Free Red by Erica Spindler

Becky Lynn limped toward the bathroom.
    â€œDon’t come cryin’ to me if you get knocked up!” her father shouted from behind her. “You hear me? I won’t have none of your ugly bastard brats in this house. You hear me?”
    Becky Lynn closed the bathroom door behind her, muffling the sound of her father’s rage, and latched it. She crossed to the old claw-footed tub and turned on the faucets. Kneeling, she pushed the rubber stopper into the drain, then stood and stripped off her soiled clothing, avoiding her reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
    They had put a bag over her head so the wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her.
    She stepped into the tepid water, then sank into it. It flowed sweetly over her, like a baptism, cleansing her of Ricky’s touch, his smell. His hate.
    She rested her head against the cool porcelain and closed her eyes.
    As if from outside her body, hovering above, she saw herself. Her body folded into the tub, scrunched down so she would be submerged, her skin so white it blended with the tub, the shock of red hair around her face, floating around her shoulders. The bruises. The blood that leaked from her and into the water, muddying it.
    They would be back.
    She wanted to cry, to howl with rage and pain, yet she had no tears, couldn’t muster emotion enough for rage. She felt…a numbness. A nothingness. A weird kind of void that was at once a sweet relief and completely terrifying.
    As the water became almost too cool to bear, she opened her eyes and sat up. Carefully, she soaped her thighs, her bruised womanhood, washing away dirt and blood. She winced as she moved her hands over herself, knowing from experience that physical bruises healed. And that invisible ones did not.
    There was blood underneath her fingernails, Tommy’s from when she’d scratched him, and she dug her nails into the soap, moving them back and forth on the slippery bar, not stopping until they were clear. Clean and free of him. She soaped her hair next, scrubbing it, rinsing it. Scrubbing again.
    The water turned dark and ugly. Her stomach heaved, but she choked the sickness back. She drained the tub, then sat naked in the empty bath, her arms closed around herself, teeth chattering.
    Thoughts raced dizzily, crazily through her head, like the twisted path of a roller coaster.
    I won’t tell, Becky Lynn… You must promise me that if those boys do anything to you, you will come to me…
    What did you hope to accomplish by telling Miss Opal… Who did you think was going to believe that we’d touch you… Our parents laughed…
    Lying whore… Get out of my sight…
    Don’t do this, Mama…I need you… Mama, please help me…
    I’ll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn…
    Tears choked her, and Becky Lynn gasped to breathe. She brought her hands to her face and sobbed, pressing her hands against her mouth to muffle the sound, wishing that, somehow, holding back the sounds of her pain would erase it.
    After a time, the violence of her sobs lessened, then ceased altogether, until the only sound she had energy enough to make was a broken mewl of despair. Soon, even that became impossible and she rocked, her arms curved tightly around herself.
    Reaching up, she turned the faucets on full blast, half expecting her father to burst into the bathroom and rage at her for wasting water. Even as she waited, clean water slipped over her again, inch by comforting inch. The water warmed her, bringing her senses back to life. She rested her cheek against her drawn-up knees, her mother’s words from what seemed like a lifetime ago, nudging into her consciousness.
    You’re special, Becky Lynn. You could move away from Bend, make something of yourself.
    She squeezed her eyes shut, pain ripping through her. Nothing could be special here. Not in this house. Not in Bend.
    Tonight her mother had set her free.
    She had to