Finally, around six, I drifted off into a restless sleep. But an hour later, my pounding head and empty, burning stomach woke me again. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow, and I wished that I had taken Mason’s advice. The last thing I wanted to do was get up, but I needed to hydrate or my headache would only intensify.
Slowly, I rolled out of bed and tried to stand, feeling like I had the worst sort of all-over body flu. My rib cage felt bruised, my joints creaked, and my muscles barely cooperated as I left my room and stepped into the hall, where my mom stood at the top of the stairs, about ten feet away from me, still dressed in her loose black pajama bottoms and one of my dad’s blue and green Seahawks jerseys.
“Amber!” she exclaimed, the sharpness in her voice assaulting my senses. “What happened to your hair?”
I didn’t move. I didn’t look at her. “I cut it.” Keep it together. Don’t say a word. Just act like everything is fine.
“I can see that,” she said, walking toward me. “But when? And why? You’ve always loved it long.”
I shrugged. “Last night, when I got home. I just . . . did it.” I stood still as she hugged me, keeping my eyes on the floor.
“Whew!” she said when she pulled back. “Had a little to drink, did you? It’s coming out your pores.”
I nodded, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m not going to work. I feel awful.”
“I bet,” she said. She paused, then reached up to push my hair back from my face, staring at me with an assessing look. “I like it,” she declared. “We need to clean up the ends, but it actually suits you. Probably easier to take care of, too.”
I nodded again. It was all I could manage.
She pursed her lips and tilted her head to one side. “Are you all right, honey? Did something happen? I didn’t think you’d get home earlier than us last night.”
“I just drank too much. I’ve never done that before.”
She kept looking at me, like she was trying to decide whether or not to believe what I said. “Okay,” she finally replied. “I’ll go make you some ginger tea and dry toast. It’ll help.”
My gut twisted at the thought of trying to put any kind of food in my mouth, but I nodded, if only to make her leave me alone. When she turned to walk away, part of me wanted to call out, to start crying and tell her everything. To ask her to wrap herself around me in my bed the way she used to when I was a little girl, back when the monsters in my imagination weren’t real. When they weren’t actually someone I loved, someone I thought I could trust.
And then, I couldn’t help myself. “Mom?”
“Yes?” she said, stopping her descent down the stairs to look back at me.
Tell her. Say it out loud. I opened my mouth, ready to convey the entire sordid story, but then, only two words came out. “Thank you,” I said, and she smiled.
“Of course, sweetie. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” I entered the bathroom, where I forced myself to drink handful after handful of water, ignoring the mirror, staring at the contents of the wastebasket next to the sink. Before I’d gone to bed, I’d shoved all the strands of my cut-off hair on top of the toilet-paper-wrapped, chopped-up dress and panties, and now it lay there looking like a messy, dark brown nest. The girl I used to be, sitting in the trash.
I washed my face over the sink, then decided to take another hot shower, hoping it might actually make me feel clean. But when I took off the long T-shirt I wore and looked down at my body, I gasped. The evidence was everywhere—fingerprint bruises around my breasts and waist, fat smudges of purple on my rib cage and inner thighs, blood-crusted, half-moon indentations on the palms of my hands. I couldn’t risk my mother walking in on me and seeing any of it. Hurriedly, I pulled the T-shirt back on and raced into my bedroom, where I changed into an oversize, gray WSU sweatshirt and black leggings. Once I was back in bed, a few tears snuck out of the corners of my eyes and rolled down the side of my face into my hair. About five minutes later, my mom brought in a tray with the hot tea and toast she had promised, and again, as I had last night, I pretended to be asleep. She stroked my hair again, setting the back of her hand against my forehead, like she was checking to see if I had a temperature, and the tenderness of her touch brought more tears to my eyes.
“Just rest, my sweet girl,” she whispered before she left the room, and I realized that she knew I was awake.
I thought I might cry more. I thought I might lie there, thoughts spinning as they had last night, but the sheer weight of my fatigue won out and I finally slept, soundly enough that I had no dreams. I woke several hours later to a knock on my bedroom door, to my name being spoken as it opened.
“Amber?” Tyler said, and my entire body seized up. My muscles froze, and a sharp rock in my throat blocked me from taking a breath. What is he doing here? Who let him in? My parents, of course. They didn’t know better. I hadn’t told them what he’d done.
“Are you okay?” he asked, coming in and closing the door behind him. “I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t there.”
I sat up, pressing my back against the padded headboard of my bed. Did he expect me to stay there and cuddle with him? The skin beneath his eyes was dark, and it appeared as though he hadn’t changed or showered. He was frowning, like he was sad. For a flash, I felt myself soften, accustomed to comforting him. But then, a new kind of muscle memory set in: his weight on me, the way he had gored himself inside me, and I instantly felt like a cornered animal, wild and willing to do anything to find escape.
“Get out,” I whispered.
“Amber . . .” he said, taking a couple of steps toward me.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and that’s when I managed to find my voice. “Get out!” I screamed, with enough intensity that my entire body vibrated and the muscles in my throat felt singed. I kicked at him with both legs, as hard as I could, hard enough to push him onto the floor, fighting the way I should have fought last night. Instead, I’d let him hurt me. I’d let him win. “Get the fuck out!”
“Jesus, Amber,” he said as he struggled to right himself.
“Get out!” I screamed again, and I kept on screaming it. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” Just those two words, the only ones I could think to say.
He stood up, his green eyes wide. Then, both my parents appeared in my doorway, their breathing labored after they’d clearly dashed up the stairs.
“What the hell is going on here?” my father demanded.
“Make him leave!” I said, barely able to speak. “Make him go!”
“What?” my mother said, her eyes darting back and forth between Tyler and me, confusion shrouding her face. “Tyler . . . ?”
Tyler didn’t speak; instead, he simply turned around, pushed past both my parents, and strode out of the room.
My parents stood still for a minute, shocked, I supposed, by what had just occurred. “Honey, what happened?” my mom asked, coming over to sit down with me. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tightly, making me cry all over again.