Page 108 of Hush, Little Baby

My head shakes before I can control it. That can’t be right. I try to say so, but the tape snags what should be my voice and turns it into a mewling whimper.

Constantine—if he feels anything about this, he hides it behind his eyes—stands and says something quietly to the other man, who nods and disappears toward the folding table.

With one last glance, Constantine leaves, and I’m left staring at his back as he goes, trying desperately to will him with my gaze into turning and changing his mind.

He doesn’t.

One of the men begins to whistle, tuneless, broken, a sound I know I’ll hear in nightmares for the rest of my life.

Something changes in the room.

Maybe it’s my senses rebooting, or maybe the men just get bored waiting for whatever’s supposed to happen next. One of them says, and then they’re all moving in my direction, boots against concrete, the scrape and clatter of a chair being dragged across the floor.

I whimper as they crowd around me, casting long shadows, blocking out what little light there is. The guy with the stubble is first—he squats close, his breath sour and thick with whatever he’s been drinking.

He says something to the others, gesturing at my face, and the closest man—older, bald, wearing a faded sports jersey—laughs, showing broken teeth.

“Sorry, sorry,” the stubbled man says, chuckling. “I was just telling these boys that we need to speak English so that we are good hosts to you. We wouldn’t want you feeling left out, after all.”

Someone behind me cracks their knuckles. My body’s begging me to shrink away, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m just a heap on the concrete, jerky and helpless, and every instinct in me is ringing out that I should run, but all I can do is make pathetic, squashed noises behind the tape.

The stubbled man’s hand closes around my jaw and squeezes, hard, until my eyes water and my ears ring. “Don’t worry, Charlie, we’ll take good care of you.”

He slaps my cheek lightly, then harder, his palm a hot sting against my skin. It’s more than enough to completely snap me out of any hope that this is just a nightmare. He leans so close I can see the individual capillaries in his eyes, then, with unhurried precision, he cocks his fist and drives it into my face twice.

The sound is wrong. Wet, sharp, and echoing inside my own skull, as if someone’s popped a water balloon in my sinuses. For a split second, I’m not sure I even feel it. The world just blurs, then pivots around the axis of my nose. And then—then the pain comes, sick and white-hot, a detonation that washes my vision into static.

I can’t breathe. There’s blood, thick and coppery, crawling down the back of my throat. I can feel it with my tongue, wet and slimy behind the tape. My eyes are streaming so hard I can barely see, but I hear them laughing.

Someone shoves a phone right in my face, forcing open my swollen eyelids for the picture.

“Smile for sugar father,” a man with long, greasy hair coos mockingly.

In the haze above me, I see my own face reflected on the phone screen—lopsided, red with blood that’s already soaked through the tape and spattered my shirt. My nose is smashed crooked, instantly ballooning, the skin split open in a line that drips onto the floor.

“No, no,” the fourth man says, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and his thin lips curled into a mean smirk. “Is more like ‘daddy,’ not ‘father.’”

The bald one laughs and says, “This is why they didn’t want to speak English. They sound dumb.”

Stubble rolls his eyes. “That’s because they are dumb, not because they speak broken English.” He wipes my blood onto the back of his jeans, then is handed the phone by Longhair. “They’re just as dumb in Russian.”

“You see?” he says, holding up the phone, waggling the screen back and forth so that my reflection blurs into a red smear. “This is how your boyfriend will know you are here. We send this to him, and if he is a good boy too, he comes to pick you up. If not—well.” He shrugs, spreading his hands wide. “We have more fun.”

There’s a chorus of ugly laughter, all of them talking at once. I hate them, and I hate Constantine, and I feel stupid and useless and in pain. My nose leaks blood down my chin, pooling sticky under my jaw, and each inhale sizzles, the copper taste burning deeper.

They take turns, like it’s a game. Sometimes it’s a slap or a punch, sometimes just a boot heel pressed against my ribs until I can’t breathe, or a fistful of my hair twisted so tight my scalp screams and strands are ripped out. Once, Stubble jams his thumb into the broken cartilage of my nose and holds it there, grinding back and forth, grinning as I convulse and try to scream.

In between, they go back to the folding table. They drink, they smoke, they shovel food into their mouths from a cardboard container. The sound of their voices, drifting and overlapping in the stale air, is somehow more humiliating than the pain. I am nothing to them. Not a threat, not a challenge, just a thing to be used for leverage and boxing practice.

I lose track of time. My head feels like it’s been stuffed with wet sand. When I try to move, even just barely, my entire body shrieks in protest. My cheek is sticky with blood, but it’s dried now, crusted around the tape and the split on my nose. My mouth is still covered, my lips tacky and numb where the adhesive has sucked all the moisture away. I can barely breathe; every inhale rasps hot through my ruined nasal passages.

My thoughts flicker between scenes—Niko, my Daddy, looking down at me fondly as he fastens a diaper around my hips; Niko and how concentrated he looked as he was making my bracelet; Niko holding me after I was sick; Niko’s hand stroking through my hair; Niko telling me he loves me…

And of course, in the cruelest, most devastating move, my heart tells me, “You love him, too.”

I do. I love my Daddy.

I need my Daddy.