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My mother kept glancing at me, her eyes too wide.

He stood up without warning. He told her to get the boy ready. I didn’t know what that meant, but she did. She started crying. He told her to shut up, grabbed her by the hair, dragged her to the sink. He told her to clean herself up and stop acting crazy.

I sat at the table, hands in my lap. There was a plate in front of me, but I wasn’t hungry. The food tasted gross. I chewed anyway, because if I stopped, he’d notice.

He came back, grabbed me by the neck, hauled me to my feet. He told me to look at him. I did. He smiled. He said he was going to teach me what women were for. My mother begged him to stop. He slapped her again.

He told her to get the powder. She froze, shaking. He yelled. She went to the cupboard, pulled down a little jar. She poured water in a glass, dumped in the powder, and stirred. She brought it to me, her hand trembling. “Drink it,” my father said.

She leaned in close. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Fly away, sweet Milo. This will be over soon.”

I drank. It tasted bitter. My tongue went numb first. My fingers next. My arms felt heavy, then useless. The world slid sideways.

My father dragged us both to the living room. He locked the door. Pulled the curtains. The TV was on, blue screen humming. My mother sat on the floor, rocking. He stripped me of my clothes and pushed me down next to her.

He told her what to do. He told her where to touch me, how to touch me. She begged him. He grabbed her by the hair, whispered in her ear. She whimpered, reached for me with hands like claws.

I couldn’t move. I tried to run, but my legs were useless. My skin wasn’t mine. I stared at the ceiling. The light made shapes behind my eyelids. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. My mother’s face was twisted, streaked with tears. She mouthed, I’m sorry, over and over. Her hands moved like spiders.

The sound of her sobbing haunted me.

Father watched. He breathed hard, his eyes shining. He started touching himself. He barked at her, telling her to keep going. My mother sobbed, but obeyed.

I left my body. I went somewhere above the room, the house, the world. I floated in the black, nothing touching me. I heard my mother singing, soft and broken. “Fly away, fly away, it will be over soon.” I heard my father grunting, heard the slap of flesh on flesh.

Father called me his little man, called my mother his whore.

When it was over, he pulled my mother away from me, threw her against the wall. He zipped his pants, wiped his hands on her nightgown. He spat on the floor. He told us we made him sick. He told us we were dirty.

He left us there. Locked the door. I couldn’t move. My mother curled up next to me, her breath rattling. She sang a lullaby, voice shaking. “Fly away, fly away, sweet Milo. You’re not here. Nobody’s here.”

I stared at the ceiling until the light burned my eyes. I thought about tearing my skin off. I thought about walking into the lake out back and never coming out. I listened to my mother cry until she fell asleep.

He came back later, dragged her away, locked her in the bedroom. He left me on the floor, alone with the TV’s blue glow. I tried to remember my name. I tried to remember what it felt like to be safe. Nothing came.

The next day, he acted like nothing happened. Breakfast. Rules. Chores. My mother wouldn’t look at me. She didn’t speak at all. I didn’t speak, either. I learned how to leave my body anytime I needed to. I learned that monsters don’t live under the bed—they live in your house, your skin, your blood.

Later, I found the powder in the kitchen. I tasted it. I kept a little hidden for myself. In case I needed to fly away again.

I stopped being Milo. A black hole began to grow inside of me. I was just a mask. Nothing left but holes. I stopped hoping for rescue. I stopped praying. God never listened, anyway.

There were no monsters under the bed. Only inside the house, and inside me.

Chapter 6

Echo Of His Rage

Starla

I think he forgot about me. It’s been over a day since he came down here and drugged me, then assaulted my body. My stomach was growling loud enough to keep me from sleeping. A foul smell was settling in the air from the urine bucket, and the pile of vomit on the floor.

“Hey, bastard! I’m still down here,” I screamed, banging my hands on the wall.

My shout echoed around the black room, bouncing off the stone and back into my own ears. No answer, just the buzzing bulb. My fists slid down the wall, sweat and grime sticking to my palms. I tried to stand, but my legs buckled. My knees cracked against the floor. The chain rattled, a too-familiar sound, like a lullaby written by a sadist.

Every time I swallowed, it was like dragging sandpaper down my throat. I could barely remember the taste of water.

I waited. I counted the bricks. One, two, three…twenty-seven. I lost count. Started again. My head pounded with every heartbeat. I pressed myself flat against the wall, closing my eyes, letting myself drift. Maybe if I stayed very still, I’d disappear.