As she laughed with her friends at lunch, she wondered:

Would they still want to be my friends if they knew?

What would they say if they found out?
Where would I go? What would I do?

Her heartbeat thumped as if elephants pranced on her chest.

His navy blue car felt like suffocation and it pulled into the driveway.

I am not making it this time. He is finally going to have had enough of me.

How do I hide from him this time?

She tripped around the room trying to find a hiding spot, or at least an excuse.

His footsteps trudged up the stairs and she knew she was done for.

She managed to dodge the unwanted questions her friends provided.

“What are those scars?”
“What are those bruises?”
“Why do you have makeup on your arms and legs?”

If only they knew.

Blood was shed, he hit harder.

Bones broke, he wouldn’t stop.

“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I fell off my bike.”

Her cast sticks out like a sore thumb.

They are going to ask. 

They won’t believe I fell. 

How do I tell them the truth?

Tears pooling in her eyes, she thought about what would happen when she admits the truth.

Will he beat me to death?

Will anyone even do anything about it?
What if they don’t believe me?

She wrote and wrote and rewrote her speech to come clean.

“My cuts and bruises are from my father.”

Silence.

They think I’m making this up, don’t they?

“We will always help you.”

A blanket of relief surrounded me.

They believed me, they really did.

They are helping me.

“He will never touch you again.”