Prologue
The first lesson I learned in foster care was how to be small.
Small enough to melt into corners. Small enough to dodge the eyes that don’t look to see, but to take. Small enough to slip through the cracks without being crushed.
Even then, there are nights when no matter how small you make yourself, the walls press closer and even the cracks disappear. Nights when the air grows heavy, warning you in a language only your body understands.
I think of that night six years ago but only in pieces. Not a clear window of memory, but splinters of glass sharp enough to slice my fingers when I reach for them. I know better than to hold on. Despite that, sometimes I do.
It began the way it always did—silence. Not peaceful, but the pressed-flat kind. A silence so tight it hummed against my eardrums louder than anything.
The white nightgown my foster mother made me wear clung cold and thin to my legs. The draft from the window crept over my ankles, raising goose flesh. My fists were already curled beneath the blanket, nails carving marks into my palms, as if bracing for an impact my my body knew long before my mind could catch up.
Everyone said this was a safe house.
Cross above the doorway. Clean counters. Folded laundry.
My caseworker called it “decent,” as though the word itself could keep things out.
I always knew better.
The floorboards sighed in the hallway—one step, then another. Closer. Too close. Each creak pressed deeper into my ribs.
My bedroom door opened. Hinges gave a long, low groan. Air shifted, carrying a scent of dust and damp cloth.
Shadows stretched across the room, too long with fingers reaching.
Then the feel of hands. Rough and sure, tearing me out of stillness before I could react.
The blanket ripped away, the sound of fabric tearing loud and final in the hush.
I froze. My lips parted, but only a faint hiss of air escaped me. A ghost of a sound.
This wasn’t the first time. My muscles recognized the pattern even as my mind tried to vanish.
“Don’t,” a voice said, low and hoarse. Not a plea, but a warning.
Another whisper closer to my ear, “Stay quiet. Stay still.”
I can’t remember anymore if it was two voice or the same voice doubled, echoed inside my skull. Most of the words blurred together, hissing like steam leaking from a pipe.
A thumb pressed hard against my jaw. Breath hot against my cheek. Fingers gripping my wrist too tight. The smell of soap mixed with something earthy, and the faint musk of old fabric.
“Be a good girl,” the voice said. “That’s right. I’m not going to hurt you.”
My body flinched at the words even as my mind went blank. Suspended between breaths and my heart hammering so fast it felt like it might break through my ribs.
Then—another sound. Sudden. Violent. Glass breaking somewhere. A crash sharp enough to slice the silence in two.
We struggled. Or at least, I think we did. My memories of it move like light through dirty water.
My knee stroke wood, splinters grinding under my skin. My palm skidded across something warm. Sticky. Red. Blood—mine or theirs? It left streaks across pae skin, dripping through the cracks in the boards.
More than one source.
More than one wound.
“Stay still,” a voice hissed.
“No—” Another voice. Was it my own? It cut off before it became a full sound.
Something sharp nicked my wrist. Another grip crushed my shoulder. Shadows leaned over me, their edges breaking apart and coming back together again like a kaleidoscope.
Then the burning.
A slice at my throat, sudden and searing, stealing my air before I even understood. My slick hands clutched at it, trying to hold myself together, slipping on skin and blood.
Another hand—wet, red—flashed across my memory, brushing mine before vanishing like a match struck and blown out.
The room tilted. The ceiling warped, the corners folding inward. Hands again-- pulling, pinning, dragging.
Not the first time. Not the first night. Not the first hands. My body knew the choreography even as my mind shut itself down.
“Stop—” My lips moved, but no sound came out. Just pain.
“Be good and it won’t hurt,” a repeated murmur at my ear, or maybe it was in my head.
Something broke in me this time. I kicked. Scratched. Bit down hard until iron flooded my mouth. A noise tore the air—raw, animal—but I don’t know whose throat it came from.
My palm struck something jagged. A shard of glass. It cut into my hand, but I curled my fingers around it, anyway.
After that—blank. Only a rush of dark.
Then I was up. Running. Bare feet over glass and splinters, each step a sting. Down the hall. Down the stairs. The front door—always stuck—gave way under my hand as if it wanted me gone.
Night hit me like a slap. Fog clung heavily and damp to my skin. My nightgown clung too, streaked and sticky. One hand stayed clamped to my throat, red leaking between my fingers. My other hand still clutched a piece of jagged glass like it was my lifeline.
My lungs worked like bellows, but no sound rose from them. Sparks flickered at the edges of my sight, blurring sharply.
I tried to scream, but only a wet gurgle spilled out.
Behind me—flashes. Someone in the doorway. Too many shapes. Too many shadows. When I reach for the memory of who was standing there, it slides apart like oil on water.
I just remember my breath, wet and ragged, and my feet striking pavement. The world narrowed to the sound of them until I heard sirens.
They were far away at first, then nearer. They split the middle of the night fog with fractured red and blue. My knees threatened to fold, but I was still moving.
One more step.
Just one.
Above me, the sky hung black and starless, a lid on everything.
