Paranoia

8

8.

8 was her number.

But before it was her number, it was his.

Eight brutal whips to her thighs with his belt.

Eight minutes using her body when she was eight years old.

Eight hours laying in what would be her grave, if she ever told a soul about it.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight." She whispered to herself as she locked her door eight times over.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."
She whispered again, as she took the eight steps from her door to her bed.

Eight deep breaths as she drifted off to sleep, finding comfort in the numbers, as they were her only source of stability for as long as she could remember.

That's why she swung the axe eight times, and buried his body eight feet under her bedroom floor.

She was methodical with the entire plan, carefully weighing her options. She could tell someone, but who would she tell? Her mother died during childbirth. Her father raised her alone, never so much as sending her to school. And the risk of her being caught was too high, the fear of him making good on his promise to bury her in her self dug grave was enough to keep her from that. She could see her rotting body being delved by maggots, never to be found in an unmarked grave somewhere in a forgotten Virginia holler.

Her only option was to kill him, and once she did she couldn't go for help. What if they didn't believe her? What if they sent her away to the place for bad kids he often spoke of? No. She was alone. Truly, alone.

She spent two more years being abused by her father. But in those two years, she watched from a distance. She watched what he did around the farm, and learned. Learned so she could survive. Sticking every move to her memory until she felt confidently that she could do it in her sleep. And two years later, when she felt comfortable enough, she snuck out to the butcher house and grabbed an axe. She tiptoed quietly through the house as time stood still. The bugs outside were silenced. The floorboards didn't dare give even the smallest squeak. All she could hear was her heart pounding in her ears, her own breath burning her throat.

She counted her heartbeat.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

She approached him, quietly. Her blood boiling under her skin, her face red hot, ears beginning to ring. She let out a brutal cry as she swung the axe down on him the first time, blood hitting the walls and her face as his chest cracked open.

She swung again, blindly, as she sobbed violently. Counting each one until she'd forced his fate eight times with that axe.

A blood covered baptism as she was reborn with freedom.

A tormented freedom, as she was awoken by eight taps under her floor.