Don't Talk to Strangers

XXXVII

I gaped in horror, turning slowly to take in the room's entirety. The feeling in my hands started draining until I found myself falling to my knees with tears streaming down my cheeks. This is too much. This is all too much. I'm can't take this! I sat in heaving sobs, my father not saying anything. When I could finally breathe again, I held my face in my hands.

"Why?" I hissed. Then I ripped my hands from my face, screaming, "Why?"

He stepped closer to me, a pitying look in his eyes and a small smile on his face. I hated it. He stroked my hair and knelt beside me. "It's okay, Cassie. You're safe now. You can start over. Everything is going to be perfect."

I took the moment of calmness to really look at him. I'd never been able to remember what he looked like. He didn't seem familiar, though. The only thing that even seemed remotely recognizable was his voice, which made some sense. He had rough, hardened and wrinkled features. His hair was thin and dirty blonde. But his face was all wrong. Maybe he wasn't actually my father. But that would mean accepting that Mom had slept around... I nearly shuddered. No matter how much she vexed me, I cared more for her than this awful man before me.

I shook myself of my daze and glared at the floor, jerking my head away from his hand. "It's not going to be 'perfect,'" I snapped. "This is wrong. You're all wrong. You can't just take me and think I'll be okay with it." He stiffened and began to say something, but I quickly added, "I had a life. I was finally happy. Isn't that what you wanted? For me to be happy?"

He gripped my shirt and pulled me up. He held me close to him for much longer than I liked, but I was soon thrown against the wall. I struggled to regain my balance and breath, keeping my eyes on him. "Happy? You were happy out there?" He laughed menacingly. "You don't know what happy is. You don't know... how happy I can make you..."

He slowly stepped toward me and I shrunk up against the wall. He covered my body with his and pinned me. I shivered, biting my lip to stop from crying out. But when he kissed my forehead again, a violent breath escaped me and I coughed out, "Creep."

In a fraction of a second, he'd grabbed my arms and thrown me to the side. I landed on the bed—the creepy, childhood bed of mine—and scrambled to right myself. My breathing picked up and I started feeling the fear cloud my mind. Get off the bed, get off the bed, get off the bed you idiot! my mind screamed. I leapt up and bolted for the door.

My father managed to snag my arm at the last second, yelling out and hurling me down. I bit back a scream as my hip hit the concrete and a flash of pain radiated through my side. It's not the bullet's side, though, I thought. I can't believe I'm thinking of this now. Oh, God, help me.

My father stomped his foot loudly and dangerously close to my feet. I jerked my knees up to my chest and looked up at him.

"You're staying in here until you learn to listen to your father, young lady," he howled at me. "Just you wait and see." With that, he turned around, slammed the door behind him, and I curled into a ball and cried.