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FAITH WAS SPRAWLED OUT on the couch trying to read Pride and Prejudice—a reading assignment for class. Drops of rain played rhythmic tunes against the window lulling her like a baby in a cradle. Heavy eyelids won and her head lolled to one side. Her book took purchase on the floor.
Upstairs, Rose was resting in her twin-size bed as her father had requested. Her head was swallowed in the pink, flowery covered, feather down pillow. She looked around the room, her gaze sweeping over the things that had always given her comfort; her rosy curtains that greeted her each morning with the sun, pictures tacked on electric pink walls of the cheer team and her sister in their cheer outfits—all teeth, her small roll top desk holding her laptop, iPad, and, favorite books from her childhood—Mother Goose, Charlotte’s Web, The Secret Garden. She was thinking to herself, this little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home. She heard a sound. Before she could angle to investigate, he was on her, his hand crushing her nose and mouth.
“I warned you. Didn’t I?” His voice, deep and low, vile, menacing. “I told you what I would do if you went to the police.” His eyes—wide, sunken, deep, black pools. His nose flared. His lips pinched.
Rose kicked and writhed under his grasp, trying to get a breath.
Sinister laughter climbed from his throat. “You’re just like her, that blonde bitch.” His hand clamped tighter. “I told you if you said anything to the police I would come for your little sister, and she wouldn’t be as lucky as you. Her, I would kill.” With his finger, he brushed a stroke down her jaw to her chin. “But you know what, Blondie? I don’t want your sister. I want you!”
He lifted his hand from her nose and mouth and began tearing at her blouse. Rose tried to scream, but it wasn’t making its way to the surface. He slapped one hand over her mouth. The other struggled with her clothes. Rose pounded his back as if tenderizing a tough piece of chuck steak and kicked like a kick boxer. She couldn’t move him, couldn’t stop him. His hot wet lips were on her face. She wanted to scream, but the screams were imprisoned behind his hand.
Rose couldn’t see his face anymore. It was buried in her neck. He was working on his zipper. Rose slid her hand under her pillow, took in a deep breath through her nose, gathering fortitude. She blew out the breath and willed all her strength to her arm. It shot from under the pillow like a torpedo. His head popped up, eyes as big as dirty silver dollars straining their sockets, mouth open like an empty trench. An inaudible scream.
Rose ripped the knife from his neck. Hot, bright red blood jetted from the slit pelting Rose in the face. Puddles of red gathered on the sheet. The fiery liquid seeped through her clothes, drained down her skin like a bed of burning larva. She screamed. Pushed at him. Screamed. Pushed. His body rolled off her, thudding to the floor with a heavy, dull, monotonous thump.