It wasn’t that she [i]trusted[/i] them; Samantha simply couldn’t see any way out of her waking nightmare. For days now, she had tucked herself into her room, knees drawn to her chest, listening across the farm for sirens, for footsteps and whispers of disgust. Quitting only when her body forced her to sleep, she had to live it all over again--[i]pushingtryingtolaughitoffwristspinnedteeththatshouldhavefeltsogoodskincrawlinggetoffgetoffGETOFFglassshatteringcarframesnappingprisongoinglimpeyesbloomingredthatawfuldripofrcrimsonherthroatraw[/i].

Samantha shuddered, folding her arms beneath her chest as if she could keep herself from falling apart.

The strange man offered something like sympathy, something like knowledge, as if there were answers he knew how to find. She didn’t trust him, but no one else had offered information. The police who had interviewed her had only refrained from cuffing her because they couldn’t find [i]proof[/i]. But they would; somehow they’d figure out what was wrong with her and she’d never see the light of day again.

Samantha didn’t want to die in a cage.

“Sammie,” Her father turned, gun lowering to the wood of their porch. His eyes searched hers, the lines in his face deeper than ever. He’d aged so much in the past few weeks, and her heart stung to know that it was [i]her[/i] fault. She should have run, should have kept him out of this entirely. Nodding almost imperceptibly, she opened the screen door, standing aside. Reluctantly shifting out of the way, he nodded towards the house.

“No funny business, y’hear?” His voice carried a promise, and Samantha’s heart broke to think that her father might stain his hands red because of her.


The house had clearly seen better days; furniture was in need of reupholstering, paint had chipped on the window frames, and there was little sense to the clutter scattered across most every surface. A narrow hall lead to a kitchen, several pots and pans sat unwashed in a deep sink. Unopened mail covered the scratched table. Samantha scooped up the envelopes, dropping them on the counter.

“Can I—get you anything? Coffee, water?” Samantha looked cautiously to the two strangers. Her father settled against the fridge, the rifle resting in relaxed hands. His pale eyes tracked their movements, deep furrows above his greying brows. Samantha gestured to the mismatched chairs. “Um—what are your names?”