Page 1 of Don't Speak

Twelve years old

I can feel him standing there. Watching me.

He thinks I am sleeping, but my heart is racing with the anticipation of him coming into my room. Sometimes, when I pretend to be asleep, he leaves. Other times, I’m not so lucky…

You would think I would be used to this by now. I still remember the first time he came into my room in the middle of the night. I was seven. People say I am mature for my age, but I just think some children are forced to grow up faster than others, thanks to the cruelty in this world.

I hear the beer bottle slosh as he takes another drink, gulping as he swallows. The blood is rushing to my ears, and I am afraid my rapid breathing will catch his attention. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

I’ve thought about screaming, but the threats rattle my brain like a headache I can’t quite shake. If you tell anyone, I will kill you. Bad girls get punished. If you tell Mom, I’ll have to kill her, too.

I just want it to stop. I’ve given up on the idea of having a normal childhood, unsure of what that means anymore. My mom drowns herself in alcohol every night, allowing him an advantage of creeping into my room several nights a week.

He still stands there, drink in hand. A tear slips from my eye, and I’m thankful that I am lying with my back to the door this time. Otherwise, that would have been all the encouragement he needed. He likes seeing my tears.

It’s quiet for a moment. And just when I think he’s left, I hear the clink of the beer bottle being placed on my dresser, and the mattress suddenly dips behind me, the weight of the man I call my stepfather kneeling on the bed for what will be another night of misery.

The tears start falling faster, knowing there is no escape.

Another piece of my soul dies tonight.