I’m not sure how long my stepfather had been abusing me. The time prior to the accident was a complete blur, and probably always would be. When I first saw Roger in my hospital room afterwards, I didn’t know who he was…

…But I knew that I was very afraid.

I was high on morphine the first night he came to my bedside, my mind firmly half in and half out of this world. It would be weeks before I could talk, and months before I’d take my first walk across the hospital room. Maybe he thought I was damaged forever… Maybe he thought I wouldn’t remember, or that I didn’t realize what was happening to me. The sick fuck thought he could get away with it.

The bastard did what evil men always do.

He took advantage.

Thank god that I was in a moderately monitored hospital room. Nurses were in and out, keeping a lazy eye on me but never around enough to rattle his confidence. Still, I knew that if I’d gone into outpatient care at home, he probably would have been far more dangerous.

But that still didn’t stop him from doing what he could get away with. He saw me. He sometimes took pictures of me. He touched me, splintering my fragile, drugged mind into shattered, dirty pieces.

My memories didn’t ever really come back, and I know it’s because of him. My bastard stepfather descended upon me while my brain was trying to put everything back together. If I hadn’t been so focused on forgetting what he was doing to me, maybe I would have pulled my former life back... but while the memories were gone, so too were most of the nights that he came to visit me, his mind sick with desire.

He didn’t leave marks. No tell-tale hickies pocked my skin, and no scratches or obvious signs of abuse were left for the right nurse to discover.

I kept quiet. I was too weak. When I started to show signs of life, he made one thing very clear. If I told anyone about our relationship, he’d kill me.

The safety of the hospital couldn’t last forever. Roger made it crystal clear how much my medical bills cost this family, and how I was going to repay the debt…

However, I got a lucky break.

At the time, Roger worked as a roundabout on a freighter. The life was rough, paid very well, and took him away for small stretches: three weeks on, one week off. It just so happened that my first night back coincided with an off-season shift too lucrative for him to pass up, and so he couldn’t bring his sexual tension with me to its inevitable conclusion.

Mom kept me on my anxiety medication. She told me that I babbled “nonsense” about abuse while I was under, but I couldn’t blame her for not taking me seriously. After all, people say crazy stuff under medication… even if sometimes it’s dangerously true.

From the beginning, I started fighting the effects the drugs had on me. In brief moments of clarity, I knew that the clock was ticking, and I’d have no strength to fight him when he finally came back for me. By the time his last week was almost over, my strength was enough that I could concentrate… and I knew what I had to do.

While Mom was gone, driving hours away to the docks to pick him back up, I sprang into action. I’d packed my breakaway bag, snuck into her room and stole away my identification and my prescription refill – just in case.

I abandoned that place in the dead of night. With my anxiety temporarily out of the picture, thanks to the drugs, I could pull back some of my former memories. There was a place, in the back of my head, somewhere safe and secure… a place called Riverton. Somehow, I knew that there was refuge there, and from that I could figure the rest out along the way.

I hitchhiked towards it, eventually coming across Old Greg. He seemed startled to see such a young girl on the road in the night, but something in the old man endeared him to me. While he treated me to late dinner at a diner, I broke down in tears, leaving out most of the details.

I didn’t tell him I had been sexually abused.

But I told him that I had been in an accident, that I couldn’t remember much of who I was, and that my family was dangerous. That I would die before I let myself go back there.

He took pity on me, putting me up in his bar…

Old Greg would be so angry if he knew I came back here, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of looking him in the eye after the way I’d left. He was so kind to me… Kinder than I ever deserved. Maybe I’d head out there in a few weeks once I’d settled in. He deserved an apology.

“You going to eat, or just sit there thinking?”

Mom had brought me a bowl of chips and some ranch dressing. I hadn’t so much as touched it since I’d come to the table.

“Go ahead and eat up,” Mom smiled. “After you’re done, go pretty yourself up, company’s coming.”

That pit came back into my stomach. I’d been worried about that all afternoon… it had been a festering feeling, eating away inside me.

But I knew better than to cross Mom.

She had taken me back in.

She had given me a roof, and food.

Well… I looked down at the plate. Some food.

“Hurry up in there,” mom shouted.

“Okay, Mom,” I answered, forcing a cheerful smile across my face.

“Thanks a ton, Hon,” she answered.

After that, I was left in the quiet.

The crunching of the chips shattered the silence with every crispy bite. Agonizing, piercing chomps controlled my attention, ringing out in the quiet like a rhythmic, mounting growl of danger.

When I was done, I set the dish in the sink and found Mom. She was sitting in a recliner, watching some old silent film on the living room TV.

“Over there,” she motioned with a wrist.

I followed her gesture and lifted a package off of an end table. It wasn’t particularly large or heavy, but it seemed ominous to me.

“Bring that over here.”

I did as I was told.

Mom raised her saggy arm, muted the television, and turned to face me.

“Open it up.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand? I got you a present.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

So I nodded, pulling the tape off the box and opening it up. Turning it over, a small orange bottle fell into my hand.

“See there? Momma’s gonna take care of you doll. I got you your medicine.”

I turned the bottle over, eyeing the little pink pills inside. I hadn’t seen these things in years.

“I know how anxious you get… The depression. All those panic attacks? You’ve been so high strung since you came back, dear.”

“I don’t like the way these things make me feel, mom. They make me a zombie.”

“I don’t want any back talk. We have company tonight and you’re going to be on your best behavior. You take two of those or you can get out,” she said, pointing toward the door.