Free The Detour by S. A. Bodeen Page A

mention painfully, I made my way across the bed.
    Slide right hand. Right knee. Left knee.
    Breathe.
    â€œI try and teach my own daughter to be honest and work hard and good things will happen. She works so hard at her flute.”
    Slide right hand. Right knee. Left knee .
    Breathe.
    â€œThat should be enough in this country. Work hard. Do all the right things. Everything should be okay.” She sighed. “But I don’t want her to turn out like me. Working at a nursing home. Giving sponge baths to old people who can’t even remember my name from day to day.”
    Slide right hand—
    I leaned forward too fast and lost my balance, falling forward onto my right elbow. The mattress jiggled. I stifled a gasp and scrunched my eyes shut.
    Please please please …
    â€œI had a dream. I had a dream, and it was taken away. I don’t want that to happen to her.”
    I slowly let out my breath and opened my eyes.
    She was still cleaning up, oblivious to me.
    Right knee. Left knee.
    Breathe.
    I paused, gazing down at that patch of pale skin. Then I lowered myself until I knelt on the edge of the bed, my weight distributed so that I was balanced solidly.
    I leaned over and raised my good arm, poised above her.
    One good jab, that’s all it would take.
    I didn’t have to kill her, only create enough pain to startle her, distract her enough to be able to get out the door and lock it. Then I’d deal with Flute Girl.
    â€œBecause sometimes all the hard work and honesty in the world doesn’t mean a damn thing if someone else is dishonest and uses…”
    I shut out her babble and licked my lips. Just one good jab.
    I swallowed and tightened my grip.
    You can do this.
    My heart raced. I steeled myself, poised to pounce—
    â€œMAMA!” Flute Girl stood in the doorway, eyes wide, arm thrust out, pointing at me.
    I lost my balance and fell forward.
    Before I went even a foot, Mrs. Dixon grabbed my wrist and yanked me all the way off the bed. I slammed face-first onto the floor.
    The breath was knocked out of me, and a fresh bolt of pain shot through my shoulder. I hung on tight to that jagged piece of plate.
    To no avail. Mrs. Dixon was on my back, pinning me to the floor. She put a hand on my head and smashed one side of my face into the bits of plate and spaghetti sauce smeared on the floor. Her knee crushed my wrist, and I couldn’t hold on anymore. My fingers opened. I let the weapon go.
    Her knee lifted, and I tried to lash out with my good arm.
    Something immediately pinned it down. Something warm and squirming and alive. Flute Girl was sitting on my arm. I couldn’t use my slung-up arm to move myself. I could only lie there, panting, my heart pounding so hard it drummed in my ears.
    Mrs. Dixon left for a second. There was a rustle of bed-covers. Then her legs came into view.
    â€œYou had quite a stash.”
    Clink.
    A piece of the broken plate landed in the wastebasket.
    Clink .
    Another.
    Then her weight was back on top of me. The two of them had me immobilized. My shoulder was on fire, and my cheek stung where broken bits of the plate dug into it.
    Mrs. Dixon’s breath on my ear was hot and moist. “Did you really think I’d let you hurt me or my daughter?”
    I said nothing.
    Flute Girl piped up, “She could have killed you.”
    Mrs. Dixon grabbed my hair and pulled up my head. She slammed it down again, my forehead hitting the green indoor/outdoor carpet—and the cement it barely cushioned—like a sledgehammer.
    I moaned at the thick surge of pain.
    Her mouth was back at my ear. “How would you feel? How would you feel if someone tried to hurt you?”
    â€œJust kill me already.” A mumble only. I wanted to yell the words, wanted to scream them. But my head was splitting apart, and it was all I could do to talk. “You’ve been trying to kill me since you found me on the road.”
    I braced myself for another