Free Episode One: Look Back in Anger by S.N. Graves

Ferrah
    Wozo missed his eyes—the little shiny buttons Mother had sewn back on so many times before. There was no mother to sew now, or to patch up the tears in his ragged hide. No one to bandage Ferrah’s wounds either. No kisses to make the pain go away. She and Wozo were on their own in the frigid damp of the basement.
    “Shh, you’re fine. There’s nothing to see anyway,” Ferrah whispered to her mangled friend in the darkness. She clutched Wozo to her chest and rocked away his fears and sadness as her mother had once done for both of them.
    “Bet you’re cold, huh?” She certainly was, but the Connor boys had cut off most of Wozo’s fur when they took his eyes. All he had left to keep him warm was her desperate embrace and the strip of duct tape she’d used to reattach his arm. Setting the bear in her lap, she pulled off the threadbare baby blanket from her shoulders. Besides Wozo, it was the only thing she’d been allowed to take with her to the Connor house. She swaddled the bear with it, then brought him back to her chest.
    “Better?”
    The bear didn’t reply. He never did these days.
    The basement was silent save for the occasional hiss from the water heater she’d settled them against. She imagined it must have been late evening, for the tank hadn’t kicked on in quite some time, and so the Connor boys had probably already been fed, bathed, and tucked into their beds above her. She remembered dinners—SpaghettiOs and mac ’n’ cheeses. She remembered warm baths and kisses good night, but the longer she sat in darkness, the less she could remember her mother’s face, her smell, the soft caress of her hand across her cheek before she’d leave Farrah snuggled in her bed at night. Her mother’s scent had long abandoned Wozo, and her skin was so cold and raw most of the time the very thought of being touched made her cringe.
    She drifted in and out of sleep, the chill in the air biting her awake and making her shift and bury her face against Wozo to escape it. It was a wasted effort; the ice that crusted the blacked-out windows high above her had sunk deep into her bones as well. She couldn’t sleep, and so fell into a zombielike awareness that left her staring into the darkness.
    Until the door at the top of the stairs cracked open and a shaft of light forced her to squeeze her eyes shut and turn toward the wall.
    “You keeping her in a basement?” The voice was male, unfamiliar.
    “Have to keep our boys safe. The little beast is dangerous.” Mrs. Connor. She sounded tired, angry, like she did anytime she came downstairs.
    “Scrawny li’l ting as she, how dangerous she be?”
    Mrs. Connor snorted. “That’s what it wants you to think. The little bitch is vicious. It tore a hunk out of my Jimmy’s arm, and look here.” She stopped halfway down the stairs, flipped on the overhead light, and pulled up the hem of her pink floral nightgown to show off a stout, hairy leg marred with bites and scratches. “Don’t let it get ahold of you, or you might lose important bits.”
    “ Merci, cher. I keep it in mind.” The man left the steps and crossed the floor to crouch in front of Ferrah, tipping the end of his hat in greeting. She’d seen people do that before, in some of the old westerns her father used to watch with her when Mom was out. It was supposed to be welcoming, polite. Ferrah wasn’t convinced.
    Many men had come down to see her since she’d been put in the basement. Most made the Connor boys and their touching and taunts seem friendly. They wore suits or dark jackets, all with severe scowls and bruising hands. This one was more clown, all smiles and funny clothes. His long trench coat was a bright purple splash against the gray backdrop of her prison, the brim of his hat wide enough to serve as a turkey platter. Turkey. She missed turkey. Any food, really. All she’d had in the past few days, maybe so much as a week, was the occasional candy bar tossed down the steps to her by