I want to tell this girl to put the knife away. I want to describe to her the first time I managed to sneak a knife out of the kitchen. How the Bad Man found it and took it from me. I thought I would inflict some damage, or at least go down fighting. Instead, in the blink of an eye, the butter knife had gone from my hand to his. I never even saw him move. So much effort and risk on my part. Preparing myself mentally, determining how to sneak a knife out of the kitchen, starting to plot the next stage of my escape.
Then the Bad Man was standing in my doorway.
And a moment later . . .
It was done. Just like that. I don’t know if I even opened my mouth to grunt a protest. One minute I thought I was so smart. The next . . .
Sometimes, I think the Bad Man knows things before we do. Like he’s not human. This is why I need my name. So my mother’s love can help me, because surely nothing on this mortal earth can defeat a man who moves like smoke and punishes like an anvil.
That day, the Bad Man had pulled out his own weapon from the sheath of his boot. Not a butter knife at all, but a hunting knife: smooth on one side, serrated on the other.
I remember staring in mute horror as he took my hand and gently extended my arm toward him. Then, using his blade, he started to draw on the clean brown skin of my forearm. Blood welling up, forming fine red lines while I hissed and trembled and did everything in my power not to flinch. His knife carved sinuous patterns into my flesh. Mesmerizing. Beautiful, even.
We both stared. Bound by the winding forms and the knowledge that if I jerked away, that sharp ugly blade would gouge into my arm, sever my arteries, and destroy the first pretty thing about me.
Later, he said I should thank him for turning my arm into a work of art.
I wear long sleeves now. But at night, I still trace the ridged lines. And right or wrong, I can’t help but admire the pattern. I am a Dumb Girl with a shattered temple, scarred hairline, and distorted eye. There’s nothing attractive about me. Except for the intricate scrollwork on my right forearm, a road map of his power and my pain.
Now this beautiful girl with her big dark eyes . . . He won’t make her pretty. He’ll carve away an ear. Take an eye. Draw a crude V down her cheek or create thick ridges in her neck. He’ll steal her loveliness from her. I’ve seen him do it, heard the girls scream, caught the evidence of his handiwork later, walking slowly, brokenly down the halls.
Cook lets me wash the knives unsupervised now. She knows I’m defeated. She knows there’s nothing to fear from a weak, brain-damaged thing like me.
But I can’t tell my story, deliver these warnings to the girl, standing here.
Instead, I risk a single look under my lashes. I try to beam out: “I know. I’m afraid, too. You’re not alone.”
And just for a moment, the beautiful girl falters.
She will die tonight. We both know it. The stolen knife is too little, too late. Not a last stand, but an admission that all is lost. Sometimes fear is like that: It leaves you with nothing but the desire for it to be done.
The girl is trembling now. My eyes have said too much. She crosses herself, and from across the room, Cook barks, “You two! Back to work.”
But the girl is shaking too hard.
I try to soften my eyes, to be the blank stare they all expect, instead of the dark knowing that floods through me too often these days. I wish I could ask her name. I would add it to the list in my head. A name is such a precious thing. Everyone should have at least that much. A single marker to carry, leave behind, be remembered by.
And maybe my gaze is more powerful than the rest of me, because suddenly she whispers, “Stacey. Stacey Kasmer. My family—”
Cook slams both hands against the stainless-steel table. “Don’t make me come over there!”
“—live in this tiny little town, you’ve never heard of it. But if you should see them . . . get out . . . and I don’t . . .”
She can’t say the rest. We both know change is in the air. Bad things have always happened here. But now, with People Coming, it’s all happening faster. Too fast.
“Tell my parents I’m sorry,” she whispers furtively. Then bursts out loud, “Stupid Girl! Grab that plate before it falls!”
Belatedly, I grab the teetering dish, as powerfully built Cook, who likes to wield cast-iron pans, broom handles, and marble rolling pins, comes stalking over.
The knife is gone, tucked beneath the girl’s skirt. We’re not allowed pockets, so I have no idea where she’s placed it. I’d secured mine in the waistband of my underwear, which the Bad Man must’ve figured out, because after carving swirling patterns in my forearm, he took away my panties for the next six months.
Cook arrives. She grabs the girl’s shoulder, shoves her back. Then cuffs me hard. I’m not expecting it. I stumble against the sharp edge of the dishwasher, feel it gouge into my belly. Before I can recover, Cook delivers another stinging blow, then for good measure, slaps the other girl, as well.
“Back. To. Work.”
The beautiful girl drops into a curtsy. I wonder what she had been in another life. A dancer? Cheerleader? Or just a girl with ambitious dreams? Most arrive older than I was. I don’t even know how I got here.
But others . . . Some, I think, come looking for jobs. But there are also girls who speak languages none of us understand. I don’t think they choose this place at all. They never stay long. They are the Ones Who Can’t Be Seen.
Though I try to see them. I try to see everything.
The girl—Stacey—turns away. Her footsteps aren’t completely steady. Hopefully Cook will think she’s merely cowed from the blow. She makes it three steps, four, five.
Then I see it. A drop of blood. Turning into a trail.
A clatter.
The knife. It’s fallen from her skirt. Bounced onto the floor.
Belatedly I glance at Cook. Maybe she didn’t see it. Maybe I can scoot over, cover it with my own foot . . .
But Cook is staring right at the knife, the blood, the girl, who is no longer walking, but swaying slightly in place. Cook once again crosses her thick arms over her chest.
“Stupid girl,” she mutters.
I get it then, as with a little sigh, Stacey’s arms go up, her body goes down . . . She collapses to the floor, lying there, dark eyes open, in the growing pool of her own blood. She didn’t bother to wait till later. Or till they found the knife, snatched it from her, did something worse. Because they know everything, anticipate our every thought, then shred us down to the bone.
But this . . . Slicing open the artery in her own leg. Not even the Bad Man can stop this.
Stacey doesn’t make a sound. Instead, as I watch, the light in her eyes dims and dims.