The Stone Bitch

"Who does she think she is?"

An angry voice slices through the air the moment my foot enters the hall. I pause, the sharp click of my heel echoing in the sudden silence. I turn and let my gaze drift slowly over the woman, her face a little pale. Didn't mean to say that out loud, did she? My lips curve into a cold smirk. Oh, Who do I think I am? Let me answer that question for you, you bitch!

Four Years Old

Mummy used to sing happy songs in the kitchen. Now, the kitchen is always quiet, and quiet was scary, especially at night.

I scrubbed the stove, my small hands working to scrape away years of stuck-on bacon grease. The iron sponge bit into my fingers, already raw with blisters, but I kept scrubbing, my legs on tiptoes to reach the farthest corners. I had to finish before Daddy came home, before he got mad. Mummy was supposed to clean it earlier, but she'd gone out for groceries and hadn't come back. She'd been acting weird and fidgety. She even slapped me when I asked to go with her, a first—only Daddy had ever hit me. Afterwards, she had cried and apologized, so I forgave her. I knew she didn't mean to anyway, Daddy usually said I was too nosy for my own good. I stood beside the big lollipop she'd given me money for, half-eaten, the rest saved and hidden under my pillow for us to share. Daddy didn't like me eating sweets. I just hoped she'd be back before he was.

That night, I stood at the window, straining to see the telltale signs of her old car. It was rusted and made a funny noise, and Daddy always yelled about it, but she never changed it. When I asked her why, she said Granddaddy had given it to her as a sign of his love. Daddy had never given me anything! What did that mean? I watched the street, praying and hoping for her to return soon. But she never came back.

Only Daddy came home that night.

Fourteen Years Old

His fists were heavier now, his anger quicker. The bruises lasted longer, and some mornings, I couldn't get out of bed, convinced a bone had snapped. To be fair, this usually happened around the time Mom left us. I wanted to be angry at her for leaving, for abandoning me, but each night as I looked at my bruised body, I liked to imagine she was somewhere safe, even if I wasn't.

I lay in bed, trying to summon the strength to go downstairs and clean up the broken glass and bottles. He'd broken so many; it was a miracle we still had any glass left to shatter. A loud thud jolted me upright. A rat, maybe? Then I heard him swear, the sharp crack of his knee hitting the jutting corner of the living room stool. My heart hammered. He was early! He wasn't supposed to be home until eight!

"Monaaaaaaaa…" The slurred way he dragged out my name told me he was very, very drunk. Oh God! I couldn't stay here. He'd kill me when he saw the broken glass.

Slowly, I pushed myself off the thin mattress on the floor, the only bed I had since he'd broken the frame as a punishment and never bothered to replace it.

Then came the crunch of glass. "Son of a bitch! Monaaaaaaaaa… Come down here right now, whore!" I frantically scanned my room. Going downstairs was out of the question. Staying quiet wouldn't work; he'd just come up and find me. I had to act fast. My eyes landed on the single window. We lived in a one-story house. Other people could jump down easily, but I was terrified of heights. His footsteps thundered on the stairs. I rushed to lock the door, thanking God he hadn't taken it yet. He'd considered it, but hadn't. Thank God.

I fumbled with the window lock, my fingers slick with sweat. The window was small, but I was smaller, thanks to malnourishment. He was at my door now, fumbling with the knob. "Mona, baby, open the door. I just want to talk." His voice was gentle, a sickeningly familiar attempt to trick me into believing he wasn't mad. I'd played this game too many times.

I fumbled again, and this time, a click echoed, amplified by the frantic beat of my heart. "Mona! Open this damn door!" His voice, thick with liquor and rage, vibrated through the thin wood. I didn't dare answer. Maybe by morning, he'd have forgotten the details, or at least be too hungover to care. But for now, I was getting out of here! 

I yanked the window open and peered outside. It was daytime, making everything visible, but no less terrifying. It was a long drop, and the thought of landing awkwardly, possibly breaking my neck, sent a wave of nausea through me. I wasn't ready to die yet.

"You're going to be very sorry, Mona! I said, open the door!" He pounded harder, the thin wood splintering slightly. Any harder and the door would shatter, leaving me with no protection at all. I climbed onto the windowsill, my bare feet finding a precarious grip. The ground seemed miles away. I closed my eyes, took a shaky breath, and whispered, "Please, let me land safely."

And jumped.

The impact was jarring, a sharp pain shooting through my shoulders and ankles. I looked down and saw my arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Broken. Black dots instantly swam before my eyes, and I stumbled, reaching out with my good arm to catch myself. I wanted to collapse right there, but I had to run. I shook my head, gritting my teeth to stifle a scream, and stumbled into the bushes.

The thorns scratched and tore at my skin. At one point, I hit my injured arm against a tree, screaming from the agony, nearly fainting, but I pushed through. My only goal was to put as much distance as possible between myself and that house. I could hear his enraged shouts and curses growing fainter as I ran. I didn't stop until my lungs burned and my legs threatened to give out.

I found myself at the edge of the woods, the trees a dark, impenetrable wall. I leaned against a thick oak, careful of my arm, and gasped for air. I had no idea where I was going, no plan, no money. Just the clothes on my back and the burning need to survive.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me, and I sank to the ground, the rough bark digging into my back. I closed my eyes, trying to think. I had to find somewhere safe, somewhere I could get medical treatment without being asked questions.

I breathed in and out, trying to calm myself. Just one more day. One more day, and then I was out.

Thirty-Four Years Old

I felt the whispers as I walked through the gala, a tangible hum of judgment and resentment. I was sure I saw the mayor's wife sneer as I passed. I didn't blame her; if my husband had been forced to give up the house he promised me because of tax evasion, I'd be pissed too.

I spotted Desiree across the room and headed towards her, my black dress swishing with each step. She was my closest friend and business partner; I wouldn't be half as successful without her.

She smiled, a wolfish grin that somehow made it seem like she had too many teeth and countless tricks up her sleeve. It unnerved others, but I didn't mind. It was excellent for scaring our enemies.

I reached her, interrupting her conversation with a beady-eyed senator named Joe. She turned to me, completely ignoring whatever he was saying. I saw him sneer, and my smile widened. What a joy to be able to look down on your enemies. "Careful with that expression, Senator. I still hold all your dear secrets close to my heart." He paled, bowed stiffly, and walked off.

The haughty laugh I heard only widened my smile, and I turned to face my friend. "Be careful, Mona; one of these days, he's going to retaliate." I looked down at her. At 5'10", I already towered over most people, and wearing four-inch heels made me feel like a giant. I loved it though, when businessmen tried to assert dominance and failed miserably when they realized they didn't even reach my shoulders. It did wonders for my ego. "He could try, but he would certainly fail," I responded, my eyes trailing over the room, relishing the way some seemed to shrink from my gaze. In a room of a hundred people, I had blackmailed ninety-five, and I felt no remorse. They all deserved it and even if they didn't, what's done was done anyway.

I knew what they called me—heard whispers of "the stone bitch," how they seemingly hated me and wished me dead. And yet, I knew many of those same men sought to sleep with me, to boast they had tamed the wolf. How ironic that I would gobble them up instead.

"Do you think they know what the party is for?" Desiree asked, curling a lock of red hair around her finger. We looked at each other and smiled.

These people might hate me and wish me dead, but at the end of the day, they believed I acted on orders, that I had a master—Desiree—to put me on a leash.

So to the woman who wants to know exactly who the hell I am? She was about to find out.