Free The Detour by S. A. Bodeen Page B

head slam. Instead, her hold on me loosened for a moment. Actually, so long a moment that I considered trying to shove Flute Girl off my arm and make a break for it. But then her weight was back on top of me. “I’m sick of listening to you talk,” said Mrs. Dixon.
    Good. I shut my eyes. Maybe she’ll leave.
    Something brushed against my forehead, and I opened my eyes. A pink washcloth with orange polka dots dangled in front of me.
    What the hell?
    With strong, cruel fingers, she pinched my cheeks so my mouth opened. I tried to keep my lips glued together. But she pried them open and stuffed the washcloth in my mouth.
    â€œNo!” But the word was a grunt as the cloth filled my mouth. I gagged. I wanted to scream.
    Breathe through your nose, breathe through your nose.
    â€œThere. Now maybe you’ll listen.”
    Calm down, calm down. She just wants to talk.
    Something smooth, cool, and hard slid down my cheek. Back up, then down. Languorously. Almost … seductively.
    The breaths coming out of my nose whistled.
    â€œIsn’t it funny, that one side of this is so smooth? Harmless. I could do this all day and nothing would happen to you.” The object kept stroking up and down my cheek.
    â€œBut the other side…”
    The coolness was no longer on my cheek.
    And then she held the third jagged piece of china in front of my eyes.
    I whimpered.
    And then the piece disappeared.
    â€œâ€¦ is so sharp.” The edge poked at my cheek.
    I gasped, only there was no air to breathe in my mouth, so it was just a rapid inhale through my nostrils. Again I gagged, then struggled and tried to move, but they had me.
    Slowly, the edge trailed down my cheek and back up.
    â€œImagine trying to do an author photo with a nice long scar.” She ran the edge back up and down.
    A chill ran down my neck, and goose bumps rose on my arms.
    Please don’t.
    â€œMaybe we should carve up this whole face.”
    Tears began to spill over. Don’t. Don’t.
    She ran the edge up and down my face. “Don’t worry; you could still write, couldn’t you? Because God forbid you wouldn’t be able to give the world any more of your fabulous novels. I mean, you worked so hard on them.”
    My strangled sobs were quiet groans, stuck in my throat.
    Mrs. Dixon pushed the edge into my cheek. “Should we start here?” She pushed, breaking the skin.
    An involuntary rush of warmth spread between my legs.
    Flute Girl was off me in an instant. “Mama, she peed herself!”
    â€œOh, balls!” Mrs. Dixon got off me, too, and stood beside Flute Girl. They stared down at me. I could imagine what they saw: a sobbing lump with a washcloth sticking out of my mouth, my face in the spaghetti mess, my leggings darkening as they soaked through.
    Mrs. Dixon shook her head and dropped the last piece of broken plate on the rest of the pile.
    Clink.
    She grabbed one of my feet and dragged me a few feet away from the mess. She quickly placed the remains into the wastebasket, no doubt making sure she’d taken every sharp piece out of my reach. They took the wastebasket and left without another word.
    Click!
    I ripped the washcloth out of my mouth and freed my sobs. I lay there and cried for my failed escape, for how they could hurt me like that and I could do nothing about it.
    They’d managed to turn me into someone I thought I’d left behind.
    I was Skunk Piss, once again.
    My hand slipped up to my scalp and began to pull. And slowly, hair by stinging hair, I began to feel a little better.

 
    {10}
    I LAY ON the floor until my sobs quieted. I lay there until the pounding kettledrum in my head throttled down to a tom-tom. I lay there until the light outside the window slowly faded. And then, only then—when I was in danger of being in that basement in total darkness—did I finally drag myself to my feet to turn on the bedside lamp.
    I sat on the edge of the bed.
    My