A Sinners Gamble

                                                                   Daisy’s Prologue

                                                                      2 Years Ago

Time moved too fast on some days and unbearably slow on others. It was my enemy, my reluctant friend. Mostly, it was against me. I never had enough of it.

Sometimes it helped me dodge an insult or a belt. Other days, it failed me completely—leaving me trapped when I heard the rumble of his run-down car pulling into the driveway.

Time.

As I sit on a plastic bench in the airport, the cold biting into my thighs, my phone ringing pulls me out of my stupor. I don’t dare answer it. I don’t want to hear him spit more venom my way. It’s been a problem for years.

When I pull it out of my pocket, I stare at the house phone number flashing on the screen. Every time this happens—every time I’ve spent nights in the hospital with injuries from him—my skin crawls, and I want to cry out. To tell someone.

I did once. They told me it would be okay, to just hang in there. They lied. It was never okay.

No one could save me from his wrath. No one with a clear conscience, anyway.

The screen keeps flashing, reminding me that he still has a hold on my life. The last thing I need right now is to be reminded that he still pulls the strings—treating me like his own personal marionette doll—even as I try to pull myself away from New York. What’s described as the city of dreams is more like the city of fucking nightmares. My nightmares.

A sigh of relief escapes me when the phone stops ringing—but it’s short-lived. It flashes again.

I answer but don’t speak. I don’t know what to say to the man on the other end. I want to laugh, because the pissed-up bastard doesn’t seem to know that I’m sitting in an airport, about to escape him. I want to cry, but I learned to hide my tears long ago. And I want to scream, but the twisted monster got a kick out of my screams of pain. I want someone to hear me, but I want to hide at the same time.

“Wherever the fuck you are, get back here!” His voice slurs—a sound I have heard one too many times. When the alcohol wears off, he will realize I haven’t come back—and I never will. I won’t allow myself to be his punching bag any longer. The quicker he learns it, the better.

“Do you hear me, child?”

I hear him perfectly. I’ve heard every insult, every threat, every fake and practiced apology when he needed something, and every word he’s hurled at me over and over again. And yet, here I am—still listening, trying to steady my breathing while my heartbeat pounds in my ears.

He doesn’t deserve the title of father. He is the worst of humankind. And yet… here I am, once again, still feeling guilty about leaving.

Instead of responding, I hang up and block the number. The phrase Do you hear me, child? makes my skin crawl. I’m twenty-four years old. I haven’t been a child for a long time. Even then, I was never allowed to be one.

He denied me friends lest they see the bruises, but more than that, he denied me freedom. So I stayed alone, lived a solitary existence, and learned to survive.

My phone vibrates again. An incoming text message from him. I choke back the panic as I read it, swallowing the sob as it tries to escape.

Jerry: If you think you can hide from me girl think agen. I own you an when you get back here youll be sorry. You kno what hapens when you disapoint me.

I can’t decide what’s more insane—him reminding me that I’m a disappointment even though it’s always been him; him figuring out that I’m heading to London; or him saving money for a plane ticket instead of pouring it down his throat. He’s always made sure I should be terrified of him, but with his unstable, drunken ass, I should be able to outrun him.

Memories spiral, trapping me in the past. They remind me of everything he’s done, and I can’t escape the feeling of being trapped inside my own head any longer. He was supposed to be my biggest protector—to love me unconditionally and teach me everything I needed to know to be a good human being. Instead, he taught me nothing but silence, pain, and caution.

I learned from a young age which floorboards creaked and which ones would hold my lightweight frame as I climbed the stairs. I learned how to stay invisible. He preferred it that way. No part of him would have cared if anything happened to me. I was just his useless child—a burden that took away his drinking money on the rare occasions he had to buy food or clothes to stop people from getting suspicious.

“Flight 189 from New York International, traveling to London. Please proceed to boarding gate 15. I repeat—”

Snapping back into focus, I gather my small luggage and make my way to the gate, silently praying this doesn’t backfire—that I manage to survive. Saying my mantra over and over again should be enough to give me the strength to carry on. To let go. To eventually be free.

Breathe.

Survive.

I’ve survived all these years. Another decade—or three—won’t do me any harm.