Page 12 of Hush, Little Baby

People don’t just—

They don’t say things like that.

Not to me.

Not really.

Not unless they’re joking.

Or being mean.

Or both.

“I not—” My voice wobbles, and I swallow hard, trying to hold back the tears. “You’re not.” I shake my head vigorously, staring down at the coloring book to hide my face. “You can’t just—” I blink rapidly because crying in front of strangers is bad and embarrassing and makes people leave faster. “I just coloring,” I mumble, smaller now. “I not do anything. Don’t be mean to me…”

My shoulders hunch inward, and I pull the stuffie closer against my side like it might help.

One moment, I’m curled in on myself, gripping my crayon too tightly and trying not to cry in front of this strange man, and the next, his arm is around my back as his other hand slides carefully under my knees.

I make a small, startled sound before I even understand what’s happening. “Wha—”

Then suddenly I’m not sitting on the floor anymore.

I’m in his lap.

My breath catches in my throat.

He’s so warm.

So big.

One of his arms wraps around my back, pulling me closer against his chest. His other hand comes up slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare me more than he already has.

“Shh,” he soothes. “It’s alright.”

My hands end up pressed awkwardly between us. The pink kitty is squished between my stomach and his coat, but he adjusts it gently, so it doesn’t fall.

His hand starts moving up and down my back in a comforting rhythm.

“Hush, Charlie,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t joking.”

My chest squeezes uncomfortably.

“You can’t say that,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” he insists softly.

His hand continues its soothing motion across my back, each pass slow and warm and steady.

“You’re mine,” he says gently. “And I’m yours.”

My stomach churns with a mix of fear and longing.

“No,” I protest weakly, but my voice lacks conviction. His hold on me is firm yet gentle, and I can’t remember the last time someone held me like this. “P-put me down,” I force out, the big part of my brain screaming at me that this is not okay through the syrupy haze of little space.

The moment his hand moves higher, fingers threading through my hair with a grotesque parody of tenderness, my whole body goes cold, then hot, then numb again. There’s nothing sexual about it, not for me, not right now.

He’s just… touching me as if he has every right to, as if I belong here in his lap, and my fight-or-flight circuits are so blown out that I can’t even tell if staying still or trying to get away would be more dangerous.