Cut Up Angels, chapter 5
I feel myself start to hyperventilate. I became dizzy, fast. The whole alley seemed to be spinning. I close my eyes for a good 5 minutes to calm myself down.
And when I open them again, I see you, your face red and blotchy and tired-looking, your shirt still open and baring scars that would never heal. Sickness takes over my body again.
I let you rest your head on my lap and cry. In fact, I think I'm crying, but I can't tell. What would I do? Should I tell Mike or Tre? Should I tell my parents or your mom, or the police? What would happen to you? What if I jeopardized your life?
"He does it...when no one's home. And, and he cuts my wrists so it looks like I did it...no one knows...oh God, he's going to kill me if he finds out I told..." You cry.
"Shh, he won't, he won't, it's okay," I whisper. Though I'm not sure myself.
After what seems like a long time, Mike and Tre finally stumble upon us. Your shirt is still open and I watch their reactions.
"What the fuck...?" Tre asks. I just shake my head. Tre turns and presses his forehead against the brick wall.
Mike falls to his knees and just says, "Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ..." in disbelief.
I look down at you. "Billie...?" I begin to ask. You read my mind and nod.
Over the next few minutes I recount the story to Tre and Mike, and though it's not mine I physically feel the pain.
When I'm finished, tears pour out of Tre's eyes as he kneels next to you. Mike's still in the same position before, kneeling, muttering things to himself, as if he has yet to take it all in. For a long time we stay like this.
Finally, Mike takes a long breath and says: "Okay. Okay. Billie, button up your shirt. We'll take you back home." I want to ask Mike what we're going to do, but he looks unsure himself. I lean on Tre's shoulder, still uneasy, and all of us help you walk home.
As we come through the front door, we see your mom and siblings in the living room, your mom nervously pacing the floor. Your stepdad is still in front of the TV. Mrs. Armstrong gives a little scream when she sees us, soaking wet and freezing.
"Jesus, Billie, where were you?!" She asks.
You don't answer, just look at me. Your eyes show me your pain.
"He was just, out, outside, in town," I mumble.
I know Mrs. Armstrong is curious, but she leads us all down to your room nonetheless. "Mike, go get out of those wet clothes. Billie, you change too, and loan Tre and Laura some clothes for now..."
"I, um, live right next door, I can--" I begin.
"No, no, don't go back out there yet honey, it's freezing! I'll call your mom and Tre's parents..." She bustles out of the room.
We sit there for a minute and I realize all of us are shaking. Not just from being cold, either. Mike sighs and leaves the room to get changed. You toss Tre a pair of pants and a shirt before slumping back down next to me. I realize that it's painful just to stand. I feel like breaking down.
"We can't tell him, we can't..." You begin.
I'm speechless. You stand, shakily, making your way back to your dresser. On top of it is a picture of you and your dad. You're about 9 years old. You pick up the picture and look at it for a minute, before hurling it to the floor. It doesn't break.
"He wouldn't let something like this happen. Goddammit, he wouldn't, he promised..." You're referring to your dad now.
I walk over to you and give you a hug, letting you cry on my shoulder.
"Billie..." I step back. Your eyes won't meet mine. They're ashamed.
"Billie, please," I whisper. "We have to tell your mom."
And when I open them again, I see you, your face red and blotchy and tired-looking, your shirt still open and baring scars that would never heal. Sickness takes over my body again.
I let you rest your head on my lap and cry. In fact, I think I'm crying, but I can't tell. What would I do? Should I tell Mike or Tre? Should I tell my parents or your mom, or the police? What would happen to you? What if I jeopardized your life?
"He does it...when no one's home. And, and he cuts my wrists so it looks like I did it...no one knows...oh God, he's going to kill me if he finds out I told..." You cry.
"Shh, he won't, he won't, it's okay," I whisper. Though I'm not sure myself.
After what seems like a long time, Mike and Tre finally stumble upon us. Your shirt is still open and I watch their reactions.
"What the fuck...?" Tre asks. I just shake my head. Tre turns and presses his forehead against the brick wall.
Mike falls to his knees and just says, "Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ..." in disbelief.
I look down at you. "Billie...?" I begin to ask. You read my mind and nod.
Over the next few minutes I recount the story to Tre and Mike, and though it's not mine I physically feel the pain.
When I'm finished, tears pour out of Tre's eyes as he kneels next to you. Mike's still in the same position before, kneeling, muttering things to himself, as if he has yet to take it all in. For a long time we stay like this.
Finally, Mike takes a long breath and says: "Okay. Okay. Billie, button up your shirt. We'll take you back home." I want to ask Mike what we're going to do, but he looks unsure himself. I lean on Tre's shoulder, still uneasy, and all of us help you walk home.
As we come through the front door, we see your mom and siblings in the living room, your mom nervously pacing the floor. Your stepdad is still in front of the TV. Mrs. Armstrong gives a little scream when she sees us, soaking wet and freezing.
"Jesus, Billie, where were you?!" She asks.
You don't answer, just look at me. Your eyes show me your pain.
"He was just, out, outside, in town," I mumble.
I know Mrs. Armstrong is curious, but she leads us all down to your room nonetheless. "Mike, go get out of those wet clothes. Billie, you change too, and loan Tre and Laura some clothes for now..."
"I, um, live right next door, I can--" I begin.
"No, no, don't go back out there yet honey, it's freezing! I'll call your mom and Tre's parents..." She bustles out of the room.
We sit there for a minute and I realize all of us are shaking. Not just from being cold, either. Mike sighs and leaves the room to get changed. You toss Tre a pair of pants and a shirt before slumping back down next to me. I realize that it's painful just to stand. I feel like breaking down.
"We can't tell him, we can't..." You begin.
I'm speechless. You stand, shakily, making your way back to your dresser. On top of it is a picture of you and your dad. You're about 9 years old. You pick up the picture and look at it for a minute, before hurling it to the floor. It doesn't break.
"He wouldn't let something like this happen. Goddammit, he wouldn't, he promised..." You're referring to your dad now.
I walk over to you and give you a hug, letting you cry on my shoulder.
"Billie..." I step back. Your eyes won't meet mine. They're ashamed.
"Billie, please," I whisper. "We have to tell your mom."
