It’s one thing to lie awake all night long. It’s another to be betrayed by your own fucking blankets and the squeal of a mattress whenever you toss. Turn. Breathe.

It lets the monsters in the shadows know you’re onto them. They can hear what their mere presence does to you, and you might be tempted to do something stupid in return.

Stupid like…

Throw myself off the balcony a second time. Intentionally fall down the stairs. Trip into the ocean. Hurt myself again. Hurt myself more.

Anything to prove he doesn’t really care. I still win.

It’s when the monster crawls out from under your bed that he becomes the scariest. When he takes a seat right beside you and pretends to watch you. Protect you.

Deep down, you know the truth: he’s just waiting for you to fail so he can utter those terrible words. I knew it. You were never going to change.

The moment I wiggle to the edge of the bed and place my foot on the floor, he’s upright.

“Where are you going?”

“To pee, Daddy,” I say sweetly. Or at least I try to sound sweet. The painkillers are wearing off. My face feels stiff. Blinking hurts. Trying to sit up hurts. Standing requires that I cling to the canopy and use it like a rudder to find my balance.

“Be careful!” He grabs my shoulder, steering me to the door and toward the bathroom. “They said you might be uncoordinated for a few days.”

But he’s worried. Forty-eight hours is a deadline he’s counting toward like a good uncle, waiting for the moment he can ship me right back to the ER.

Pulling away from him, I lurch into the bathroom and close the door behind me. “Does this mean no school today?” I wonder, shouting so he can hear me.

“I told Jane not to come to give you the chance to rest.”

Interesting. “Oh, but I’m already so far behind, Daddy…” I trail off when I see who’s staring back at me in the mirror: a monster with a bruised, bloodied face.

“You can finish up whatever work she gave you.”

“So I’ll be here, all alone?” I shouldn’t be frowning. I want to be alone. So I lift the uninjured corner of my mouth as high as I can. See? Happy face.

“I’m working from home today,” Thorny says. “I’ll be in the study.”

Oh. My frown returns, exaggerating my already pathetic appearance. I look so sad—that emotion an army of therapists charged my family’s estate thousands to encourage me to feel. It’s okay to be sad, Maryanne, they coached from behind reflective glasses, bundled in their pristine lab coats. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to cry.

It’s okay to admit out loud that you’ve been hurt.

“I’m bleeding,” I say, taking their advice. A patchwork of stitches and bandages can’t stop the bright-red liquid from dripping down my cheek. I smiled too hard.

“I’m coming in.”

My spine tenses as the door opens. “S-stop.”

Can’t he see? This room is too small for both of us. He barges in anyway, towering above as he snatches a clean washrag from the neat row on a shelf above the sink.

He wets it and dabs the blood away. Then he peels my bandages off one by one, clenching his jaw at what he sees.

“You’re not supposed to show your initial horrified reaction to trauma victims,” I scold. Yet another thing my therapists taught me. “You’re supposed to smile and lie and tell me that everything will be all right.”

“You’re going to scar,” he declares. My breath stills as he tilts my chin to observe me better. “But, knowing you, you’ll just use each one to your benefit.”

“How?” I sound too curious.

“You know how.” His eyes narrow as whatever scenario he’s imagining unfurls in his mind. “You’ll spin some ridiculous lie as to their origin whenever it suits your needs.”

Of course. Something like: I used to be pretty, but then my crazy uncle pushed me off a balcony.

I used to be pretty, until my uncle tried feeding me to a pack of hungry bears.

I used to be pretty. Now, I’m not. Interpret my ugly scars as you wish—just give me attention. Now. Now. Now!

“I don’t want to be ugly.” Weird. My voice echoes, oddly hollow. Is that what the truth sounds like?

“You’re not,” Thorny says, scoffing at the mere idea.

My heart squirms behind my ribs. “Really?”

“I didn’t mean…” He eyes me for a second and sighs. “Let’s get this over with.” He finds the pack of materials the hospital sent home with me and crudely rebandages my wounds within minutes. “Come on.”

Downstairs, we enter the study. He found my notebook, my pen, and the book of lessons Jane planned. They’re all waiting for me, arranged in a studious row.

“I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” Thorny says before leaving.

If I need him.

Which I won’t.

I never do.

I flip my notebook open, listening to the pages swish against the silence. I run my fingers along the lesson plan. Then I pick the pen up instead.

Jane may be my teacher, but Thorny is the world-famous super author—therefore, his assignment takes precedence.

Craft him a juicy lie worth telling.

Dear diary,

I don’t think Thorny thinks of me the way an uncle should think of his niece. Sometimes I catch him staring too long. Too hard. It’s like he’s searching for something beneath my blouse, hidden in my skin. Dear diary, I don’t know what it is.

It…

I chew on the end of my pen as I recall the rest of his advice. “Describe it.”

It makes me feel…

Strange.

My skin feels hot when I know he’s watching, I write. My heart goes too fast. I can’t breathe.

Today, he touched my face when I said I was ugly. “You’re not,” he told me.

What does that mean?

Homework is tiring. I take a break to stare out the window. Someone rearranged the furniture on the balcony. One of the loungers is missing its cushions. There’s a mop and bucket propped against the railing. He’s been hard at work, Thorny.

I imagine him in his office now, writing his latest novel. About a murder, I bet. How original. Maybe the death of a young girl with an unflattering psychiatric diagnosis. She’d gotten what was coming to her, the surly old detective would deduce. Case closed.

Grandmama used to buy every novel of his on the day of release. She never read them, of course—crime thrillers were much too wild for her old-timey sensibilities. But she kept them on a shelf, lined up in a row for all to see. “My son-in-law wrote these,” she’d point out to her high-class friends and assorted peons. It wasn’t until after she died that I realized why. She was proud of him.

What a strange concept.

But, while I’m a barely literate teen with poor language comprehension, I know that Thorny hasn’t published a new book in years. Ten to be exact. He’s riding on the coattails of faded success.

Would Grandmama still brag about him now?

I open my notebook again and tap my pen against a fresh page. “Describe it,” he instructed, my wise professor of an uncle. Add more flair.

The other day, Thorny stuck his hand up my skirt. I told him not to.

But a part of me loved feeling his palm on my ass. At least he finally wanted to touch me.

Does that make me naughty?

I close the journal and shove it aside. A throat being cleared makes me look up and jump in my seat. Thorny is standing in the doorway, conjured by my bad behavior. So perfect he is, able to sense disobedience, even if it’s done in silence.

“Are you hungry?” he wonders.

“Why?” My fingers twitch, my nails tapping against the table’s surface. “Are you going to feed me, Daddy?”

“What do you want?”

I fidget some more. Strange. He has yet to call me out for my use of that forbidden word. Perhaps he didn’t hear me? “Something yummy, Daddy.”

“Fine.” He marches off, leaving me wondering. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. His steps trail toward the kitchen.

I picture him rummaging through drawers and sniffing out whatever morsels Elaine tucked away in the fridge. When he returns an hour later, he’s holding a sandwich on a plate.

His version of a watercress.

“Would you believe I’m allergic?” I ask as he places the food beside my journal. Though I can’t resist fingering the spongy surface.

Unlike Elaine, he left the crusts on. And added ham. And replaced the cucumbers and watercress with a chunk of cheddar cheese.

Memory, that pesky thing, sneaks into my brain again.

“Eat,” someone insisted, shoving a ham sandwich into my hands as they wiped my tears and pushed the hair back from my face. “Come on. Eat.”

“I hate sandwiches,” I tell him, shoving the plate aside.

“What a shame. You should get back to work, then.” He grabs my journal, flipping it open to the first page.

“Hey!” My rebellious fingers try to snatch it back, but he moves to the opposite end of the room and leans across Jane’s desk. As he starts to read, all I can do is shove one end of the sandwich into my mouth and bite down.

I chew mechanically as he turns the page.

Munch.

Swish.

“Better.” He looks up, an eyebrow cocked. In surprise, I think. No frown, either. “Not as stiff. But you still lack the right…perspective.”

I stop chewing. Try to swallow. My tongue aimlessly pushes chewed bread around my mouth, hunting for a good enough comeback. “L-like what?”

“What’s my motivation?” He snaps the notebook closed, mulling it over. “Am I a sexual deviant? Or are my intentions more nefarious? ‘It’s like he’s searching for something beneath my blouse, hidden in my skin.’” He does his best to parrot my voice and I feel my mouth wrinkle.

Do I really sound so bitchy?

“Pick up the pen.”

My book lands in front of me, knocking my sandwich out of the way.

“Now, put yourself in my shoes,” he commands. “What are my intentions when I look at you in this way? Do I want to kill you? Or do I want to corrupt you? Pick one.”

“Just one?” I parrot. “Why can’t it be both?”

“Because you aren’t skilled enough,” he snipes. “Pick.”

He’s too close. His creeping heat nibbles at my open pores, sneaking inside. This sensation doesn’t feel thrilling enough to scribble on paper. It makes me want to crawl from the window. Away.

“I’m young and pretty,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “So of course you’d want to fuck me, Daddy. You’re a pervert.”

“Oh? Then prove it.” He doesn’t even flinch. His pointer finger taps the blank space beneath my neatly penned paragraphs. “Make the audience believe it. How does a person look at someone they want to fuck?”

Hmmm. Maybe they stare a little too long only to glance away when they’re caught. They might bite their lower lip hard enough to punish themselves—because they know it’s stupid. They know it’s wrong.

But then they look again, focusing on a dangerously stern mouth. They want to make it move, even if it’s into a frown. Anything.

“Oh, I don’t know, Daddy,” I say, folding my hands over the table. “How does someone look at who they want to fuck?”

A rare expression sneaks into the corner of his mouth. Part frown. Part sneer.

My lungs ram against my rib cage in protest until I remember how to suck air in again.

“You don’t have much experience with the opposite sex, do you?” he asks.

“W-what?” Something inside my belly twists and squirms. He couldn’t know my naughty secrets. Could he? “You said it yourself, Daddy. I’m the girl who got caught fucking a boy in the principal’s office.”

His name was Sammy Kean. He had rich, chocolaty hair and eyes the color of seaweed. Most days, he chewed peppermint gum too loudly and smelled like vinegar. Did he ever look at me with fuckable eyes?

No. He preferred to sneak glances at Mr. Gammer, the headmaster, when he thought no one was looking.

“You tell me,” I say, turning the tables on Thorny. Before he can counter, I grab the pen and press it against his fingers. “I’m just an innocent little girl. So teach me.”

His eyes flash in that stunning, hateful way. I expect him to throw the pen.

He snatches it. “Fine.”

Then I watch as the nib glides across the page, forming words as it goes.

It’s like his gaze is glued to my skin, tracking me. His eyes hover over my chest when I breathe, my lips when I speak.

Today, he cradled my cheek when I said I was ugly, letting his fingers linger along my jaw. “You’re not,” he said.

“There,” Thorny declares, laying his weapon of choice down, my pride slayed. “That man would be labeled a pedophile.”

I have to agree. This naughty uncle would be plastered all over the society pages, his career ruined, his life over.

But…

“That doesn’t sound like me,” I say, running my finger over the lines he wrote, smearing the ink. They look like regular old words. But they stain my skin and don’t rub off when I swipe them along my skirt.

“Then dig deeper,” Thorny suggests, drawing himself to his full height. “Put it in your own words.”

Done teaching, he leaves.

I eat, finishing my sandwich as his words taunt me from the pages of my red journal. I tug on one, intending to tear it out. Instead, I close the book entirely.

The rest of my school day is spent brushing over Jane’s lesson plan, learning nothing. When I re-enter the hallway and follow it into the living room, Thorny is already there, brooding against the mantel, his head in his hands.

“Go get ready for dinner,” he commands without turning around.

“Dinner for two?” I shuffle my feet. It sounds so weird to say out loud. No Mommy to serve as a buffer between us. Oh dear. What if we stab each other? “Is that a good idea, Thorny? After all, you could be a lecherous pervert.”

“Then I suggest you wear something decent,” he says in return. “Go.”

I can be a good girl when I want to be. I take my good, sweet time ascending the stairs, ensuring not to re-injure my battered face. I even do as he says: wear something decent. I find the perfect garment to borrow at the back of a closet.

When I enter the dining room wearing it, Thorny looks up, his eyes a mean, cold blue. Setting a wine glass down, he tucks his hand beneath his chin and watches me approach. “I always hated that dress,” he declares as I linger near the doorway. “Elaine hasn’t worn it in years.”

Oh. I wonder why. It’s flowy and practically sheer, formed of cloudy, creamy white. The modest hemline reaches below my knees. The faint hint of my pink panties can be seen through it—a fact that I try to write off as intentional, even as I shift my heels together.

Maybe it’s too innocent for a man like Thorny.

“Should I take it off?” I wonder.

His eyelids lower halfway, his gaze ruthlessly focused. “Come and eat.”

I sense yet another dare and can’t resist skipping to the table and claiming the chair across from him. As I eye our meal, I feel my nose wrinkle. Thorny isn’t like Elaine. No elaborate confections baked with care await.

Instead, he made two sandwiches on paper plates, piled high with potato chips. His plate is flanked by a glass of wine. Mine by a can of soda.

“Bon appetit!” I eat as slovenly—vocabulary word #12—as I can without aggravating my sore lip too badly. I let the cheese and meat dangle from between my bread slices as the latter crumbles in my grip. I lick my fingers and lazily snack on chips. Munch. Crunch. Slurp. Cold soda dribbles down my chin, staining Elaine’s hated dress.

“Strange,” Thorny muses, toying with his wine glass. His eyes perform a slow trip up and down my face and my torso. He lingers near my neck, and I shift, pressing my knees together. “I’m sure your grandmother taught you table manners.”

“Haven’t you heard?” I lick the salt off a chip and noisily chew it.

He doesn’t bother to return my beautiful smile. So serious.

“I grew up in a barn. It was called ‘boarding school.’ My mean uncle shipped me off to twelve of them and the only manners I learned were how many ways to say ‘abandonment issues’ in group therapy.”

He frowns. Takes a sip of wine. Another.

“And,” I add, continuing my tale. Just for funsies. “You want to know the best part? I’ve been to twelve schools, but he never ever let me go to his. The fancy, exclusive one he teaches at, you see? I think it’s called Waldo? Weirdo?”

“Be honest,” Thorny softly chides. “Why would you even want to go to Walden?”

The truth? “Maybe I just wanted to learn from you, Daddy? Maybe I wanted to see what it’s like to have your undivided attention.”

That makes him frown more deeply as he drains his wine glass. “Eat.”

We do, and when we finish, I head up to my room while he lurks downstairs. I can hear him pacing circles. Talking?

To Elaine, I suspect, on the phone.

“She’s fine,” he growls. “I said she’s fine. You know what… Stop! Just stop. Don’t call me for now. Give me time—stop with the fucking excuses! I don’t want to hear it.”

He hangs up. Paces some more.

Tracking his every movement, I crawl into bed, only to remember he still has my pill case. When he marches up the stairs, he doesn’t enter my room though. He keeps going, moving slower the farther down the hall he ventures. Until he stops right near where I suspect the threshold of his bedroom to be.

I lie here beneath the blankets, listening to the floor creak beneath the weight of his indecision. Back and forth. Forth and back.

Eventually, he turns and marches down the stairs, storming deeper into the house.

He’s like thunder, Thorny. He can’t help that he’s a herald for something wild and out of control, or that the storm in his wake destroys everything in its path. His only course of action is to rumble through the chaos, slamming doors and snatching wine bottles from his study.

The sandwich was just a snack for him. Alcohol is his real sustenance. He’ll drink it all night, the same way my ears subsist on seeking out every faint sound he makes, just to be sure he’s really here. He hasn’t left.

We’re greedy with our vices, gobbling them up whole. It’s the only way we know how to cope.