He showed up three weeks after she and Lyssa had been allowed to go home. She had been pushing that fear to the back of her mind from the beginning, but still had not come up with any plan that seemed viable. How long could she stay on the run with a newborn? How would she support them both? She had decided quickly that she -- they -- would stay put. He would have very little interest in the child, and perhaps he would take the birth as proof that she would be obedient for her daughter's sake, and no trouble to control. Perhaps that would be enough.
With that hope held constantly in her mind like a shield against her nightmares, she had made her arrangements. She and Lyssa fell easily into a schedule of their own that barely meshed with the pace of the world around them, waking late each morning and going to bed scant hours before the sun rose. They were never apart for longer than it took her to shower, and she did that only when she was sure the child was sound asleep. Her boss and coworkers at the store had dropped by once or twice, marvelling at Lyssa's newborn antics and sighing over her pretty eyes and contented gurgles. She was due back at work in three weeks, a prospect that was made tolerable by the fact that her boss had been amenable to her bringing Lyssa to work with her. There was already a brightly-coloured playpen occupying a corner of the floor near the counter, in fact, and there were several blankets and baby supplies in her cupboard there. She had been buying them, one at a time, or making them, in the case of the blankets, as the time grew closer and she grew more assured of her funds being sufficient. She had grown more comfortable, almost cheerful, as the month passed. She took Lyssa along for the long walks she had grown accustomed to before the little girl's birth. She sang to her, spent long hours lying very still with the baby lying, asleep, in the crook of her arm, and watched in wonder as the newborn started waking for longer periods of time.
And then, one evening, she took the baby out for one of their usual walks, and returned home to find two men sitting on her couch. They barely glanced up as she came through the door, but she went cold and pale as she brushed past them silently, gathering Lyssa, who was sleeping peacefully, protectively into her arms. They stayed put as she took the child into the nursery and set her down in her crib, turning on the radio in the hope that the continuous music would keep the baby asleep through whatever came next. Then, taking a deep breath and pulling her shoulders back, she left the nursery, shutting the door gently behind her, and went out to face the two men in her living room.
"You." She ignored the man next to him, except to note that he was leafing through one of her books. It was her father she watched, her face expressionless. He grinned at her, and her heart sank. He wasn't completely drunk. Yet. And that had been her only hope. "You ought to know better by now," he said, shaking his head. "You never run far enough or long enough. There isn't any such thing as too far away for a concerned father to find his missing daughter. Especially when she really wants to be found." She gritted her teeth against the protests she wanted to blurt out. He only wanted an excuse. In truth, he had never needed even that; he simply enjoyed being able to point out to her afterward that it was her fault.
She almost shrieked when he stood up. He was taller than her by several inches, and heavier by fifty pounds, and already her arms and eyes tingled in anticipation of the blows.
He struck her twice, splitting her lip and blacking her left eye. She forced herself not to scream, remembering Lyssa, still asleep in her crib, and he was raising his hand for a third blow when the man still sitting on the couch turned aside and spat on her carpet. "I'm not paying you a cent if you knock her out," he said flatly. Her father lowered his arm, and she spoke bitterly. "What is he paying you for?" He grinned unpleasantly. "Nothing unusual, more's the pity. What does it matter? Either you be nice to him, or I make life difficult for you. You want to go to juvenile hall till you turn twenty? What happens to your little bastard when I turn you in? Maybe I should take her with me and raise her, huh? Maybe she'll be more grateful than you."
She stood very still, her blood rushing to her head in one dizzy surge. Then she screamed, and lunged at him. "Leave my daughter alone! You filthy son of a --" The impact of the second man's hand across her jaw snapped her head back and cut off her diatribe. She waited for the next blow, but it didn't come. Her father's companion stood back a little, watching her. Her father, oddly enough, stood aside, glancing back and forth between them. She glared at them both. "Touch my daughter, and I swear, I don't care how long it takes. I will kill you and see your corpse rot unburied. You'll get less than you gave my mother." He growled unintelligibly, but his companion caught his eye, and he subsided. So did she; that sort of obedience from the man who had been almost completely responsible for all of the terror in her life would have been unthinkable had she not seen it. Staring at the other man, who was younger than her father by about fifteen years and much better dressed, she asked, "who are you?"
Her father laughed. "This is your new husband, baby girl." She almost choked. "What? What have you done to me this time?" "Shut up," he snarled. "He's willing to take you off my hands, and I am still your father." "What, selling me off to your friends wasn't enough? Or is it that you just can't convince any of them that I'm still a virgin anymore?" When his eyes narrowed, she knew she had guessed at least part of his motives. The other part, no doubt, was pure greed. She wanted to cry. The stranger, foreseeing the possibility, spoke up coolly. "I sincerely hope you're not about to blubber. Your father says you're a very grown up sixteen-year-old. Prove it." She made herself take a deep, if shaky, breath, and speak instead of screaming. "Why? Because it's more convenient for you? Why should I make it easy for you to buy me? And why do you need to buy me, anyway? What the hell's so wrong with you that no other woman would have you?" She expected him to slap her again the instant the words were out of her mouth. When he laughed instead, she flinched. The ones who couldn't be provoked into a fight, in her experience, were the ones who took their revenge in other, less pleasant ways. Leave it to her father to sell her off to one of the worst. Hell, that was probably icing on the cake to him. A delightful bonus, to not only peddle off his daughter for a good chunk of cash -- the one thing he'd never done was sell her cheap, she acknowledged bitterly -- but to someone he knew would "keep her in her place," as he'd put it so often while she was growing up. But she wasn't married yet, and she'd be damned if she was going to get married, either. No matter how much money had changed hands.
She voiced that thought, and the response was far different from what she might have anticipated. The man turned to her father. She couldn't read the expression on his face, but his voice was quiet, and he said only one thing. "Leave," he said. Her blood ran ice cold when her father obeyed without a protest, giving her a final, triumphant glance as he shut the front door behind him, leaving her alone with the stranger.
.. I am at 31,823 total, and working on closing some of the gaps in the storyline. And the storyline is surprising me at every turn, it seems. I had no intention of turning him into the grandfather from hell when I began. I should be sleeping. But as long as I'm getting the words out, I'm going to.
With that hope held constantly in her mind like a shield against her nightmares, she had made her arrangements. She and Lyssa fell easily into a schedule of their own that barely meshed with the pace of the world around them, waking late each morning and going to bed scant hours before the sun rose. They were never apart for longer than it took her to shower, and she did that only when she was sure the child was sound asleep. Her boss and coworkers at the store had dropped by once or twice, marvelling at Lyssa's newborn antics and sighing over her pretty eyes and contented gurgles. She was due back at work in three weeks, a prospect that was made tolerable by the fact that her boss had been amenable to her bringing Lyssa to work with her. There was already a brightly-coloured playpen occupying a corner of the floor near the counter, in fact, and there were several blankets and baby supplies in her cupboard there. She had been buying them, one at a time, or making them, in the case of the blankets, as the time grew closer and she grew more assured of her funds being sufficient. She had grown more comfortable, almost cheerful, as the month passed. She took Lyssa along for the long walks she had grown accustomed to before the little girl's birth. She sang to her, spent long hours lying very still with the baby lying, asleep, in the crook of her arm, and watched in wonder as the newborn started waking for longer periods of time.
And then, one evening, she took the baby out for one of their usual walks, and returned home to find two men sitting on her couch. They barely glanced up as she came through the door, but she went cold and pale as she brushed past them silently, gathering Lyssa, who was sleeping peacefully, protectively into her arms. They stayed put as she took the child into the nursery and set her down in her crib, turning on the radio in the hope that the continuous music would keep the baby asleep through whatever came next. Then, taking a deep breath and pulling her shoulders back, she left the nursery, shutting the door gently behind her, and went out to face the two men in her living room.
"You." She ignored the man next to him, except to note that he was leafing through one of her books. It was her father she watched, her face expressionless. He grinned at her, and her heart sank. He wasn't completely drunk. Yet. And that had been her only hope. "You ought to know better by now," he said, shaking his head. "You never run far enough or long enough. There isn't any such thing as too far away for a concerned father to find his missing daughter. Especially when she really wants to be found." She gritted her teeth against the protests she wanted to blurt out. He only wanted an excuse. In truth, he had never needed even that; he simply enjoyed being able to point out to her afterward that it was her fault.
She almost shrieked when he stood up. He was taller than her by several inches, and heavier by fifty pounds, and already her arms and eyes tingled in anticipation of the blows.
He struck her twice, splitting her lip and blacking her left eye. She forced herself not to scream, remembering Lyssa, still asleep in her crib, and he was raising his hand for a third blow when the man still sitting on the couch turned aside and spat on her carpet. "I'm not paying you a cent if you knock her out," he said flatly. Her father lowered his arm, and she spoke bitterly. "What is he paying you for?" He grinned unpleasantly. "Nothing unusual, more's the pity. What does it matter? Either you be nice to him, or I make life difficult for you. You want to go to juvenile hall till you turn twenty? What happens to your little bastard when I turn you in? Maybe I should take her with me and raise her, huh? Maybe she'll be more grateful than you."
She stood very still, her blood rushing to her head in one dizzy surge. Then she screamed, and lunged at him. "Leave my daughter alone! You filthy son of a --" The impact of the second man's hand across her jaw snapped her head back and cut off her diatribe. She waited for the next blow, but it didn't come. Her father's companion stood back a little, watching her. Her father, oddly enough, stood aside, glancing back and forth between them. She glared at them both. "Touch my daughter, and I swear, I don't care how long it takes. I will kill you and see your corpse rot unburied. You'll get less than you gave my mother." He growled unintelligibly, but his companion caught his eye, and he subsided. So did she; that sort of obedience from the man who had been almost completely responsible for all of the terror in her life would have been unthinkable had she not seen it. Staring at the other man, who was younger than her father by about fifteen years and much better dressed, she asked, "who are you?"
Her father laughed. "This is your new husband, baby girl." She almost choked. "What? What have you done to me this time?" "Shut up," he snarled. "He's willing to take you off my hands, and I am still your father." "What, selling me off to your friends wasn't enough? Or is it that you just can't convince any of them that I'm still a virgin anymore?" When his eyes narrowed, she knew she had guessed at least part of his motives. The other part, no doubt, was pure greed. She wanted to cry. The stranger, foreseeing the possibility, spoke up coolly. "I sincerely hope you're not about to blubber. Your father says you're a very grown up sixteen-year-old. Prove it." She made herself take a deep, if shaky, breath, and speak instead of screaming. "Why? Because it's more convenient for you? Why should I make it easy for you to buy me? And why do you need to buy me, anyway? What the hell's so wrong with you that no other woman would have you?" She expected him to slap her again the instant the words were out of her mouth. When he laughed instead, she flinched. The ones who couldn't be provoked into a fight, in her experience, were the ones who took their revenge in other, less pleasant ways. Leave it to her father to sell her off to one of the worst. Hell, that was probably icing on the cake to him. A delightful bonus, to not only peddle off his daughter for a good chunk of cash -- the one thing he'd never done was sell her cheap, she acknowledged bitterly -- but to someone he knew would "keep her in her place," as he'd put it so often while she was growing up. But she wasn't married yet, and she'd be damned if she was going to get married, either. No matter how much money had changed hands.
She voiced that thought, and the response was far different from what she might have anticipated. The man turned to her father. She couldn't read the expression on his face, but his voice was quiet, and he said only one thing. "Leave," he said. Her blood ran ice cold when her father obeyed without a protest, giving her a final, triumphant glance as he shut the front door behind him, leaving her alone with the stranger.
.. I am at 31,823 total, and working on closing some of the gaps in the storyline. And the storyline is surprising me at every turn, it seems. I had no intention of turning him into the grandfather from hell when I began. I should be sleeping. But as long as I'm getting the words out, I'm going to.
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