasn’t that lucky. She went to her room, leaving the burrito on the kitchen table as she went (an offering to the beast in hopes that he would be merciful).
She put her bag down on her floor. She took off her shoes and got into bed. And she slept. She slept to escape reality. To get away. In sleep she could see herself happy (whatever that meant), in new clothes, with friends and a mother smiling down on her, her perfect child. She would laugh (she’d seen other people do it) and eat good food until she was full. She’d go see a movie with her friends. But it turned into a horror movie and the beast came out of the screen and told her to “get your ass out of here!” And she would run, but he would be faster. He would catch up and then he’d be there on top of her, smiling. Smiling a smile beyond evil. A smile of mothers ripping their own babies to pieces. A smile of dogs eating each other alive. Smiling, he was always smiling. And he was always in her dreams.
She would have beautiful dreams, but he would make them nightmares. He would make them the nightmare of reality. She woke up with a jolt. She was hyperventilating. She looked at her clock. 9:30 blinked back at her. Then...

V.

Click.

The cell door. The monster is come. “What the fuck are you doing!?” He wasn’t drunk and she was in trouble. “What the fuck is this shit!” he chucked the open burrito at her face. She ducked but was still hit. Her hair was full of beans and sauce. “You know I can’t fuckin stand chicken! What are you good for you little bitch!” Then he stopped, he smiled. Smiled. “I know what your good for baby...”
And then he was closer. On top of her again. But tonight he wasn’t drunk. Tonight he was pissed, and hungry. “Now why you gotta wear these tight pants, daddy doesn’t like them. They take longer to get off.”
She closed her eyes but his hideous smile stared back at her from the inside of her eyelids. And she could feel his hands roughly pulling at her pants, taking her underwear down with them. Then he was ripping off her shirt. He leaned his face close to hers while he unzipped his pants “Come on baby, we’re gonna have some fun.”
She could feel his smile; it made her feel sick to her stomach. Then he was on her, in her. A burst of pain, he was rough and unyielding. Then he was laughing again. Laughing. His laugh was like his smile magnified. Pain. Rough pain, and laughter. And he didn’t care, he thought it was funny. “Dose baby love daddy? (Heh heh heh) Daddy loves baby.”
And he was grabbing at her and pushing at her and laughing. She wanted to scream. Scream for help that wouldn’t come. Scream for him to stop. Scream for the pain to stop. Screams for it to all just go away. But fear shoved it down in her like he shoved at her. Something bad is a thing worse than normal. And this was normal; she couldn’t even imagine what he would do to her worse.
And then finally it was over. He was done. He was getting off her. But he was still laughing, and smiling. And there was still pain, swelling and exploding inside of her. Pain. But he was leaving. And again he stopped at the door, like the night before. “Don’t worry baby, tomorrow daddy’ll buy you a pony.” He smiled and closed the door.
Darkness. And pain. The darkness was horrible, and in it floated his smiling in front of her face. As vivid as if he was still there with her, on her, in her. And she was afraid, she wanted to cry out “No!” but she couldn’t. He would come back, again. She shuddered, the darkness was eerie and horrible, and his laugh rang in her ears. But he was gone, and the pain eventually faded to a dull hurt. She drifted into a half-waking fits of restlessness.

VI.

Errrrr.

Her clock yelled at her to get up, get out of bed. She slowly got up and pulled on the clothes closest to her on the floor. She looked down at her pants; there was still a hurting. Maybe she’d buy a bottle of aspirin on her way to the bus stop. Maybe not, she’d rather have something to occupy her mind, pain was better then having nothing to think about and having her mind wander back to the events of the night before.
She went to the drawer in the kitchen and grabbed whatever came to her hand and left. She hoped for the miracle that the beast would go out and not come back. She knew it wasn’t likely. She couldn’t go out and not come back, she didn’t know what he was capable of, or she did and that was worse.
She walked to the bus stop and waited, as always. The bus came and she got on. She rode it to the school stop and got off. The same monotonous pattern of every day. Today there was a test, English. A book they were supposed to have read, although the teacher didn’t seem to expect that any of them had. She made up some bullshit answers and waited for the bell to ring.

VII.

Ring.

Finally. Time for some more fun and frolic at Pete’s Pet Shoppe. Yeah right. She waited for the bus and went to work. She manned the register. A little old lady bought fifty cans of cat food. She didn’t get people like that. I mean how do they have money for all those cats and that much cat food, and how do they carry it all? She guessed the little old lady ate the cat food too. It was sad. Oh well, what are you gonna do?
Then a big guy with a big dog and a big bag of dog food. He only carried ones. There were weird people like that. But he seemed to be a good natured, happy sort of guy. Lucky him. About five minutes later, a young woman with a chuaua. She thought it looked like a mutilated rat. The woman bought some raw hide chew sticks, squeaky toys (she hated those), and a can of dog food.
More people. More time. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. That clock was starting to piss her off. It was six. Time to close up. A quick stop at the seven eleven equipped her with a coke, sandwich, burrito, and chips. When she got outside she lit a cigarette and drank her coke. She got on the bus and ate her burrito and chips. Then the bus was at her stop and she got off. It was time to return. She walked slowly in hopes that just maybe the earth would open up and swallow her and she wouldn’t have to return. Return to her prison. To hell. To the ramshackle excuse for a house that she had to return to every night. And return to him.

VIII.

Click.

She walked in the front door. He wasn’t home. Not yet. She left the sandwich on the table and went to her room. She put down her bag and went to sleep. A fitful, dreamless sleep.




Errrrrrr.

The clock. She looked up. Morning already? But... He hadn’t come. She got up, put on a jacket and grabbed her bag. She walked into the kitchen; the sandwich was still on the table. She quietly walked to the door of his room. She looked in, he wasn’t there. Where was he? Not that she wanted him there, but where was he? He must have gotten drunk and passed out somewhere. That was weird, he always came home. But she wasn’t about to “look a gift horse in the mouth”.
She grabbed some cash and walked outside. She lit a cigarette and started the walk to the bus stop. She waited for the bus and had another cigarette. She thought that she had just gotten lucky, that was all, he’d be back that night and he’d probably be hung over and pissed. At least he hadn’t been back last night. She took the bus to school and sat through another boring day of classes.

IX.

Click.

The front door. The sandwich as still there. He hadn’t been home. Huh, that was weird. But she knew he’d be back. Probably in a couple of hours. Hopefully he’d be drunk, if she was lucky he’d be drunk. She went to her room to sleep. But she couldn’t sleep, so she lay there, waiting. Waiting for him to come.
Seven passed, eight passed, nine passed, ten passed, eleven passed. He didn’t come. Finally she fell into sleep. She woke up the next morning and checked his room again, he wasn’t there. She knew she should be happy, be relieved, and on some level she was. But she was off balance. He had gotten inside her head, and she was off balance.
When something is the same for years (especially something big that really effects you), and then it changes without warning, it throws you off. And if he didn’t come back, the only money she would have was her paycheck and what was left in the drawer. But the paycheck would be all hers.
Maybe it would be great. Maybe she could find a nice home with a nice family to adopt her. Maybe she’d have friends, and parties, and, and... bullshit. Who would take her? An idiot, that’s who. And an idiot doesn’t have a nice house or a nice family. So much for that idea.
But she could stay out now; she didn’t have to come home till she wanted to. But where would she go? Anywhere but home, that’s where. Now the house would be empty and quiet. She wasn’t sure if she could handle that. Pain, fear, those were things she could handle. She was used to those. But quiet and empty, that was another story. She guessed she’d find something to do. Something. Anything.

X.

Silence.

She had always prayed for it to stop, to go away, for him to go away. But now what? He had been gone nine days now, she guessed he wasn’t going to be back anytime soon. Maybe he was dead, yeah dead. But who had slain the beast?
Now after work she would lag at the seven eleven without worrying about getting home before him. It was Friday; she was closing up Pete’s. Then it dawned on her, what do normal people do with friends on the weekends? Go to the movies. That’s what she’d do, a movie, yeah. It was perfect. She went to the theatre, but there was more than one movie showing. She would have to pick one. But she had never been to the theatre before; she didn’t know what to see. She went to the ticket counter. “Uh, uh...one for...um...The interpretation of Haley, thanx.”
She walked in and found a seat, not too close, not too far back. It was supposed to be a comedy, to her it was terror. She was having flash backs of her dreams. Her mind raced. She got up and ran from the theatre crying “No! No!” Everyone looked at her. But she didn’t see them; she was in the dream. He was chasing her. She couldn’t escape.

It was over.