Hunted
He was coming.
She could feel it. The shift of the floorboards beneath her worn jeans and the subtle creak of the door swinging open in the kitchen. She would have bolted but she couldn't get out of the closet that he double locked from the outside. This was where he put them when they'd been bad. After he punished them of course. She could hear Dierdre's footsteps as they passed the tiny broom closet.
Her mother did not stop to open it. Gabriella did not expect that she would.
He was still coming. There was the pause. The waiting. Then the agonizingly slow slide of one lock, two locks, three locks. Then there was blinding light flooding in from the kitchen. She was ready. She had her eyes shut and kicked out with both feet, catching him in the knee. She scrabbled up, bolted past him and ran. She could already hear Cat and Chris whimpering upstairs. If she kept him busy long enough he might leave them alone tonight.
She bolted for the yard, breathe ragged, knowing the man behind her would catch her and hurt her and that there was nothing she could do to stop him. Breathe came ragged, burned in lungs, pin pricks of pain as blood returned to limbs she'd sat on too long locked in the tiny closet. She could feel him gaining, superior height and strength. Her feet slipped in the pine needles and moss and she hit the ground hard. Metallic blood in her mouth where teeth grazed tongue.
He was on her in an instant, his weight baring down, cold air on her skin as her thin t-shirt was ripped away, knees forced apart and the heavy grunting of his breath and the pain so incongruous with the cold, New Hampshire night. Her fists beat at him ineffectually.
He spat on her after and he rose and the gaze he gave the house, the windows upstairs, was hungry.
Still hungry.
She kicked him again, levering herself up bleeding and dripping with his sweat and semen and her fists clenched so hard that nails left half moons in the palms of her hands. His rage sparked, turned and settled on her and she accepted the fists gladly, fighting back as much as she could until one last swing sent her into unconciousness, triumphant blackness.
Because upstairs her siblings stayed away from him for another night.
Help me.
Gypsy sat up in the bed, gasping for air, hands clawing at the thin silk sheets - their one concession to luxury in otherwise simplistic lives - and she half-fell out of the bed and to the window, throwing it wide to breathe. The city throbbed around her, Rosa's fear so similar and the same to old memories.
She too had been hunted once.
Hands much stronger than they used to be gripped the window sill. Her body stilled, letting cold night air evaporate the sweat away from muscles that could have easily thrown off her step-father now. Never again. She had promised herself never again would she be that helpless and every day was a battle and push to make that promise to herself come true. The past few nights those old memories were strong, the tie to the city, the feeling the City Mother had of being hunted waking old feelings and old dreams that she had long since laid to rest.
She could almost hear Rosa.
Help me.
She remembered the other dream, Orlando, her home, her city, in flames and desolate and the sleepers destroying one another, desolate. Death.
Over her dead body.
"I'll do everyhing I can sweetie," Gypsy whispered. "I promise. You and me, we're tied together. This is my -home-" There was force, bond, tie in that word for her. The spirit stilled. The sensation dulled for the moment. They were both waiting, city spirit, city heirarch.
Just like her step-father, Gypsy planned on stopping whatever was coming - even if it meant kicking it in the shins until it turned its hunger on her.
She could feel it. The shift of the floorboards beneath her worn jeans and the subtle creak of the door swinging open in the kitchen. She would have bolted but she couldn't get out of the closet that he double locked from the outside. This was where he put them when they'd been bad. After he punished them of course. She could hear Dierdre's footsteps as they passed the tiny broom closet.
Her mother did not stop to open it. Gabriella did not expect that she would.
He was still coming. There was the pause. The waiting. Then the agonizingly slow slide of one lock, two locks, three locks. Then there was blinding light flooding in from the kitchen. She was ready. She had her eyes shut and kicked out with both feet, catching him in the knee. She scrabbled up, bolted past him and ran. She could already hear Cat and Chris whimpering upstairs. If she kept him busy long enough he might leave them alone tonight.
She bolted for the yard, breathe ragged, knowing the man behind her would catch her and hurt her and that there was nothing she could do to stop him. Breathe came ragged, burned in lungs, pin pricks of pain as blood returned to limbs she'd sat on too long locked in the tiny closet. She could feel him gaining, superior height and strength. Her feet slipped in the pine needles and moss and she hit the ground hard. Metallic blood in her mouth where teeth grazed tongue.
He was on her in an instant, his weight baring down, cold air on her skin as her thin t-shirt was ripped away, knees forced apart and the heavy grunting of his breath and the pain so incongruous with the cold, New Hampshire night. Her fists beat at him ineffectually.
He spat on her after and he rose and the gaze he gave the house, the windows upstairs, was hungry.
Still hungry.
She kicked him again, levering herself up bleeding and dripping with his sweat and semen and her fists clenched so hard that nails left half moons in the palms of her hands. His rage sparked, turned and settled on her and she accepted the fists gladly, fighting back as much as she could until one last swing sent her into unconciousness, triumphant blackness.
Because upstairs her siblings stayed away from him for another night.
Help me.
Gypsy sat up in the bed, gasping for air, hands clawing at the thin silk sheets - their one concession to luxury in otherwise simplistic lives - and she half-fell out of the bed and to the window, throwing it wide to breathe. The city throbbed around her, Rosa's fear so similar and the same to old memories.
She too had been hunted once.
Hands much stronger than they used to be gripped the window sill. Her body stilled, letting cold night air evaporate the sweat away from muscles that could have easily thrown off her step-father now. Never again. She had promised herself never again would she be that helpless and every day was a battle and push to make that promise to herself come true. The past few nights those old memories were strong, the tie to the city, the feeling the City Mother had of being hunted waking old feelings and old dreams that she had long since laid to rest.
She could almost hear Rosa.
Help me.
She remembered the other dream, Orlando, her home, her city, in flames and desolate and the sleepers destroying one another, desolate. Death.
Over her dead body.
"I'll do everyhing I can sweetie," Gypsy whispered. "I promise. You and me, we're tied together. This is my -home-" There was force, bond, tie in that word for her. The spirit stilled. The sensation dulled for the moment. They were both waiting, city spirit, city heirarch.
Just like her step-father, Gypsy planned on stopping whatever was coming - even if it meant kicking it in the shins until it turned its hunger on her.