• One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Breathe. Four. Breathe. Five. Breathe. Six.

    I can never get past six. But once I reach six, all the nightmares stop. When I was younger, I used to have horrible reoccurring nightmares. Every night. In every dream, it was just me alone in the middle of the woods while the monsters were coming at me from every direction. I used to get so scared I wouldn’t sleep for two days at a time. My mother took my to doctors and psychiatrists but it never worked. The nightmares always came back. Finally, she told me to start counting whenever I had a bad dream. Count until I’m not afraid anymore.

    The nightmares always come back though, even if my mom were standing right beside the bed. They would always find a way to creep into my thoughts and eat away at my brain like maggots; they chew on my brain and swallow up all the good dreams. Mom would hold me while I cried, so many nights. And I’d feel so bad for taking her sleep away from her. Her work suffered and the strain between her and my father grew even more.

    I slowly open my eyes, dried mud fading into sight. My hand lies inches away from my face, my broken and bleeding fingernails digging into the earth. I can see my breath slowly escaping my parted lips as I breathe out. Stray pieces of wet, stringy, dirt-caked hair fall into my face as I roll over onto my stomach; shivers run down my spine as I unfold my knees from my chest and sit up. A sigh of pain leaves me as I attempt to stand up; sharp pangs shoot through my arms, stomach, and from between my legs. The mud clings to my torn jeans and ripped shirt.

    Squinting as I look up at the sky, the sun is blinding me from behind the thin, gray clouds. My legs wobble beneath me, threatening to throw me to the ground. I stumble forward a bit before regaining my balance. The bottom half of my pants are soaked from the mud and my shirt is stretched out.

    I can’t remember how—

    “Please, no! Stop!” screams burst from my lungs. Hands thrash and legs kick blindly, hoping to keep the monster away. “Stop! Please, stop!” Begging does not help. The monster is hungry and he wants to eat me up for dinner and chew on my bones for dessert.

    —I got here. I need to get home but I can barely walk. My legs crumple beneath me like pieces of paper. I fall to my hands and knees, tears prickling my eyes. I don’t remember; I don’t remember; I do not remember; I do—

    “Stop struggling,” he growls, his voice echoes demonically through the cold, black trees. “Just shut your ******** mouth. It’ll be over with soon.” The weight of his body holding me down is too much. His strong hands pin my arms down as I squirm and thrash beneath him. A wicked smile spreads across his lips as his fangs gnash at my throat.

    —not remember what happened.

    My entire body aches and my thoughts are fuzzy and unclear. I squeeze my eyes shut, placing a hand over my eyes as the pain blinds me. After a moment, the ferocious pounding in my head settles into a dull roar that I have to ignore. I try standing up again, carefully, slowly. My legs are working now, though my body doesn’t want to comply.

    “Help,” I mutter, my voice hoarse and cracked. I say it just to make sure I can still speak. No one is around and no one is going to help me.

    Trudging through the forest is difficult; more so than I thought it would be. My legs move as if I’m walking through a marsh and my feet drag through the fallen, crunchy leaves. The woods are behind me now, and the cold, wet street is laid out in front of me, completely deserted. It all seems like a scary movie; but I know that this is real life. I know that monsters really do exist and that they are all out to get me. Like last night; the monster got me.

    All I know is that I need to get home.




    “Late night, huh, Ash?” Father figure asks as I come down the stairs in my bath robe, freshly-washed hair falling down past my shoulders with the scent of strawberries. This is the first time he’s seen me this morning—I had to pull my ninja routine and sneak into the house before they woke up.

    I nod softly, unable to make eye contact with him. I float into the kitchen like a piece of paper and settle by the refrigerator. My stomach is empty and growling, but I can’t eat. Sickness churns in my gut as I wrap my arms around my body and take a seat at the kitchen table. Father figure stares at me a moment before folding his newspaper and carrying his coffee mug into the other room. His spider senses must be tingling. He knows when something’s wrong, but doesn’t do anything about it. Ever. I watch him go and wonder if he noticed the heavy makeup covering my bruises or the bandaids on my hands keeping my fingernails from falling off.

    The mirror showed me the truth this morning as I stood naked in front of it, examining my bruised and beaten body. I have two large bite marks on my neck along with a ring of bruises, fingernail marks raking down my chest, my arms are bruised and I have scratches up and down my legs. On my back, there’s a nasty black and blue mark on my shoulder blade and tiny scars running down my spine.

    “Oh, you’re up,” Mom says as she walks into the kitchen. Her hair is pulled tight into a blonde bun and her suit is flawless. Her skirt is pulled so tightly over her legs that she looks like she can barely walk. Dr. Mom pours a cup of coffee as she reaches for a granola bar from the top shelf. She unwraps it and tosses the wrapper into the trash can. “What time did Dylan bring you home last night?”

    “Eleven,” I lie. My voice comes out as barely a whisper, surprising me and Dr. Mom.

    “Are you feeling okay honey?” She asks, turning on the small television in the kitchen so she can watch the six o’ clock news. “You’re not sick are you?” Mom turns to place her hand on my head to check and see if I had a fever. I wince away from her hand and lay my head down on the table. I can’t let her see the makeup.

    “I feel sick.” I say. My stomach boils and churns.

    “Well, you don’t have any tests today do you?” I shake my head and try to breathe. “Go up to your room and lay down for a little while. There’s some soup in the cabinets if you get hungry later. Here, take an aspirin before you go.”

    She hands me two aspirins and a glass of ice water before sending me upstairs. I walk past the step-father without a word shared between us and close my door tightly. My fingers turn the lock. I set the medicine and water down on my nightstand and pace for a minute, shedding my robe. The mirror is speaking to me again—telling me how nasty and ugly my bruises are.

    I run my fingers through my hair and pace, back and forth. I try to wrap my mind around what happened last night, but everything is just one big blur. The last thing I remember—

    “Don’t touch me!” I scream, my voice nearly breaking. One hand clamps over my mouth while the other smashes my face. Tears stream down my cheeks and sobs erupt from me. His bear arms wrap around me and drag me further through the forest, further away from everyone. My legs kick hard but my arms are bound tightly against my body. I can’t move, I can’t scream, I can’t run, I can’t fight. All I can do is wait for the monster to eat me alive.

    —is sharing a mixed drink with Hannah before she left with her boyfriend. All I can think is why I couldn’t find Dylan. Where was he? I squeeze my eyes shut. Try to remember. Where was he? Why didn’t he help me?

    Why didn’t anyone help me?