Later that night,my face flushes when I peel the hospital gown away from my skin. It falls to my feet, and I move to the shower in my room. I sit on the chair, feeling the water rush down my back as Conner drags the sponge across my skin, washing away the blood clinging to me.
The dirty, dead crimson flows down my feet and swirls into the drain. My hair rises, and Conner washes my hair while I drag the sponge down my chest, removing sweat, grime, blood, and the layers of fear that stuck to my skin for the many years trapped in the home.
Whenever I drag the sponge across my arm, I remove a haunting memory. I wash away the bruises that used to swell there and the finger marks taunting and corrupting me. I feel like a snake shedding its dead skin. Only it’s not skin, but everything wrong that has happened to me. I’m removing it all, tearing it all down until glowing, red skin throbs to the surface.
Until I can see the blemishes and freckles, oddly placed, which I’ve never focused on before.
It’s good to see me again.
“D-Do I sound bad?”I croak.
Dr Kim holds no emotions. “No.”
I know he’s lying.
Dr Kim wants me to practice asking a few brief questions the next day before the police arrive. I’m nervous. My fingers clutch the sheets, and my body keeps shifting as if I cannot get comfortable.
I don’t do well with the police. All my life, I’ve feared them. Thought of them as the enemy, as Dad goes to work there. He controls us and holds us like puppets on strings. And now, they’re here tohelpme.
I don’t think that’s entirely true. I suspect they may downplay, perhaps even twist things in their favour, to protect the monster. If that’s the case, I don’t know how well I’ll cope.
Dr Kim steps out of the room to get the police waiting outside. Mrs Jones isn’t here. The police want to question her as well. She’s my old therapist, and she questioned where my file went and why I didn’t get the help she requested eight years ago.
The police enter the room. A chill shudders at the sight of them and their leering, piercing gazes. I try to swallow the lumpin my throat, but the swelling hasn’t entirely gone down yet. Instead, it feels like I swallowed a mouthful of air, and it lives in the back of my throat.
“Noya Dawn Taylor,” the woman speaks, her voice soft and her eyes sincere. “Would you be able to answer a few of our questions?”
I dart a look at Conner, my life support, then back at the woman and male cop. “Yes,” I agree.
“Can you run us through the events of yesterday morning as thoroughly as possible? Any important information leading up to that incident will also be of great value to us.”
“Okay…”
I take a deep breath and explain. I tell them how my parents were acting strangely since Friday night, leading up to Tuesday. Then I tell them they had perhaps drugged me Monday night, and I overheard my parents talking about moving Tuesday night. I tell them about Dad stalking me at school and stealing my phone so I couldn’t call anyone.
I tell them I was afraid for my life in the morning, so I tried to run when I thought I saw an opportunity. If I escaped, I would’ve gone to Conner’s home.
Then, as the tears flow down my face, I explain what Dad did to me. The way his hands gripped around my throat to the extent that I thought my neck was about to break. I told them Mum tried to get him off me when he hit her.
“Why did he stop?” the male cop asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I guess what I said caught him off guard.”
“Do you often call your dad that?”
I shake my head and say, “The last time I called him daddy, I was three years old. Around there, I think…”
The woman nods. “Go on. What happened after?”
I explain that I had gouged one of his eyes out, and as I tried to run to the door, he grabbed my leg, catching me off guard. My face slammed into the tiles, and that’s how I got a broken nose. I told them Mum put a knife to Dad’s throat while I crawled to the door.
“Um… I can’t remember what happened after that,” I answer. “I think Mrs Crawford showed up, but I was pretty out of it.”
“Has your dad hurt you previously?” the woman asks.
I bite my lip, recounting every time Dad put his hands on me. “Yes.”
“Do you have any evidence?” the male police officer questions, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Any pictures on your phone? Recordings of him doing anything violent.”