Page 79 of My Girl

“Will you bring me dinner this time?” I ask. “Or are you going to let me starve again?”

She pushes Gage off of her lap and grabs me by the hair. I scream, and she shoves me forward. The door to the basement swings open. She pushes me onto the landing.

“Stay down there,” she snarls.

The door swings shut.

Darkness surrounds me.

After I catch my breath, I walk down the steps, feeling along the wall so I don’t trip this time.

Down here, my thoughts are all I have.

I think of Mrs. Galloway in the rope again. How long would it take for her to die? Probably longer than Gage. Longer than Mr. Galloway too. She’s too much of a fighter.

Someone like Mrs. Galloway needs more than a rope. Something quicker. Something better. And she needs to be by herself.

She saved Gage, but no one should save her.

* * *

Age 13

The rat’s body bends completely in half, and the insides ooze out onto my hands. It’s nasty, and I do it for that exact reason. If I’m dirty, then Mrs. Galloway refuses to go near me. And when I get a good throw, I can hitherwith the guts, and her disgusted face makes it worth it.

A bloody butter knife is under me, hidden from view. My latest attempt at a weapon. It worked on the rat, but will it work on a bitch like Mrs. Galloway?

It doesn’t matter. Even if the butter knife doesn’t work, she’ll get what she deserves one day.

The basement door creaks open. Light floods in from the upper floor. I squint my eyes and cross my fingers that it’s Gage. He always brings me sandwiches.

Mrs. Galloway steps into the light, her silhouette bulkier than normal, her dress stopping at her shins. One of her better dresses. It must be a special occasion. Lucky me.

“Pissed yourself again?” she scoffs. “You disgusting little boy.”

I grit my teeth. Of all the things she calls me, “little boy” is the one that pisses me off the most. I’m thirteen years old, and yet she still refuses to see me as anything other than some little boy she can control. I guess that’s what happens when you’re adopted by someone who never actually wanted you in the first place, especially when you’re replaced by the biological son she finally had.

She flicks the light switch. A single bulb flickers in the corner, casting shadows along the floor, lighting the shower.

“Get up,” she orders. I stand, carefully moving the butter knife near the wall where she can’t see it. “Wash yourself.”

I turn toward the stairs. She points down at me.

“Yourshower is there,” she says.

I risk a moment to glare at her. The curly, teased hair. The shoulder pads. A pastel floral design on her dress. She really wants to show off if she’s making me take a shower.

It’s not really a shower. There’s no curtain or doors. It’s just a drain and a shower head. She had it installed so I could clean myself “like a proper man.”

But a proper man doesn’t stay locked in a basement for days on end.

She crosses her arms and watches me bathe. I consider jerking off like last time, just to make her sick. But getting to be outside—in the daylight—is still better than being alone down here. It’s worth behaving.

In the car, she hands me a box of saltine crackers. I devour the entire sleeve before we even hit the main part of town.

“Do you have to be a pig?” she asks. “Why can’t you be more like him?”

One of my classmates crosses the street. Another teenager with black hair like me. I forget his name; he’s in my science class, I think. Some kid with rich parents. An only child. It’s hard to remember my classmates though. I’m not in school much. It’s not like I get a choice.