The man carries me back into the house like a sack of potatoes. I don’t make a sound or protest. I want to—but I don’t. It’s a learned reflex. There was a time when my father’s beatings were horrible. I was younger then; there was no getting away from them and no leaving. He punched me in the throat, repeatedly bruising the vocal chords and doing damage there. That was ten years ago. I haven’t spoken a word that anyone could hear since.

At first it was because I couldn’t. Now I can, though my voice sounds different and it’s hard to even make a whisper. I’ve kept that to myself, partly because I can’t be sure my father wouldn’t try again to make the damage more permanent, and partly because I’ve learned the quieter I am, the less attention people pay me, and there’s a certain amount of safety in that.

Now as the man carrying me puts me down and I face Marcum and the others, being quiet is easier than ever, because whatever words I might utter are drowned by the fear inside of me. I wring my hands together nervously and look Marcum in the eye.

I see a moment of surprise move across his face, but it quickly fades. Which is a shame, because it’s replaced by an intense look that unnerves me—probably because it is solely focused on me. I’ve seen Marcum in town. He’s even come into the diner while I worked, but I work in the back and he never saw me. I’ve always been more than a little fascinated by him—and a lot scared. He’s larger than life. People tend to talk more around me than normal, because they feel secure in knowing I can never tell their secrets—since I supposedly can’t talk. Yet, hardly anyone talks about Marcum, he gets that much respect—or fear. Still, I’ve seen him and though he has to be older than me—maybe by a lot—there’s something about him that intrigues me. He reminds me of Kris Kristofferson in looks, or maybe even Sam Elliot like he was in the movie Roadhouse. Tall, lanky, but still built, long hair that looks unkempt, but still manages to be sexy. A face that has seen miles, but somehow remains appealing. Lines and scars that tell a story all on their own. There are moments when he smiles or laughs with his men and those lines around his lips and eyes crinkle and I like it… I can’t even say why I like it—but I do.

Right now, however, his face scares me. This entire scene scares me. It feels as if he’s studying me. In my experience when a man looks at you that hard and for that long, good things don’t follow.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and my first instinct is to answer him. I almost feel compelled to do it… but I fight the instinct. His voice is dark and gravelly; it sounds like he smokes six packs a day and has for more years than I’ve been on the Earth. He probably has... I bite my lip, giving myself pain to concentrate on, rather than his intense stare. Silence fills the room. “I asked you a question, sweet thing,” he adds, and again I bite down the urge to answer.

“You can ask the bitch until the cows come home and her answer would be the same. She can’t talk,” my father explains and I can’t stop the hateful look I give him—especially since he’s the reason my voice is the way it is.

“You don’t like him much, do you?” Marcum questions, and too late I notice that his gaze never left my face. He sees the hate I didn’t bother to hide.

“She’s an ungrateful little bitch is what she is!” my father starts. He takes a step toward me, and I can’t stop the automatic reflex to step back, to get away from him. I hate that I do it, but it’s an instinct that has been born over years of abuse. Just because he hasn’t touched me since I got old enough to hit back doesn’t mean my body has forgotten the years before. Years when I was helpless to defend myself.

Marcum’s men grab my father before he can make it to me. I hold my body still, to keep from jumping back anyway.

“Why can’t she talk?” Marcum says, and I can’t help but think it’s not good that I’ve captured his attention. He stands in front of me, his hand drifting up to touch my hair. My breath stalls in my throat. His hand is huge and there are these silver rings on them that have skulls. His hand is also inked along the inside of the palm. When it spreads open I can see a tattoo of a skull with fiery red eyes.

“An accident.” My father shrugs, like it’s no big thing—and maybe to him it’s not. I don’t bother controlling my reaction to his words. I grab the first thing I find, which is a ceramic statue of a dragonfly sitting on a shelf where I’m standing. I grab it quickly and hurl it at my father. It crashes into his face. The men holding him duck as it bounces off of him and then crashes to the floor. “You bitch!” my father screams and lunges at me again. He almost gets to me right before Marcum’s men grab him tighter. I spit at him, because I can, because I hate him and because I figure I’m going to die today and when I do, I at least want the satisfaction of letting everyone know how much I hate my own father.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not getting the whole story here?” Marcum asks, pulling my attention back to him. I look up at him, my breathing hard because of my anger.

“Let me go and I’ll teach her some manners,” my father growls.

Marcum laughs, but it’s not a sound filled with joy. This laughter is dark, tainted… and it sends chills down my back. This is a man you shouldn’t get close to—a man you should run from. Which I would gladly do, if I could get free.

“You’re going nowhere, Weasel. In case you haven’t figured that out,” Marcum says. “Tie him up in the back, then burn it down,” Marcum orders.

I blink. He orders my father’s death so easily it takes my breath away. I knew it was coming and the man means nothing to me—not after everything he has put me through, yet somewhere still in the back of my mind is the thought that I should plead for my father’s life…

If I don’t, does that make me as bad as the rest of them?

“You can’t do that! You have to give me a chance here!” my father begs. I could tell Marcum it doesn’t matter how much my father begs, he’ll never make things right. My father is great at leaving people in the lurch… He’s great at hurting people. It’s kind of his specialty.

Marcum walks to my father, bends down and picks up the statue of the dragonfly that I threw earlier. It’s broken in two pieces, the actual base broken away from the statue itself. He drops the base back to the ground and holds the dragonfly, staring at it. His large hand nearly swallows up the piece. It was an old keepsake of my grandmother’s. I hate that I broke it, but I lashed out without thinking.

“What do you think, Dragonfly? Should I give him another chance?” he asks. At first I think he’s asking the statue, but when I look up his eyes are trained on me. I want to scream no, but I can’t bring myself to sign my father’s death warrant when it comes down to it. Before I was leaving my father to Marcum, but I wasn’t actually sticking around to see what happened. This feels different and I can’t find myself cruel enough to help make the decision to kill him. So, even though I know better, I nod my head yes.

“Marcum—” one of his own men starts to interrupt, but Marcum cuts him off.

“Your daughter thinks you’re worth sparing,” Marcum says, looking over at my father. “I wonder if she thinks you will actually pay me back, Weasel.”

“Of course she does! She knows I’ll pay you, Marcum. It’s just going to take a few days until my markers I called pay me back!”

“Well, Dragonfly? Will your old man pay me back?” His gaze focuses on me again. I start to shake my head yes, but he stops me. “Don’t lie to me now. I expect your father to lie. I’d like to think I can trust you—at least a little more than your old man.”

I rub my lips together. I want to say yes, but I don’t want to lie to Marcum. Lying to a man like him can be dangerous for the health. I spare one last glance at my father and read the warning in his eyes. I turn to look at Marcum and shake my head no.

I hear my father yelling and calling me names, but I tune it out, my face never leaving Marcum.

“She’s a lying cunt!” my father screams and my brain registers that, because some words can’t be ignored.

“You should watch your mouth. She’s saving your life,” Marcum warns.

My attention goes back to him as I hear my father question, “She is?”

“She’s buying you time, Weasel. Time for you to get my money.”

“I’ll get it! I promise! I’ll get it.”

“I don’t trust you. That’s why I’m taking collateral.”

“Collateral?”

“Something of yours to keep until you pay me back.”

“But, Marcum, I don’t have anything, man. If I did, I wouldn’t—”

“I’m taking your daughter,” he says and I shake my head back and forth in denial, which just makes Marcum smile. It’s a smile I don’t like.

“Load up, boys,” Marcum says, grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind him. “Remember, Weasel. If you don’t pay me back, there won’t be a rock big enough for you to hide under.”

I try to pull away from Marcum, but his grip on my wrist is like iron. No matter how hard I pull, I can’t get away. I glance off to the side, looking for help. There’s none to be found. The guy who carried me earlier has my bag thrown over his shoulder and he actually winks at me. I stop walking abruptly when I slide into Marcum’s back. He gets on his bike and looks up at me expectantly. It’s only then I realize he’s let go of my hand. I start to turn and run, but the man with my bag is standing right in front of me, not letting me move.

“Sorry, honey,” the guy says, and my gaze slowly raises to his smiling face.

“Hop on, Dragonfly, time to go to your new home,” Marcum says, and I want to scream no. Instead, I stand there looking at him and then I get on his bike.

I don’t have a choice.