I hesitated. To speak was to break the cardinal rule of the Carter household. To speak meant the laundry room. It meant the cold showers. It meant the agonizing, gnawing emptiness of the ‘silent days’. I swallowed the lump of terror lodged in my throat. I gave a single, microscopic nod.
Dr. Grant and Nurse Ruiz exchanged a silent, loaded glance.
“What happened?” Melissa pressed gently.
The dam shattered. The words bled out of me in jagged fragments. “They told me I should be grateful. They said I was a charity case and nobody else wanted me. If I cry, they take away my dinner. If I complain, they promised they would send me to a place much worse than them.”
I reached down with trembling fingers and pushed back the oversized sleeve of my hospital gown, exposing a tapestry of fading yellow and purple contusions wrapped around my forearm. “They lock me inside the laundry room when the guests arrive.”
