Finding London, Ellie Wade [different e readers txt] 📗

“In the stories, the bars would keep the bad guys in, but I’m praying they’ll protect me, keeping the most evil man out.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I spy with my little eye peeling flooring, dust bunnies, and a crack running up the cupboard—three things that don’t matter, yet they calm my racing heart. The circumstances I’m in aren’t the best. Actually, I can’t think of much worse. But I know I have to continue to fight until they come.

They will come.

That’s what I’ve been telling myself for 1,029 days. I’ve been here in this evil place for almost three years. I’ve been trying very hard to be patient, to wait…but it’s difficult, and every day is so scary.

They will be here soon.

Until then, I play my game. I’m not sure why it helps, but it does. It reminds me of Daddy, which gives me strength. But it’s more than that. I guess it forces me to focus on something that won’t hurt me. There is so little that I have control over in my life, and so much of that unknown is painful.

I can’t do anything about the crack running up the fake wooden cupboard door, but staring at it takes my attention away from the other things in the room that will hurt me. The dust bunnies—although, I suppose, if I inhaled them, they could present a problem—are safe. But the man standing in the dirty work boots next to the piles of dust and hair is anything but.

The kitchen, under the metal card table, is where I’ve chosen to hide. I close my eyes and imagine myself shaking my head. Not the best choice. I don’t dare actually move though. I’m too afraid.

In all of his rage, he hasn’t seen me yet, and if I get really lucky, he won’t.

Please don’t let him see me, over and over in my head, I pray…to whom I don’t know.

I cautiously open my lids and see his worn leather boots. Once brown, they’re now so caked with mud and dirt that they look a sad gray. He’s facing away from the table. I listen to the familiar sounds of cupboards creaking open and being slammed shut. I hear the glug-glug of liquid falling into a glass. He gulps it down his throat, sighs, and pours another. He’s swearing, ranting, and raving about something I don’t understand. He’s real mad tonight.

I shrink my shoulders down and pull my legs even tighter against my body. The smaller my presence, the less likely he is to see me. I’d disappear if I could. I wish I could.

As always, I continue to take stock of my surroundings. The rusted folding metal chairs that circle the table block me in. They remind me of what jail bars from long ago might have looked like in all the stories that Dad used to read to me of cowboys, Indians, pirates, and explorers. I loved the voices Dad would make when he told the stories. I especially loved the bad-guy voices he would use. He did the best at those. Lots of times, the mean men would end up behind bars, kind of like these rusted chair legs. In the stories, the bars would keep the bad guys in, but I’m praying they’ll protect me, keeping the most evil man out.

There are flakes of green left on the chair legs, too. I guess they used to be green…at some point. It’s hard to picture anything new and shiny in this house. Everything within these walls appears to be so old, so miserable.

I start counting all the tiles that I can see on the floor. I believe each square used to have a flower pattern, but those designs have all worn off. The flooring is like a big plastic piece of paper that was rolled across the kitchen. It’s peeling back, curving up where it meets the walls. I could be imagining it, but I think it curls up a little more every day. Perhaps, one day, it will be lying in the center of the room, all rolled up, like a big treasure map. But there’s no treasure here. There’s nothing good at all.

In the corner of the room is one of Stacey’s hair ties. I’ve never seen her wear her hair down. It’s always wrapped up in a tie. Though I rarely see her. She’s sad. I’m not sure why, but I know she is. Maybe it’s this house? It’s probably Dwight. He isn’t nice to her either, and she’s his wife. She stays in her room all the time, like she’s hiding away.

I wish I could hide in my room, but he always finds me there, especially when he’s mad. I have a better chance of avoiding him if I stay out of his sight. He’s too lazy to actually look for me, but I’m sure he knows I’m here somewhere. But if I’m not in my room and he doesn’t stumble across me in his rage, he usually just heads to his bedroom. I hope he doesn’t hurt Stacey. He yells at her a lot, but I think he only hits me.

Dwight is looking in the refrigerator now. He’s yelling about the lack of food. He’s always screaming about something. I can see the side of the refrigerator, and I take note of all the hair balls wedged between the floor and the white appliance.

I memorize every little detail of my surroundings, and in this place where it is hard to find anything to be thankful for, I’m grateful that it’s such a mess. There is so much here to see, so much to pull my attention away from the what-ifs, which are the scariest thoughts of all. In the time that I’ve been with Dwight and Stacey, this depressing I Spy game that I play with myself has proven to calm my fears the most.

I usually think about Mom and Dad, too. But dwelling on them makes me so sad. My chest has hurt since the day they died, and it seems to hurt more when I remember them. Some days though, the only thing that keeps me going is the memory of them. Although the memories hurt, they remind me that there is good and love in this world. It gives me hope that, if I’m strong enough, then Nan and Granddad will come, and they’ll take me to London where I’ll be happy.

I just have to wait a little longer. I just have to be brave.

Loïc

“I hate the fact that I’m in this dark bar with endless things to look at, yet all I see is her.”

—Loïc Berkeley

“Enough, dude. The truck will still be there on Monday. Let’s go.” Cooper’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

I had a dream about Dwight last night. I haven’t thought about him for a while. But, like all my nightmares, they don’t stay hidden forever. When I least expect it, they throw their ugly heads into my life in a way I can’t ignore, and more often than not, it happens when I’m sleeping.

I slide out from under the Humvee that I’ve been working on. “Yeah, okay. I’ll finish later.” A change of scenery is welcome at this point.

“Good ’cause I promised Maggie we would go out with her tonight. She’s been looking forward to it all week.”

He casually snuck that in, but I know he conveniently waited until the last minute to tell me of our plans.

“Seriously, Coops?” I eye my best friend, David Cooper—aka Cooper, Coops, or at the