Free Harmony House by Nic Sheff Page B

unfamiliar bed, under unfamiliar sheets and blankets, with unfamiliar smells all around me.
    My eyes start to close and I hear someone whisper . . . “Good night.”
    It’s my mother’s voice, but I’m too tired to care.
    It’s all in my mind, I tell myself, anyway.
    And I start to drift off.
    And in the coming of sleep, I have a strange dream—or a strange vision.
    It enters my brain like a long nail being driven in deeper and deeper and then deeper still.
    The pain is searing.
    But I don’t resist it.
    I see:
    At a dining room table—set with fine china and crystal glasses, a silver candelabra hung with glittering jewels, and a centerpiece of red and yellow dahlias—a family sits rigidly in their straight-backed chairs. They do not speak.
    The little girl, no more than seven or eight years ofage, wears a white dress trimmed with lace and black ankle boots. Her inky black hair is combed back behind her ears, which stick out a little on either side. A silver-and-pearl brooch is pinned to her chest. As she picks up her glass to drink, her vivid blue eyes catch the light. Her pupils reflect the candle’s flame.
    Next to the girl, at the head of the table, her father sits eating with perfect poise and delicacy. He cuts his lamb into tiny pieces and chews the meat slowly and deliberately. He has a broad face with burning blue eyes like his daughter’s. His nose is sharp and angular.
    Across from the little girl, her mother sits drinking wine from a crystal glass, the fine lines around her small mouth like a wood etching.
    Rain falls against the windows.
    The sound like static.
    At the table, the father puts down his fork and knife, then takes a drink from his burgundy-colored wine. “Why, do you know that today I received a letter from General Grant himself?”
    He turns to look at his daughter. She freezes. A wan smile spreads across the father’s face, his teeth white, but crooked. Beneath the table, he puts his hand on his daughter’s knee.
    â€œYou all right, dear?”
    His hand tightens on her.
    Her breath catches.
    Sweat breaks out on her forehead.
    She shivers.
    Her mother averts her eyes.
    The girl holds her breath.
    And then her father removes his hand.
    He returns to his plate.
    And the girl’s legs begin to shake.
    A thud hits the floor at the foot of my bed, tearing me out of the strange dream. I gasp and sit up, alert suddenly, scrambling to turn on the bedside lamp.
    â€œWho’s there?” I say.
    I grab the covers up all around me and blink my eyes.
    Someone is moving through the room.
    From off the floor the figure rises up—big, swaying arms stretched out toward me.
    His blond-brown hair is sticking up, matted on one side—his eyes unfocused. He rocks back and forth.
    â€œThis place looks different from last time,” he says, strangely calm.
    It’s Alex.
    He stares at me with those glazed eyes, jaw slack, for what feels like a very long time.
    Then he bends down in my face. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
    â€œNow, you listen to me. You listen like a good little girl.”
    He grabs my arm tight as I try to move away.
    â€œI tried to be good to you. And now you’re going to be nice to me. You’re going to be nice—”
    My heart beats loud in my ears. Fast—before I can move—he climbs onto the bed, his legs pinning me down.
    â€œStop! Stop it,” I say, my voice finally working.
    He grabs at my hair. Holds it tight in his fist, then shifts his weight to press his stinking lips on mine, but there is enough room for me to knee him between his legs.
    â€œFuck you!” I say now, the words clear and forceful. I feel a strength rising up from the very center of me like a fire catching and consuming my body, and I knee him hard between the legs.
    He groans and clutches himself and rolls off the bed.
    I bolt from the room and run out into the hall.
    â€œDAD!” I scream.