You already know.
Life without Pike was worse than the swamps of hell. Alone. Desolate. A life no one wants to believe is real—but is. I became dark inside. No. That’s not true. I became colorless. You couldn’t have painted a portrait of me because I no longer existed. To exist, you have to have life and I was merely a robot—a machine—tell me what you wanted and I’d do it, paralyzed to emotions and consequences.
Fuck you, life.
I hate you.
The moment Pike walked out the door, Bobbi came up to my room. I was crying, begging her to use the phone when the threat came. She told me that she knew about Pike and I having sex, and if I told anyone or attempted to leave, she would tell Social Services and I would be placed under mental evaluation in a state hospital. She also told me that Pike would be arrested and sent to jail for statutory rape of a minor since seventeen is the legal age of consent in the state of Illinois. So that was it; I kept my mouth shut.
I haven’t heard from Pike since he left a little over three months ago. He’s gone, probably happier, and left me to fend for myself. I don’t blame him. Run away, Pike. Run far from me and this life. I’ve come to accept that he wouldn’t be coming back for me. I had my first freak out after the first month, missing him, wondering if it was all a lie and whether I’d ever see him again. That first month was really the only time he would have been able to see me. I was still in school, but as soon as summer hit, I was rarely let out of the closet. No longer did I have Pike to talk me through the nights; I had no one.
School started up again last week. I was so anxious, nervous to see Pike now that we would both be in high school. Would he grab me and hug me, or would he look right through me as if I no longer existed? But I didn’t have to worry so much because he wasn’t there. I searched the halls and then wound up going to the office only to find out that he transferred to another school. They wouldn’t tell me where though. Walking out of the office that day, I thought to myself, Maybe this is where you give up, Elizabeth. Maybe this is where you realize life’s fate for you. Maybe this is where you finally stop fighting for something that was never meant to be.
That was last week, and I still haven’t made any decisions about those thoughts. And so I resume my mechanical life. Wake up, go to school, go home, be fucked by my greasy, fat foster dad, shower, homework, bed. Bed is always a variable; it’s either bed or leather restraints and locked in the closet. Despite the disgust, I’m hyperaware of my appearance. I’ve been lucky so far to avoid the puberty pimples; my skin is soft and flawless from the neck up. Beneath my clothes is a different story—various colors of new and healing bruises, welts, and cuts. My wrists look like I’ve had a few failed suicide attempts. My red hair is bright and full of lazy, loose waves that fall past my slender shoulders. My face, it deceives everyone because no one would ever guess the horror that lives beneath. But no matter how ugly I feel, I try to take care of myself.
When the final bell rings, I shove my books into my backpack and walk through the halls. I have no friends here; maybe it’s my fault, or maybe it’s theirs. I keep to myself. I never speak unless called on by a teacher, and even with that, I never say more than necessary. My grades are good, not that I have any aspirations after I graduate. I’m sure I’ll be flipping burgers somewhere or turning tricks, giving out blowjobs depending on how much money I want to make.
Cynical?
Yeah, I am.
I move slowly, letting everyone pass, bumping into me as they rush out of this school and into their freedom. But this is my freedom—here at school and away from home. So I take my time, and when I finally walk out the metal double doors, I tighten my coat around me and start heading home. Before I can make it off school grounds, a black, vintage Mustang pulls alongside me, and I think I’m imagining things when I hear his familiar voice.
“Elizabeth, thank God.”
Pike gets out of the car and has me in his arms fast. The comfort is overwhelming, and it doesn’t take long before I’m weeping into his shirt.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he breathes in my hair, and I nod against his chest. “Are you okay?”
I pull back and look up at him, ignoring his question, asking, “Where have you been?”
“I didn’t know how to find you. I tried sneaking by the house a few times this summer, but you were never there.”
“I was there,” I tell him. “He kept me locked up for most of the summer. He knew about us . . . that we were . . . you know. It pissed him off and he said that’s why he got rid of you.”
“Shit.”
And then the crying starts as I deflate and say, “I thought you gave up on me.”
“Never.”
He then turns to the car, and when I peek around him, I see the driver. He’s older, maybe in his twenties, with tattoos down his arms.