Page 54 of Hush, Little Baby

And I do.

Not because I forgive him.

Not because I’m okay.

Not because any of this is okay.

But because my body is relaxed, and my brain is quiet, and for a little while, all the things too big for me to hold can belong to the grown men speaking above me.

For a little while, I am only warm, petted, and small.

10

Charlie

I don’t remember deciding to stay little.

That’s probably not how it works anyway.

It’s not like I stood at some internal crossroads, looked down one path labeled “Terrified Adult Having Very Reasonable Kidnapping Concerns” and another path labeled “Soft Brain No Words Blankie”, and made a choice. If I had been asked, I think I would have picked the first one on principle, if only because it sounds more dignified and less like something that would make me want to kill myself from how dumb it is.

But I don’t think my brain asks permission before it does things anymore. It just does them. It folds me up and puts me somewhere smaller when the regular-sized version of me can’t hold everything at once.

Maybe that means it’s trauma.

Probably it means it’s trauma.

I know enough about myself to understand that going quiet and floaty after screaming myself half to death in front of armed men is not exactly a healthy coping mechanism. I know I should be alarmed by the fact that I remain nonverbal for hours, that my thoughts get slower and softer, and that I let Nikolaus hold the straw to my mouth while I drink my smoothie in tiny sips because lifting the cup myself feels like too much work.

I know all that. I just can’t make myself care the way I should.

The smoothie had been good.

That is one of the facts floating around in my head now as I sit in the back of the car with my blankie clutched to my chest and my cheek resting against Nikolaus’s shoulder.

The smoothie had been pastel pink, sweet, and light enough on my tummy. There had been toast too, and a little bowl of fruit, and eggs I only took two bites of before my stomach made it clear it was not interested in being ambitious.

Nikolaus had praised every tiny thing, as if I were accomplishing heroic acts.

“Good boy” for drinking the smoothie.

“Good boy” for trying the eggs.

“Good boy” for pointing to the pear instead of letting myself get overwhelmed.

“Good boy” for taking the pills Constantine and Nikolaus decided were safe for the morning after photographing everything and calling someone who must be a doctor, because Nikolaus’s voice had gone low and serious and all business-like.

The parts of me that still worked properly had been horrified by how quickly everything was moving.

The parts that knew this was all wrong kept pushing at the walls of the little floaty room my brain had locked me inside, trying to get my attention.

You’re being kidnapped.

You’re being taken to New York.

He is grooming you, feeding you, and putting you in a car like a pet he’s adopted.

Do something.