Page 143 of Fighting Chance

Emmy lays her head on my chest, her fist clutching my shirt as her tears dampen it.

“No, sweetheart,” I say vehemently. “She was the one who was bad, not you.” Her hand clings a little tighter as she shakes her head.

“She said I was too loud,” she chokes out, her shoulders shaking violently, far too powerful for someone so little. The weight of her emotions and hurt is so deep I fear I’ll never be able to fix it.

Too loud.

Is that why she doesn’t speak? Because she was told she was too loud? Told repeatedly to be quiet?

The revelation obliterates what small shred of my heart remained.

Sucking in a sharp breath I can’t hold back my tears any longer, no matter how hard I try.

Cradling her, I stroke her hair softly, letting her cry in my arms and hating with every fiber of my being that I couldn’t protect her from such a monster.

“You are the sweetest, most caring, kind little girl I know.” I hope with every piece of my heart she listens to this, that she clings to my words stronger than the vile ones her mother spewed. “You are not bad. The very opposite, Emmy. Your heart is pure. You are never too loud. In fact, I don’t think you’re loud enough, little one. Do you know I hope every day that you’ll talk? Every single day, Emmy. It’s my one wish in life, that you’ll fill this house with your voice.”

“Really?”

“I swear, Emmy. All I want is to hear your voice.”

She sniffles, her sobbing slowing enough for her to confess, “I wish Layla was my mommy. Layla is nice.”

A knife wound to the chest would hurt less.

“What else did your mommy do, Emmy?”

She burrows her head further into my chest. “She would put me in my cupboard with my dinosaur.” A sob escapes her, making me cling to her tighter. “I don’t like the dark. Mommy told me to shut up.”

Flashes of my own childhood assault me, when my mother shoved me into the trunk at the end of her bed and left me there for hours, having stuck small holes in the top for me to breathe as she got high in the other room. I know exactly how fearful Emmy would have been…and now I know why terror filled her eyes those very first days when I went to turn the light off, my chest physically aches at the revelation.

“She was a bad mommy for that, Emmy. A very bad mommy.” Rubbing soothing circles along her back, I whisper, “I won’t ever let anyone hurt you again, I promise.” Kissing the top of her head I whisper, “I love you, sweet girl.”

Sweat trickles along my brow. The small flashlight I keep hidden in my pocket for when she shoves me in here died a while ago, leaving me alone too. Why does everyone leave me?

It’s been too long this time.

Far too long.

I haven’t heard my mommy’s cries in a long time.

The apartment is quiet, so, so, so quiet I’m scared she forgot me.

I’ve been trying to count sheep—that’s what the boy at the playground says he does when he can’t sleep. But it’s so hot and stuffy in here I’m finding it hard to breathe now.

My stomach grumbles in the trunk, sounding like a dinosaur roar. Mommy never remembers to give me dinner.

The man she says is her friend brings lots of boxes of cereal, though. I love cereal. We always have it in the cupboard, and it’s the only yummy thing I can make for myself. The last time I tried to make toast Mommy smacked me so hard across my face I got little bubbles on my skin.

Cereal never lets me go hungry. I can always count on cereal.

Tears fill my eyes.

Cereal can’t get me out of here, though.

I want to start kicking my feet and screaming but the last time I did that Mommy got out her belt and even the thought of that happening again makes my stomach do somersaults.

I can’t sit down on my bottom for days and days after Mommy brings out the belt.