Page 18

I run smack into my daddy’s wide back because he stopped before I could tell my feet to stop too.

“All you do is act out and embarrass me at that school, Delilah. Is that what I raised you to do?”

He turns on me, the shadow of his frame eclipsing the sliver of sunlight in the hall.

My words don’t come out as good as his and Weston’s. I try anyway. I want him to know I didn’t mean it. “I-I’m sorry, daddy. I m-miss you when I go to school. Nobody wants to play with me. I just wanted to see you again.”

His lip curls at my stammered words and before I can say sorry again, the back of his hand strikes my face.

The hit is so unexpected, I stumble down a couple of stairs, clutching the flimsy railing leading to the basement.

“Get out of my face, Delilah.” He shoves past me, walking down the stairs until he gets to the door I never go in and turns back to look at me. “Come on. I got something for you since you want to embarrass me every time you leave this house.”

I keep my feet planted on the step I stumbled onto and my dad huffs, stomping up the stairs to grab me by the elbow. He yanks me until I lose my grip on the wood railing and a splinter breaks my skin.

Then he’s at my back, shoving me inside the basement door no matter how many times I tell him no.

I don’t want this.

I don’t want to go.

I just wanted to come home to see him.

He doesn’t listen. He’s mad and he won’t open the door when I beg him to.

It smells like outside down here. And Weston said there were people living in the walls.

I don’t know how many sunsets pass before my daddy opens the door again, but when he does, I’m still sitting in front of it, all cried out and wet because I was scared to walk in the dark to find the basement’s bathroom.

He yanks me by the arm again, tugging me up the stairs. “Go take a fucking bath, Delilah. You stink.”

He scrunches his face up when he looks at me and the knot in my throat is too big to speak.

If I could speak, I’d tell him I didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to stink, to wet myself and ruin my favorite yellow dress. But I was scared. He knew I was scared, and he left me anyway.

Now he’s mad at me. I want to tell him I’m hungry. And my head hurts. But first I need to take a bath.

Maybe when I’m clean he won’t be mad.

I blinkuntil I’m no longer in that house and I’m back in the stranger’s bathroom, staring at myself until a familiar numbness sets in.

“I thought I was done with this,” I say on a shaky breath. I turn on the faucet and splash water against my face.

The worst part is I can’t remember the basement. I just remember the after. So much of my life is just like that. Memories measured in halves. Always the aftermath but never the actual moment. I can’t make my mind recall. Maybe it’s for the best that I don’t remembereverything. Still, it’s a special kind of hell knowing I can’t trust my own mind. Especially when I can feel the anguish deep down to my marrow, but matching a memory to any of it is where I get lost. I’ve gotten so used to it that even the things I can remember I sometimes want to forget.

Opening the shower door, I strip out of the dress and freeze when I see the adult diaper on me. I knew I felt suspiciously dry, and yet knowing that someone was changing me while I was unconscious…

If there was anything in my stomach right now, I’d be throwing it up.

I push the thought from my mind and focus on cleaning myself. Water sprays from every direction and it’s all I can do to scrub my body so I can get the hell out. The digital panel on the wall is too complex for me to figure out, but it feels like I just went through one of those gas station car washes on the highest setting.

Wrapped in a plush towel, I walk out of the bathroom with damp hair and no idea what I’m supposed to wear now.

An older dark-skinned woman with a fierce gray streak in her hair is beside the bed, wheeling an IV pole toward the door when she notices me.

Her posture straightens as a bright smile takes over her face. “Hey, there.”

“Hi.”