Stolen Hope

Two girls sat crouched in the darkest corner of the closet, arms wrapped around each other tight. Not a breath escaped their lips as they listened, ears tuned, eyes wide, to the muffled sounds coming from outside the door. Something was thrown violently across the room and it landed with a loud crash.

“Where are you, you little bitch?”

One of the little girls whimpered and seemed to shrink further into the corner. The other girl wrapped her arms more fiercely around her sister and fought back the tears that threatened to engulf her. “He won’t find us.” She whispered, but her voice gave away the doubt she felt and she wished she hadn’t spoken at all.

They jumped in unison when a bottle shattered. Fear made the sound seem so close and the smell of liquor seeped through the door. A cold chuckle of laughter seemed to echo and reverberate through the walls and the girls shivered in fright. A slow set of footsteps made its way slowly and calculatedly towards the closet and as inebriated as he was, his step never faltered. The tears that had been held back so bravely finally spilled over. The light filtering in through the crack at the bottom of the door was suddenly shut out by the shadow of the monster standing outside the door. Eyes squeezed shut as the inevitable took place and the door was clawed off its hinges. Dim light fell upon the girls and a puddle of urine pooled between their legs. The braver of the two looked defiantly up at the lurching figure of her father and hid her sister behind her. Unperturbed, the man looked down at his daughters with glazed eyes and a triumphant smile. Although they were identical twins, he could easily tell them apart. Anyone could. Diane Hope Mills was quite obviously the older of the two, just from her protective stance. She was a plump nine year old who had grown up too quickly. Her green eyes glittered with spirit and her blond hair shone with them. She was alive. Isabel Faith Mills was death in the eyes of a child. A mere shadow of a girl, starved to skin and bones, eyes sunken in from fear of falling asleep. Even her dreams offered no escape to the terror that was her life. Looked at with utter disgust and hatred by her father and beaten ever since she could crawl. To him, she was the reason his wife had died.

A wave of sobs wracked Isabel’s body as her father viciously pulled her out from behind Diane.

 “You really thought you could hide from me did you, you little fuck?” he growled. He took her by the hair and dragged her out of the closet. Diane rushed forward and pummeled her father ineffectively with her little fists. “Leave her alone!” she screamed and her father gave her a brutal kick to the side. Her head connected with the wall and she sank to the floor unconscious.

He stumbled out into the hallway with Isabel still in tow, her sharp yelps of pain muffled by tears. She knew what was coming and her body convulsed involuntarily. She fell to the floor but this didn’t make her father stop. He just continued to drag her across the hard cold floor. All the way down the wooden splintered staircase. All the way to the kitchen. As he moved he removed his belt; his favorite weapon.

“You really thought you could hide from me did you?” he muttered breathily. He lifted her to her feet, then shoved her back onto the floor and stood over her with a wild look in his eyes. He slowly twisted the belt in his hand enjoying the fear it brought to the eyes of the helpless girl at his feet. Then with a cruel lift of his arm he brought the belt, buckle side, crashing to the girl’s side. She cried out but the pain was so intense that no sound came out. Her vision blurred and she went blind for a few seconds. She turned onto her stomach as she felt herself convulse and throw up her meager supper. She braced herself for the second blow fighting the urge to cover her head because previous experience had taught her that this would only make her father hit her more for doing so. He lifted his arm again and this time brought the belt down so hard that he himself fell backwards into the kitchen counter, bringing a rain of pots and pans onto the floor. Barely missing her head, a large pan fell in front of her as if goading her to take it in her hands. She looked back at her father and felt a wave of hatred wash over her as she watched him struggle to his feet. Without thinking twice, she grabbed the pan, stood shakily to her feet  and swung the pan at his head with all the strength an abused nine year old could muster. The pan connected to his head with a loud crack and for a second he stared down at her in shock. Isabel gave a frightened step backwards when he started to fall towards her. In her fear she thought he was lunging towards her and she screamed. But her hit combined with the liquor was enough to knock him out. For a few minutes she stared down at his limp body and she shivered as she remembered a time when he had beat her up and then locked her in the closet for days until she felt she was going to die. He was surely going to finish her when he woke up. It was not the fear of death that made her do what she did next. In fact she welcomed death. It was the fear of being locked up again. In the dark with no food or water, just her sisters voice outside the door keeping her alive. It was the thought of going through that, that made her turn and run. Out the front door and into the night, as far away from her father as she could.

To Be Continued...

 By Wilhelmine Wachter