Cut Me Free (7 page)

“Okay, shh.” Images of every part of the apartment flash through my head. Taking the bat with me, I slide into one of the two hiding spots I'd seen—the small gap between the fridge and the wall. There is no way I'm going in the torture closet. I try not to think of what squishes against the bottom of my shoe as I get in place just before the door screeches open.

I focus on trying to keep each breath level and quiet. He can't find me here. If he does, I'll fight, but the girl and I are probably both dead. I'm endlessly grateful no one else can hear Sam freaking out in my head.

No, no—not again, Piper. No more being stuck with bad people. No more. We have to get out of here.

I tighten my grip on the bat as he moves through the apartment—breathe in, breathe out. My fingers are so damp I'm afraid it may slip from my grasp. He's in the kitchen now, so close I can hear him breathe. Can he hear me?

He fumbles with his keys as he unlocks her cupboard door. From my position I can't see them, but I hear a whimper from the girl and a low growl from Steve Brothers.

A shuffling noise moves away from me, out of the kitchen, and I risk taking a peek. His arm is wrapped tight against her throat, her feet barely touching the ground. I see terror in her eyes as they meet mine. My hand flies to my mouth just in time to stifle my gasp.

Brothers is taking her to the closet.

Stop him, Piper. Do something.

Chains rattle in the bedroom, then a sharp metallic scrape echoes down the hall. My eardrums vibrate with the noise even after it stops. Sam pleads in my head as I inch out from behind the fridge and grip the bat with two hands. A small scream comes before it's quickly muffled, and I know he's using one of his gags.

Sliding along the wall, I move to a spot where I can see into the room. The girl's hands are chained above her head with her back to me. A strap from one of the gags stretches across her face and around her head.

Brothers stands behind her. He grips a small but vicious-looking knife in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. The knife has four blades coming from a single handle, and I see in my head what it will do to her skin. The image makes me light-headed. His stance is calm and powerful. This is where he's in control, and he enjoys every second of her pain. I see his face in a mirror on the opposite wall; a cruel smirk curves his lips as he watches her. There's a hunger in his eyes that makes me want to throw up—I've seen it before in the eyes of the Parents.

But I stopped them and I must stop Steve Brothers.

Sam is humming in my head. I fight not to react as flashes of pain and blood from the past haunt us both. A powerful need washes over me. I've felt it before. It scares me. I'm trapped, ensnared like the girl. The fear of what I know I can do battles against the understanding of exactly what he will do to her if I don't.

Familiar fury pumps through my veins and I resist the urge to pounce. I don't need my bolt anymore. I feel my strength pulsing with every heartbeat, and that's what scares me. My goal is to save her, not to destroy him, no matter how much he deserves it. I don't let myself move an inch until I can draw in one slow breath after another. Brothers has an entire closet full of weapons within his reach, I have a bat. If I'm going to get the girl or myself out of here alive, I can't lose control—not this time, not again.

But I
will
hurt him if it means saving her.

Taking two steps into the room, I move in silence. I'd perfected moving without sound back in the attic. It is instinct now. Brothers walks closer to the girl and I freeze. He lifts her shirt and my eyes close tight when I get a glimpse of her back. So many healed slices, burns, and cuts, there is no skin without scars. Sam hums louder and I can't hear anything else. I focus on breathing until I can calm down.

He is bad, Piper. Stop him.

When I open my eyes again, he's still watching her, and I know I must make my move soon. He's dropped the knife back to his side and takes a long drag on his cigarette. Two steps closer, I lift the bat over my shoulder. I try to convince myself I can save her. I can stop him. Still, in my head, I see the blood. The Parents and all the blood—I didn't care about killing the Parents, but I hated the blood.

My hands shake. The bat wobbles. I glance in the mirror and every piece of me turns to ice. His eyes, dark and hungry, are staring straight at me.

And he smiles.

I yelp and try to swing the bat, but he's ready. He moves his arm to block it and turns with his knife, catching me across the side and slicing my skin with the blades. It burns like a red-hot poker, but I don't cry out.

“You're a pretty one.” He breathes as he grabs my hair with one hand and brings the knife toward my neck, but he doesn't cut me. He wants me to be afraid. Fury boils in my veins, and I know he's made a big mistake.

Because I am
done
letting people feed off my fear.

I jerk back the bat and slam him in the gut with it. When he doubles over, his head is right there and I don't hesitate.

The bat hits his skull with an audible
thunk
. I whack it again to be certain he will stay down, and part of me wants to keep hitting him, keep hurting him. He collapses to the floor. Taking a deep, shaking breath, I instead say the words that help me be strong, the words that keep me sane.

“I am
nothing
like you.”

There is no movement and no blood. I force myself to release the bat, tugging back one finger at a time until it falls to the floor. His cigarette rolls from his hand and lands on the dingy brown rug in front of the dresser. It catches fire almost immediately but takes its time—like it wants me to decide its fate. The smell of smoke fills my nose and I move to stamp it out.

No, don't. Leave it.

The cold hatred in Sam's voice is foreign, and I remember, again, that it isn't really my little brother. He's a piece of me. A piece that thinks Steve Brothers deserves to burn.

I withdraw my foot and watch the baby flames. Something about fire fascinates me. It lives alone and dances with no partner. Fire is beauty and destruction, life and death wrapped up in one glowing ball of light. The girl whimpers again and I snap back into the moment. The fire has started to spread. We need to get out of here.

The torture closet surrounds me as I step toward her and into her world of pain. I wince from the throbbing in my side as I reach up to release the cuffs on the girl's wrists. All the devices scare me in a way that I didn't believe possible after everything I've seen. Once her hands are free, I work on the strap tying her gag in place. We've turned sideways now, and she is like a statue. When I follow her gaze I see her staring at Brothers. She's only a child. I move to block her view as I finish releasing the strap and drop the gag to the floor.

With a shake of her head, she steps around me and stands over him. Tears roll down her cheeks, but I hear nothing—no sobs or whimpers, just silence. I can't help her, not here and now, because the fire is creeping down the rug between Brothers's sprawled left leg and the brittle wood of the dresser. We have to leave. Hesitating for only an instant, I reach out my hand to her. She is like Sam, she needs me—touching her isn't like touching others, it's different. When she stares at my outstretched fingers, I know how she feels and what she thinks. It isn't safe to touch people or trust them. It hurts.

But I want her to feel safe. So I wait.

Turning back to Brothers, she whispers something I can't make out and stomps on his hand as the fire spreads to the leg of his pants. I blink as she turns to me, places her hand in mine, and pulls me toward the door.

I falter and look back at the man lying still on the floor. The edge of one pant leg is on fire now, too. If we leave him here like this … the girl tugs on my hand again. She looks desperate to leave, to escape while she has the chance. Part of me thinks this is wrong and recognizes that we're killing him. Another part delights in it. I'm torn in two and neither side is winning. Am I the murderer or the savior?

Sam doesn't answer in my head this time. I'm not sure I want him to. I walk out with the girl and close the door tight behind us.

 

7

My navy shirt hides my bloody side as we walk down the street. It was a good choice. A white one would've stained. Not to mention people would've noticed. Red bloodstains on a white shirt are pretty much impossible to hide. I want to touch my ribs, to lift my shirt and assess the damage, but the girl has a death grip on my hand. It reminds me of Sam in a way that makes me smile and want to scream at the same time. Still, I feel like there are eyes on me, on the blood, on us. I want to be faster than we can walk.

At the next corner, I step out and wave down a cab with my free hand, hoping no one notices how it shakes. My stomach flops as the car pulls over and I try to breathe around the sudden knot in my gut. The idea of climbing into a car alone with a stranger has always kept me on crowded buses and trains. Taxis leave me exposed and defenseless. They're a risk I've avoided, until now. I look down at the girl and know we need to get out of this neighborhood as fast as possible. For her sake, I'll do it.

Giving the driver an address on Pine, a block away from my apartment, seems like a smart decision. He nods without even a glance in my direction and speaks into the headset he has on his ear. Perfect, he can talk to whoever is on his phone all he wants. Distraction is my friend right now.

“I don't know your name.” I keep my voice low when I turn to the girl, even though she isn't as jumpy as I expect her to be. My chaotic mind whirls over everything that just happened. I was strong enough to stop myself from hitting him again, but not strong enough to stop the fire. Pushing the thought aside, I lock it away for now and focus on the girl. She is safe. That's what matters.

“Yeah.” She peers at me, her face as blank as a fresh sheet of paper beneath the tear tracks on her dirty cheeks. Her dark eyes guard her secrets well. “I don't know yours either.”

I can't hide a small smile. I like this girl. Which name should I tell her? Can I trust her with my past? The answer comes quickly, but it isn't about trust. She has enough baggage without having to carry mine.

“Charlotte.”

She watches me for a second, and I almost wonder if she can tell I'm lying. I wait and she shrugs, her shoulder-length black hair falling across her face.

“I'm Sanda.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. Now what? “I don't live too far from here. We're going there first.”

“First? Then where?” Her nose crinkles up in confusion.

“Then I guess we should talk about where to take you.” I check to make sure the driver is still focused on his phone call. When he coughs and responds loudly into his headset, I continue. “A shelter or the police station maybe?”

Sanda's haunted eyes remain on the back of the seat in front of us. She doesn't answer, but her grip on my hand tightens even more.

“You aren't related to that man—”

“No.” Her answer is quick and sharp enough to draw blood.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I squeeze her hand lightly. “Do you know where your parents are?”

“Where are yours?”

I flinch. “Well, okay then.” But in my head, I'm already defending her. After what she's just been through, would I behave any differently? I'd been the same way. I need to let her catch her breath for a moment before grilling her. We ride in silence for a few blocks before she looks over at me. I can see the remorse in her eyes as she speaks.

“I'm sorry. My parents are dead. My brother and I lived in an orphanage in Myanmar. I was taken when I was small.”

“You're still small.”

“Small-
er
.” She levels her chin at me and I nod. “I cleaned for a rich family until almost a year ago. Then they sold me to
him
.” Her voice drips hatred and I don't ask her more.

“Is English your first language?”

“I only know a few words that aren't English. I've been here for as long as I can remember. Before that I only know what people have told me happened.” She hunches over, studying her dirty fingernails.

“How old are you?”

“I'm pretty sure that I'm nine.” She straightens her back and nods, clearly proud to have an answer.

Unfortunately, I understand perfectly. Without a birth certificate or anyone who cares enough to celebrate, it's hard to keep track. At least Sam and I had each other and Nana. I don't remember the years before Sam very well except being hungry with the Mother, but there wasn't much worth remembering. This girl has been alone for a long time. She doesn't look much bigger than Sam, but we'd mostly been fed regularly up until the last year before Sam died … one of the only kindnesses the Father did for us, and then he took that away, too. The Father always said being healthy made us bleed better.

Perhaps “kindness” isn't the right word.

“Do you know when you were born?”

“No. But I think maybe in the fall?”

“Why?”

“Well.” She stares at her feet now and seems embarrassed. “Because I like to pretend all the kids that dress up for Halloween are celebrating with me even though I never get to dress up.”

Shoving aside the emotion welling up inside me, I smile. Sam had been born when the leaves started changing color outside. His next birthday isn't too far away. My stomach tightens at just the thought. It will be the second one since he died. The first was a couple of months after I'd run. When I'd walked out of the motel room in Nebraska and a leaf fell at my feet, I fled back in and spent a week straight sobbing in a dark corner. I'd wished a thousand times since then that I knew the exact day. Something I could mark on a calendar and celebrate for him. He would've been eight this year. The week he died, the attic was hot, but not yet so hot that we had no choice but to lie on the slightly cooler wood floor instead of our tattered blankets to keep from getting dehydrated.