Night Swim

You



Ning always sat on the edge for a little while, enjoying the mostly silent nights, and the feeling of release that she got just before she pushed forward and slipped into the water.

Each night was different — cool and blustery, warm and still, clear, cloudy, raining, hot, heavy with humidity, or so cold that her skin shrunk into goose pimples — but every night was special to Ning. She indulged in the changing nature of her time once the sun was gone each day, and she accepted whatever awaited her.

Tonight was very calm indeed and with her bare skin pressed into the rough cement edge of the pool and her legs dangling in the water, Ning was, as always, in her element.

The moon was high and the sky very clear, enough so that she could easily see a few dozen stars and further, out beyond her town, the dim yellow glow of the city. This was her favourite part, just before she slipped in — the thought of the water taking her, the knowledge that she shouldn’t be there (the pool was closed at night) — it was her secret after-hours playground.

And…

The thought of being caught, in the dark, naked, at the public pool. It was enough to make her blood boil with electricity. It was the feeling of being alive.

Something rustled in the bushes behind her but Ning only glanced back out of pure physical reaction. She was used to bats and birds and rodents sharing the night with her. She had stopped being scared a long time ago.

Inching forward on the cement, she lifted herself up and then dipped straight down.

She was submerged.

Underneath the water entirely for a moment, she bobbed up again, smoothed back her long hair and let her lungs open up and fill with air.

This was her night swim.



***



Me



I’ve been waiting.

I’m leaning against the thick palm tree just down from the public pool. I know I’ll hear you when you climb over the fence — it always rattles loudly in the quiet night — more than you seem to think it does. You throw your towel over first and then look both ways, as if you were about to cross the road. I’ve learnt that’s just habit though, because you know that no one will see you. You look but you don’t really look. It’s almost as if the act itself is muscle memory.

I wonder to myself how long you’ve been coming here. I've wondered this many times before. I feel sad that I don’t know the answer and that I also potentially missed out on many nights.

This is the hard part though — waiting. I like to wait by the palm but I feel seedy when I do it. There’s a bench further down with a lamp post directly above (bright enough for me to read by) but it’s too close to the school that owns the pool, and if I sit there I’m always afraid a passing police car will think I’m their quota for the night.

But they don’t know about you. They don’t see you.

They don't see the girl at the pool.

I’m anxious tonight. I got here early because I couldn’t stand to be at home. I had this feeling that you might be early as well, but I was wrong. It’s 11: 47 when I see you walking quietly up the path towards the pool fence and it’s so calm tonight in the street that I’m worried you’ll hear my watch ticking.

But you don’t — of course you don’t; it’s just a watch. I’m being paranoid.

You’re wearing that nice, bright blue dress with the zip down the front, and your hair is tied up in a bun. I wish I could tell you how much that colour suits you, and how I love it when I finally get to see you with your hair down. It’s usually tied up — I  guess you don’t like to walk with it out. Pity.

Today was a bad day. I feel it on my heels as I make my way along the fence on the other side of the street, keeping to the shadows, watching you get closer to the part of the fence that has a fire hydrant in front of it — you need to stand up on it to get high enough to pull yourself over the fence.

Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald said my piece on the closure of the butter factory wasn’t inspired. Jesus. Does he know that no one cares about the fucking butter factory. I did the best I could and the piece was a failure because there was nothing to get — dusty floor, rusted broken down churners, cleared out cupboards and only one, grey-ish guy who was willing to say more than two words to me — the piece was hollow, but the photos turned out quite well. I considered making a small collection and approaching the The Alley. It's that tiny art gallery behind the bank. Maybe. I don’t know.

Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald is an idiot. I’m quiet and I don’t argue with him so he gives me jobs that he is certain will flop. Still, the guy wouldn’t know a story if it blew his head off with a semi-automatic. Those who have no talent, manage.

Today was a bad day. You would touch my hand and your dark eyes would soften and you would tell me it was okay that I had a shitty day. You’d fix my Tuesday. I know you would. You’d tell me to work a little more on the photo collection and go for it. You’d tell me it was good enough. You’d tell me I was good enough.

I stop when I see you get to your spot and throw your towel over the fence onto the grassy grounds that surround the pool. You have it down to a fine art — stepping up on the hydrant, steadying yourself with both hands on the fence, you pull up, up and UP. Your hips are on the fence like a gymnast and you swing your legs up either side of you like a monkey. You stand, then, tall; a beautiful statue upon the vertical metal prongs.

You look down over the pool. This is your domain. And then, gracefully and without fear (it seems) you jump straight down. It’s a good seven feet to the ground but you land on bent knees and your hands touch the ground momentarily before you grab your towel and straighten up. You are a seasoned professional. You are a cat burglar in the night. You are a fucking ninja. You are perfect.

My camera is heavy around my neck. On one hand I regret bringing it, but on the other…

I’m tense. Taught with excitement and anticipation. If I don’t crumble to ash perhaps I’ll get some nice, clear photos of you. Ones that I can print up big, big, in my dark-room. I could frame them. Look at them all day. Your blue dress. Your hair. And, and, all of you…

allofyou. ALLOFYOU.

 You’re about to walk to the far side of the pool so I know this is my chance to move. You won’t hear me while you walk, as long as I’m quiet, and I can usually circle the pool fence and get all the way to the side that is lined with dense shrub before you even start taking out your hair.

I’m right (of course), and we both move, purely out of habit. You, across the grass to the diving blocks and the corner that you like best; me, around the edge of the fence to the place where I like to sit. We’ve done this a million times — not that you know.

I know it’s not a million but it feels good to say that.

I’m sat between two trimmed hedges in the moonlight. The safety lights are on you and on the pool, and I know you can’t see me.

But I can see you.

You.

I watch you. This is a good part, but it’s not my favourite.

This part.

You dump your towel on the ground at the edge of the pool and reach up to unzip your dress. I get hard as you slip it down I see that you’re not wearing a bra tonight. Your knickers are black and you take them off and toss them onto your discarded dress. Your caramel skin is darker in the moonlight than I imagine it is in the daylight, but your business center is neat and your breasts…

Your breasts.

They’re small and pert and oh my God I’m so fucking hard.

You reach up and take the pins and ties out of your hair. It falls down around you in dark waves and I get up on my knees. This is my favourite part.

You sit down on the edge of the pool and each time, I wonder what it feels like — that cold hard cement against the bare skin of your butt. I want to touch that skin. Oh god, I want to touch your bare skin. I want to touch any part of you. I want to touch all of you.

You lift yourself forward and the moonlight and the safety lights reflect off your caramel and I can see you breasts and the tight skin that leads down to your belly button, and the skin that leads down from that, and the small patch of hair just above your sweet spot.

You splash into the water and I am overcome. I’ve seen you do this for one thousand, one hundred, and twenty-eight days and it doesn’t get old. We're not up to a million yet. I push through the honey that is desire and keep my eyes on you. The best part is over but the other stuff is so good that I don’t care.

You float on your back and your small breasts breach the surface of the water. Your nipples pull up in the cool air and I can see them in the moonlight. The water laps over your skin and you breathe deeply to fill your lungs with air and keep your body afloat.

You do an upside down breast stroke for a while. You watch the sky. I don’t know what you see up there but I know that all I see is you.

Eventually you turn over and pick up a lazy sort of freestyle that takes you all the way to the hundred meter mark. When you get there I kneel up and look through the fence to where you float at the edge of the pool. I snap a few quick pictures. I get some good ones of your wet hair and the droplets of water that hang on the lower part of your stomach.

I love your night swim. I wonder if you get off on it (like I do). I wonder if your pussy is wet, or if you wish there was someone here with you. I wonder if you have a boyfriend. I wonder if he’s handsome. I wonder if he has a big dick. I wonder if he knows about your night swims.

You do a few more laps and I see the moonlight again on your wet skin and I’m literally about to explode in my pants.

My phone buzzes silently in the pocket of my pants and I check it.

It’s my brother. He’s drunk.

    dude! izzy is messy tonight. think I can coax her into sucking me for once?

I ignore the message and the fact that he can manage the word ‘coax’ when he’s inebriated — overachiever.

I should be polite, but as a matter of fact, I don’t give a fuck that my brother’s wife refuses to put his dick in her mouth — that’s his problem.

I come back to you. I focus on you. You’re almost at the other end of the pool and this is my other favourite part.

When you get to the edge you swoop up and the water pushes your hair out of your eyes. Your hands get purchase on the cement and your hoist yourself up.

I watch as your hips hit the cement and the smooth, wet cheeks of your butt reflect the moonlight. You bend forward and give me the best view — the back of your upper thighs, and the just the hint of your cunt.

You’re dripping water and I’m hard and you glide up out of the pool, as if by magic. You glisten in the moonlight. You are impossible.

I want to be near you. I want to smell you and touch you and hold you and eat you up until there’s nothing left.

I want you.

I want to be part of your night swim.

I want to be your night swim.

You pick up your towel and wrap it around you and with the rest of your clothes in one hand you head back to the fence. There’s a ladder propped in one corner and you find it easier to exit that way. I don’t know who put it there but it looks dusty and old and abandoned.

I circle back around the pool fence and I have a very strong urge to stroke a hand along my dick, but I don’t.

I’m watching you. I’m watching as you towel off and get back into your clothes. You’re still a little bit wet. I know because they stick to you as you get back over the fence. I watch you try to un-stick them.

I can see the line of your knickers through your blue dress. I can see how you smile to yourself.

I think I might follow you home tonight.

Self Preservation: Volume III -- Shrift

Self Preservation: Volume III — Shrift 

Exodus 22:23-25
And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, 
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, 
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe... 



She’d heard about Emerald Valley a few months ago. Only rumours really — of some isolated place out beyond the range of mountains that lay in a crescent around their little cluster of small towns. Max hadn’t given half a thought at the time, she’d laughed off the stories as if they were simply urban legends (which they kind of had been, back then). But now, after the night she’d had, Emerald Valley appeared like a glittering answer upon the horizon. 

The early morning sun dazzled her eyes as she took in the formidable landscape; a dense sea of dark, green-gold pine trees that eased down into the valley, but also prevented one from seeing what, exactly, lay at the bottom. 

As the cab dropped her off at the edge of a narrow road overgrown with trees and vines, Max was still having second thoughts. She hadn’t gone home in the end; hadn’t packed anything or prepared for what she might find. All she had was the dress that Charlotte had given her, which she still wore, and her bag of (mostly necessary) items — phone, tampons, etc. And the cash. 

All five-thousand of it. 

Max stared down the road and then turned to watch the cab pulling away from the tree-line. The sun was just starting to rise and she wished she had a sweater, but it was too late now — she was on the cusp of Emerald Valley. She knelt down and folded the money into a tight wad. Between her bra and the skin of her breast, Max felt confident that it wouldn’t be found unless things got really crazy.

 

She didn’t know what to expect — but ‘really crazy’ was definitely on the list, considering the last twelve hours of her life. 

In the cab she had been checking her arm constantly, where it had touched the electrified fence, but no mark had appeared, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she was sober, perhaps she would have assumed that the whole thing was a dream. But the cash was real, and the echo of fear in her stomach was pretty fucking hard to ignore.
It wasn’t clear what was down in Emerald Valley, but the rumours made it out to be some kind of farm. No electricity, no phones, no slimy capitalism fingers on the tablecloth. Max couldn’t help but think it was perhaps where she was supposed to go, where she was supposed to be — at least for the ‘right-now’. 

The truth was, she felt hopeful. Perhaps ‘saved’ was something she might soon well be. 

The pines were thick on either side of her and the path was crumbling and overgrown to a level of inconvenience. Max figured this was from disuse, but it also seemed to be a good ‘fence’ for Emerald Valley — something to keep people out; to keep the secret. 

After half an hour of stumbling along the uneven path Max was ready to give up, but just as she felt the urge to turn back, a clearing appeared beyond the trees just in front of her. The sun was still rising, but the group of tables and people on the other side of the clearing was unmistakable. 

Her nerves were as tight as a stretched rubber band as Max started across the field. It was out of place and neatly mowed so she guessed it must have belonged to the people who owned Emerald Valley. She was half way across, maybe 100 feet, when they started to notice her. 

She felt a sudden urge to turn and run back the way she had come, but then she thought of being tied to that tree, running through the dark, being absolutely sure she was going to die. All of those things were her own fault — they’d come about due to her decisions. She was ready to change. She wanted to change. She needed to change. It was no longer an option to remain who she was. 
 

As she got closer to the tables she could see clusters of people sitting and staring at her. Some of them whispered, some pointed. She saw women pull small children close to them, and men standing up from the tables, straight and tall. Max was beyond nervous, but she knew she was here for a reason and there was no turning back with all of their eyes on her. 

As she made it to the tables, which sat just in front of another line of trees, one of the men who was standing started moving towards her. Max probably wouldn’t have noticed him, except that he was wearing a button-through shirt. It was blood-red. As he got closer she could see it was embroidered in thread with an array of black flowers down each arm from the shoulders and also onto his chest. 

He didn’t get too close and his hands were in the pockets of his jeans, but his smile was pleasant and his voice was welcoming. “Well hello there, sweet girl.” 

“Hi,” Max managed, despite her pumping heart. 

“Not often we see a new face out here. Might I ask where you came from.” 

Holding her bag tight against her thigh, Max bit her lip. “One of the towns on the other side of the mountains. I...I heard about this place — your place. I just...” 

His smile didn’t falter. “You’re looking for something, yes?” Max nodded.

“Hmmm.” His voice was soft. “There’s plenty to find out here.” 

He was only a half a foot taller than her and thin; sinewy. His hair was combed back and his beard and mustache were neat and well-maintained. He was handsome; he was confident. 

He beckoned her over and Max couldn’t help herself. 

“I’m Michael,” he said, holding out his hand. 

She took it. “Max. I’m sorry to just show up like this.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for. You came this far — you deserve a chance. Not to mention we have far too much potato salad as it is,” he winked. 

His hand was warm and strong. He was taller than he had first appeared, and his dark eyes sparkled, and despite the morning sun, Max felt like she was on the edge of dusk. She wanted for her hand to be in his forever. 

The people of Emerald Valley were smiling at her now. They seemed to have relaxed when ‘Michael’ approved of her presence, and the closest table shuffled to make space for her. A bowl full of potato salad and a ham sandwich later, Max was listening to Michael tell stories of redemption and new life and the Lord’s inevitable vindication against the Devil. More people had gathered around their table and all of them were hanging on his every word. 

“Not everyone wants to be like us — pure and God-fearing and true to The Word. That’s why we stay hidden down here.” 

“True to The Word!” a woman at their table cried out. 

“True to The Word,” Michael repeated with a nod. “They force us to hide from their lies and it makes me so sad.” 
 

“Don’t be sad, Mr Michael,” called a young man from the crowd. 

“Oh, but Christopher, I can’t help my sadness when I think about how many people we can’t reach, due to our isolation.” 

The crowd agreed — in shouts and tears. 

Michael held up his hands to silence them. “Today though, Max has arrived — and for that we should be so very thankful. Let us give thanks for Max!”

The crowd raised their hands to the sky and cried out. Some of the women clutched at their hearts and a few of the men fell to their knees. 

Michael, who was sitting right next to Max, took her hand again in his own and it was warm and sturdy, and with her belly full of potato salad and bread and ham, she felt the urge to curl into him and stay there forever. 

“We will show Max the way,” he said. “We will guide her towards the light and free her from the demons that bind her to this sinful earth. In turn, we will all learn from Max. Let us give thanks for Max!” he said again, and the crowd erupted into hoots and clapping and a flurry of hurried prayer. 

*** 

When Max woke, it was to the sound of a rooster, but far off. Her face was against the cool ground. It was uncomfortable and she felt rocks against her cheek, her arm, and her hip. She made to sit up but immediately something felt wrong. 

Her hands were tethered — no, chained — and her shoes had been removed. She felt wet grass against her legs and the tips of her toes. She could just see the first light of the sun; it was barely even broaching the dawn. 

Max pulled herself closer to the loop of metal that was cemented into the ground next to her — the loop through which her chain was threaded. She pulled on it. It didn’t give. She hadn’t expected anything else. 

A voice from behind her broke the silence. “You need to learn, Max.” 

She turned around to see Michael in a dark green button-through. “Why am I chained up? And learn what, exactly?” she asked.

He didn’t answer her first question. “What you came here to learn.” “Enlighten me then, fuckhead.” 

“You’re being rude, and there’s no need for that.” 

Max couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or having an epiphany — both seemed equally unlikely. 

Michael came towards her and knelt down close. “Whoso diggith a pit shall fall therin: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.” 

Max tried to shrink away from him but the chains only gave her a little range. “I think I change my mind,” she said. “I think I want to go home now.” 

He laughed quietly. “But then, sweet girl, how will you learn?” 

Sweet girl. Max couldn’t but think that people were getting her all wrong of late. 
 

She looked around — they were in the middle of the field — even if she could get free it was a long way to run to even get to the edge of the trees she’d come out of yesterday. 

He stood again and circled her, watching, as if she were prey (which at that point she pretty much was), and Max saw the large cross that was embroidered onto his shirt. 

“You came here to confess to me, Max,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye. 

She heard him, but ignored the question, choosing instead to wonder if he’d disposed of her bag, and most importantly, her phone. She was guessing the cops probably had eyes on this place at least some of the time. 

“Please pay attention Max. This is important. I’ll ask again — what is it that you came here to confess?” 

The field lightened with the sun and Max could now see the tables where they’d sat yesterday and had potato salad. Those fuckers must have put something in her serve — the plan all along to bring her out here and chain her to the ground like an animal. Make her confess. 

The crack and the sting as the switch made contact with her back was like fire on her skin. 

Max pitched forward into the ground and it was too late — warm piss was on her thighs and soaking into the now dirty dress. The switch felt just like the electrified fence. The switch was the fence. 

She looked up through the beginnings of tears and saw him holding it in front of him now. Proud. The motherfucker was proud of hitting. And from afar — the coward. 
 

Cunt, she thought in her mind, hoping God couldn’t hear her. 

He ran the thin piece of tree wood through his fingers and he was absolutely calm. Nothing about this situation was new to him. “That was just one to get you started,” he smiled. 

A few times in the past Max had wondered if her life was too slow, too boring, too much of a non-event. She had found excitement in casual sex and saying yes to things she shouldn’t have said yes to. This time — she’d really fucked up. This time was the second in as many days she had ended up tethered to something. 

Her life was not boring enough. 

Michael smoothed his hair back and continued walking around her in a circle, fingering the switch. “Now, are you ready to tell me what you came here to tell me?”
Max was torn — she had to say something, but the truth, or a lie? She watched him like a hawk and kept herself braced for the next swat which she figured would be inevitable. “I’m a whore. It got me into trouble last night. Actual, legitimate trouble.” She had surprised herself. Apparently it was going to be the truth. 

Michael stopped still, pondered a moment, nodded his head, and continued on his circle around her again. “So...you are a filthy, sinful girl, without self control?”
She nodded, “I guess so.” 

“The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.” 

Max didn’t want another, but she could feel it building and assumed that was his intention. She tried her best to thwart it. “I understand though. Now I understand. I was doing the wrong thing.” 

He cocked his head and smiled down at her as the sun started to rise behind him. “You have begun to understand, sweet girl.” 

“Don’t call me that!” she spat, before she could stop herself. 

The second swat was harder, lower on her back and this time Max cried out. She crawled in the dirt, trying to get away from him but it was no use with the chains — he continued to circle her, slowly. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, maintaining his calm. “I just want to help you learn, and it’s stripe for stripe.” 

Max couldn’t summon words — she was thinking about the third — she knew it was going to be worse. 

Michael tutted as he circled her. The crickets chirped around them and she wiped her eyes with the back of one of her chained hands. She thought of Charlotte and Charlotte’s husband, and it seemed like a dream. They had been doing evil things, at least at the start, and here was Max, at the hands of a ‘Man of God’, and it was as if it was just the same thing. 

She felt like her grip was slipping. 

Michael circled her slowly, relentlessly. “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.” 

Max started crying. She was sorry for how she was, but coming to Emerald Valley was a mistake a hundred times worse than anything she’d done in the past.

And as if he read her mind, Michael said, “There’s something bad inside of you Max, and we’re going to get it out, even if it takes a hundred with the switch.” 

She trembled and looked up at him, but he never got to the third.

The shot echoed across the field and Michael hit the ground before Max
even saw the blood that had sprayed out onto her dress. Charlotte’s dress. 

Birds in the trees squawked and flew up into the air following the piercing noise, and Max looked around, but she couldn’t tell where the shot had come from. She scrambled towards Michael who was face down in the grass and bleeding out next to his hateful switch. Her chain wasn’t long enough to reach him and she started to panic. 

She pulled on the chain. She kicked the cemented metal loop in the ground. She started to cry. She stunk of piss and sweat and dirt. 

Then she noticed a figure coming across the field — straight for her. 

“Fuck,” she said, to herself. She pulled harder on the chain and the figure got closer and closer. Her wrists had started to bleed but her adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay (not that she knew that). Eventually she gave up and curled into a ball, hiding her face and holding onto the metal loop in the ground. 

“Hey.” It was a male voice — soft and not too close. Max didn’t look up.


“Hey, little lady? You okay?” 

Max still couldn’t bring herself to look up, she only curled tighter in on herself, blocking out everything she possibly could. 
 

“I’m sorry if I scared you just now,” the soft voice said. “Just...that guy...Michael...he’s done some pretty bad things to my wife. I just figured it was time someone put him in his place.” 

Max uncurled herself a little and looked up. 

She saw that the voice belonged to an older guy, maybe sixty, sixty-five, and there were tears running down his cheeks. 

“Okay if I come closer, little lady?” he asked, putting his rifle down onto the grass and eyeing the face-down Michael.

Max nodded. 

The old guy tentatively approached the body, and after deciding that his shot had done the job, he turned back to Max. “This piece of trash got the key for your there chains?” 

Max shrugged and wished there wasn’t a huge piss-stain on her pale blue dress.
The old guy rolled Michael over and started searching his pockets, quickly finding a large loop of keys and then carefully approaching Max. 

She couldn’t help but pull back a little — the last few days had sucked her dry of faith in other people. 

“I know you’re scared little lady, but I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this God-awful place. No pun intended, o’course,” he smiled.

Max noticed he hadn’t once looked at the stain on her dress, but he had glanced down at her bloody wrists...

Everything she had left drained from her head and without meaning to, Max felt herself falling backwards, as if there was nothing behind her. 

When she woke again, she was in the arms of the old guy and he was carrying her across the field. The sun was bright and high above them and his arms were strong and tight around her. He smelled of soil and potatoes and aftershave. 

Each step bumped her up against his chest and Max cried, her wet tears leaving dark marks on his clean white shirt. 

***

Romans 5:8
But God commendeth his love towards us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.

The Grass

It is wide and green — lush; utterly terrifying.

“Daddy!” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s lifting Milly over the soft green grass and helping her to land easily down next to him. They’ve made it beyond the awful layer of bright emerald which I know is littered with prickles underneath that top layer of lies. They — all of those prickles and barbs — are hidden. They’re close to the ground, down where I cannot see, but I know they’re there. Those evil spikes, just waiting for the soft pad of my foot to press down into their trap.

“We don’t have time for this!” Daddy shouts from the other side.

If we don’t have time, why did you leave me behind?

“Come on, quickly now Merry!” he says, motioning me over the grass towards them, with Milly’s hand still in his.

My hand used to be in his. He used to lift me high, far up above the terrible grass and bring me down to a soft landing on the other side.

The Other Side…

I’m at an impasse. I want to crouch and urinate. I want to cry. My dirty hoody is pulled down tight around my face and my sneakers are still an inch from the line of green that keeps me from The Other Side.

“Merry.”  He’s serious now. He says my name like it isn’t a name. I shake my head in my hoody and I don’t budge.

“Merry! We’re going to be late.” Daddy is angry now, and all I want to do is get over this green mine-field and be safe right next to him and Milly. But they are down there — the traps. He doesn’t understand.

He lifted Milly.

He used to lift me.

***

“The bus will be here in five minutes Merry!” Daddy calls from the living room.

I know I’m late but my hair is doing that stupid curly thing that it does when it rains. The hem of my school skirt seems way too long and I have no intention of eating breakfast before I leave. I know I’ll be fine to make it to the bus before it leaves.

Just as I’m coming out into the living room, wondering why Daddy can’t drive me today, I see him on the couch with Milly curled into his side.

He sees me eyeing the two of them. “She’s sick. Don’t be late, okay?”

I nod, but I can feel bile at the back of my throat. I’m mad and I notice there’s no lunch bag on the kitchen table beyond them.

“Lunch?”

Daddy shrugs, “Don’t they have a caf at your school?”

The answer is yes but I don’t give it to him. Milly is falling asleep against Daddy and I am jealous, far more so that I ever thought I was capable of. I want to stay home. I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to go to the caf. I want to stay with Daddy.

I watch as he holds a finger to his lips — silence.

My backpack pulling my shoulders down, I am met with that foe again — emerald green and stretching further than I could ever, possibly manage.

“Fuck.” I say the word but I don’t know what it means. I know it’s bad — Daddy said I should never, ever say it — but I feel like right now it is something I should say. There is no one around so no one hears me. I say it again. “Fuck.”

I don’t want to go to school but the bus is pulling up and the grass stands between us. “Fuck,” I say, again. It sounds momentous. And yet…

It doesn’t help me cross that awful green sea.

I’m wearing my lace-up school shoes which are seemingly impervious to the horrors that lie beneath the grass, and yet…

I cannot cross it.

The bus pulls away and I am stuck where I am, on the other side of the grass.

The Other Side.

***

I can feel the damp earth underneath the grass — it’s seeping moisture into the skin of my knees and lower legs where I am kneeling. The soft green blades are pressing criss-crossed patterns into my shins and the thick, splintering pole scratches against my inner thighs.

“Daddy?”

I don’t hear him respond, but I can feel my hands above my head and when I try to move them, the rusted chain scrapes against the ring — I look up and it’s a foot above my head, nailed into the wooden pole.

I’m hungry. Thirsty. There’s a pain from my lower back right down to my tailbone and then further.

There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach.

I look down again and my forehead catches on the rough wooden pole. I see a jagged triangle of blood on my dress between my thighs. It fills the space — it should be clean cotton, dotted with yellow flowers, but it’s not. It’s dirty brown-red and it smells.

It reeks.

I feel the need to call out for him again.

“Daddy?”

I hear movement above me as Daddy and Milly prepare for dinner. I want to cry. The blood is slick against my thighs and I know what this is, only because the other girls talk about it. I know what this is.

I'm quiet, because there’s almost no point in saying it out loud. “Daddy.”

I want to say — I need you Daddy.

I want to plead — Come help me Daddy.

I want to beg — Please save me Daddy.

A stab of pain underneath my belly button makes me spasm without warning and a sharp piece of wood from the pole embeds itself in my thigh. I groan. I am a wounded animal.

“Daddy?” and now it is no more than a whisper. I can smell onion and garlic and tomato and herbs.

This is when the sin starts.

I’d heard him say it before but I never knew quite what he meant.

But now —

He knows what it is.

And, with my knees still in the grass, I know what it is.

I’m on The Other Side.