Page 8 of Promise of Punishment

I need to be healed enough to leave before that happens. And I need this girl to be far away from here. Who knows what will happen to her if my father finds out she helped me? Nothing good.

I open my mouth to tell her she needs to be very careful, but my back slides over something hard, a lump or a rock. I flinch in pain, then flinch again from the pain that causes. “Fuck,” I groan.

She stops and chants, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Her hands caress my hair, face, and arms, soothing me and distracting me from the pain.

I drift back to sleep.

Wes

“It’s that time again. I hope you had a good nap and you’re ready for more Gatorade and pudding?” She sighs. “It’s all we had, and I can’t leave you to shop for something better. Not yet.”

This goes on for the rest of the day. Night?

Rain patters outside when I wake. I feel slightly better than death.

“Hello?” I murmur.

No response.

How am I dry? Did she manage to get me into the shed?

A man could barely move me, let alone a girl whose hands seemed so small. Again, I’m convinced I’m dead or unconscious and dreaming.

The next time I wake, she’s there.

“We’re past the critical concussion phase,” she says happily. “I’m very proud of you.”

She’s proud of me. I haven’t done shit. She’s the one doing all the work.

“Who are you?” I ask, trying not to breathe when I talk to avoid the pain that comes when I inhale too deeply.

“No one.”

“How did you find me?”

She hesitates. “I come to this garden to make videos. I guess you could say I like abandoned things,” she adds sheepishly. “There’s beauty in it everywhere you look.”

The awe in her voice makes me wish I could see if it mirrors her expression.

“What color are your eyes?”

“My eyes?” She sounds confused.

“Trying to picture them,” I murmur.

“They’re weird. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Explain?”

She rests my head on her lap and strokes my hair as she talks.

“They’re too light to be brown, but they’re not any other color either. My mom says they’re beautiful, but they remind me of my dad’s eyes, so I… well, I don’t like them much.”

“Why?”

“I hate my dad,” she whispers. “He’s not a good person.” The sorrow in her voice stirs my anger, which has been dormant in me for days. It distracts me from the pain.

“What did he do?”