What Lies Beneath the Skin

Prologue

The Escape

Hayden

His truck engine roared to life, filling the empty silence of morning air with a violent, gear churning hum. I waited against the basement door with my ear pressed to the wood, sweat slipping down my temple in pools that hit my bare shoulder. “Just a few more seconds… Just a few more seconds…” I whispered to myself, my breaths hurried pants as they escaped my parted lips. His tires began crunching the old gravel that filled out driveway, accompanied by the loud beeping that utility trucks made when they backed up. The beeping carried through the wind from the end of the driveway, and as soon as it was nothing but a distant memory, I clawed for a rock I had found in the back corner of the basement.

The rock came down on the door handle over and over, crunching the cheap gold doorknob until it cracked off. The handle hit the stair beside me and bounced down the creaking wooden steps until it landed on the concrete floor; I stared at it for a full beat before throwing the rock down after it, and my shoulder into the wooden door. The door heaved before finally opening, allowing me my first look at sunlight in a week to pour through the opening. I had to shield my eyes from the intense burn of the rays, but quickly caught my bearings so I could limp from the basement steps into my bedroom.

Mom was nowhere to be found at first; I checked every room I could, but eventually found her passed out on her bed. She had a half-drunk cup of coffee on the bedside table and a bottle of sleeping pills beside it, with her fine ginger hair cascaded over her face to hide it from me. I was glad I couldn’t see her face; it probably would have broken my confidence, and now was not the time to second guess myself. I knew she would be out for a while, so I closed the door, bit my lip against the urge to wake her, and darted into my bedroom.

I danced in circles on the stained carpet as I forced a sweatshirt and jeans on, lacing my sneakers as fast as possible. I chose a pair I wore often and prayed they would hold up to the long walk I had ahead of me. My backpack was quickly filled with whatever I could think of, whatever I thought would be important enough to bring with me: my I.D., birth certificate, social security card, two outfits, and a few personal belongings I truly couldn’t leave behind. I stuffed the bag until the zipper screamed when I closed it, then rushed into the bathroom in search of something to wrap my bleeding hand with. The bleeding had started again from my rapid movements, and I knew it wouldn’t stop unless I found some peroxide and a wrap to keep it together.

The peroxide burned like a mother as I doused my open wounds with it; I bit down on my sweatshirt collar as I drenched the wounds, heaving hard cries of agony into the cotton in case Mom didn’t take as many pills as I thought today. The last thing I wanted was for her to wake up right now. I wound my fingers in place, enough to keep them out of the way, and stuck the remainder of the roll far back in the closet so he wouldn’t know I had found it. My tape job was half-assed but did the trick for the time being.

Back in my room, I found the printout of instructions I had made at the local library a few months ago, as if I had known I would need them today. The stapled instructions were stained pink with the residue of my bloodied hands, but I could still make out the Google Maps bullet points I tried to memorize. The route was straightforward; take the local bus as far as I could, then walk ten miles to the main station in Pittsburgh. Maybe I could hitchhike to the bus stop, but at that moment, I didn’t care whatsoever about the walk. All I wanted was to escape, to get as far from this hell hole as I could, and I would deal with the rest once I was on the bus.

The bathroom window had been nailed shut years ago, much like the rest of the windows in the house, to prevent Mom or I from escaping. Luckily, I had spent a few weeks chipping away at the nails, loosening them bit by bit whenever I showered so he wouldn’t notice the difference. I was able to wrench the nails out with a butter knife fairly quickly, and once I shoved the window upright, I gave the house one last look over my shoulder. I mouthed a soft, “I love you, Mom…” to the open door opposite the window, prayed she would forgive me, then hurled myself out of the window with all my might.

Once I jumped the window, there would be no turning back; with he and his friends at work until five, no one would be around to follow me down the dirt roads, to drag me back home when I was inevitably seen walking down the uneven sidewalks. If I could just make it to that second bus stop, I could finally get out of Dubois once and for all.

The fall was shorter than I thought, and luckily, I landed on a bushel of wildflowers growing alongside the house. My ankle screamed when I hit the ground, but otherwise, cooperated enough for me to catch my bearings. I threw my bag over my shoulder, slammed the window shut, then took off through the line of trees behind our house, an attempt to conceal myself from any prying eyes I hadn’t considered earlier.

As I raced through the trees tears swept down my cheeks, for so many reasons I could barely wrap my head around them. This was only the beginning of a long journey, and if I kept my head up, hopefully the one that would save my life.