Free I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak Page A

can walk next time if it costs too much.” I’m sure he puts it on his company’s account, anyway.
    He gives me the money and I thank him. Wasn’t so difficult now, was it? I think. He slams the door hard. My head may as well have been in it.
     
    In a way, I’m waiting for another phone call to arrive at my place, telling me to get over to Edgar Street again, pronto. I wait a few nights, but there’s nothing.
    On Thursday night, I leave the card game at Audrey’s early. A feeling clutters me. It makes me stand up and leave, almost without saying a word. The time has arrived, and I know I need to be standing outside that house at the end of Edgar Street—a house held up by the violence that occurs inside it almost every night.
    As I walk there, I realize I’m hurrying. I’ve had the success I felt I needed.
    Milla and Sophie.
    Now I have to face this.
     
    I turn onto Edgar Street, forming fists inside my jacket pockets. I check to see that no one’s watching me. With Milla and Sophie, I always felt at ease. They were the nice ones. There was practically no risk involved, unlike here, where all the answers seem to be painful ones. For the wife and the girl and for the husband. And me.
    Waiting, I pull a forgotten piece of chewing gum from my pocket and put it in my mouth. It tastes like sickness, like fear.
    The feeling escalates when the man comes down the road and walks up the porch steps. Silence moves closer then. It clips me, pushing past.
    It happens.
    The violence interferes. It sticks its fingers into everything and tears it open. It all comes apart, and I loathe myself for waiting this long to end it. I despise myself for taking the easy options night after night. A hatred is wound up and let go in me. It hacks at my spirit and brings it to its knees, next to me. It coughs and suffocates as my own hatred for myself becomes overwhelming.
    The door, I tell myself. Go to the door—it’s open .
    But I don’t move.
    I don’t move because my cowardice tramples me, even as I try to lift my spirit from its knees. It only keels over. It sways off to the side and hits the earth with a silent, beaten thud. It looks up at the stars. They’re stars that dribble across the sky.
    Go, I tell myself again, and this time, I walk on.
    Everything shakes as I walk up the porch steps and stand at the door. Distant clouds watch me, but they’re backing away. The world wants nothing to do with this. I don’t blame it.
    Inside, I hear them.
    He’s waking her in every moment.
    Disturbing her.
    Reaching through her and abandoning her at the same time.
    He throws her down and takes her and cuts her open. The bedsprings leak—a howling, desperate noise of falling down and springing up, even though they don’t want to. Refusal is pointless. Complaint has no use. Some crying crawls to the doorway where I stand. It hobbles out from the gap in the door and lands at my feet.
    How can you not go in? I ask myself, but still I wait.
    The door opens a little more, and a presence stands there now, opposite me. It’s the girl.
    The girl is in front of me, planting her fist in her eye to wrestle out the sleep that has lodged there. She wears yellow pajamas with red boats on them, and her toes curl and rub together.
    She looks at me, but without fear. Anything’s better than where she’s coming from.
    In a whisper, she asks, “Who are you?”
    “I’m Ed,” I whisper back.
    “I’m Angelina,” she says. “Are you here to save us?” I can see a tiny spark of hope awaken in her eyes.
    I crouch down to look at her properly. I want to tell her I am, but nothing comes out. I can see that the silence from my mouth has all but extinguished the hope she has conjured up. It’s almost gone when I finally speak. I look at her truthfully and say, “You’re right, Angelina—I’m here to save you.”
    She steps closer as it rekindles. “Can you?” she asks with surprise. “Really?” Even a girl of about eight years can see there’s