Page 98 of The Ache That Stayed

When he comes, the dark helps me hide.

But he’s there. He’s always there. And I hate it.

The floor creaks. Slow. Measured.

I wish daddy had chosen us over alcohol. I wish he’d chosen me. If daddy was here… he wouldn’t be.

He comes when the house is quiet. When the walls are asleep. When my mother isn’t there—or when she is, but too far to hear me.

I curl tighter into myself, pressing into the corner, willing my body to shrink smaller, smaller, until I disappear into the dark, become one with it.

“Come out now.”

His voice slices through the silence.

“I know you don’t like the dark.”

My throat tightens. Don’t breathe.

Don’t move.

Don’t exist.

Because breathing makes sound. And sound gets you caught.

If he can’t see me… I’m not here. If I’m not here… this isn’t happening.

His footsteps come closer.

Closer.

“If I find you…” He takes a step closer. “It won’t be good.”

My lungs burn. My chest aches, begging for air. But I don’t breathe. I don’t move.

Seconds stretch.

Or maybe minutes. Or maybe forever.

The footsteps retreat. Relief hits—sharp, sudden. I suck in a breath—too soon. A hand grabs me out of nowhere. Fingers digging in.

I scream. Loud. Raw.

“No—no—”

My voice breaks as I thrash, clawing, pushing, trying to tear myself free.

“Please—please—”

My chest feels like it’s going to collapse in on itself.

“I’ll listen,” I choke out, the words cracking as they leave me. “I promise—”

“Roxanne.”

I freeze.

He never calls me that. Never uses my name.