Lying in bed tonight, I pull my sketchbook out from under the bed and open it to a blank page. I have to be real sure that He’s not going to come anywhere near here that way He won’t know I’m drawing—or He’ll both take everything away and garbage my work and punish me before Mother wakes up.

But He’s asleep right now, so I’m safe. I just have to listen for Him.

My hands finish the strokes across the paper and I look down at what I’ve accomplished. It’s a sketch of a girl, naked with scars and bruises everywhere—one big bruise between her legs. She has plain grey duct tape over her mouth that reads SILENCE in big bold, scratchy letters and there are cuffs on her ankles, chained into the floor. Right in front of her is what looks like blood—the only thing in color—writing out the word TRAPPED.

That girl is me, and those words are the words I will someday show the world so they know they let someone they could have helped go through all seven or ten or whatever levels of Hell and back.

***

I sit down in drama again, and see the new kid headed towards the seat diagonal from me. See, my drama class seats are set in four-lined E’s—there’s one written the right way and one that is backwards and between them is an aisle for both us and Mrs. Parch to walk through. I’m at the very back corner of the correct-facing E and he sits down on the line closest me, in the seat closest to the main line of the E.

He smiles as he sits and asks me for my name since he didn’t get it yesterday and I give it to him.

“Philena…” he muses to himself, testing it on his tongue, “that’s a unique name. Very pretty.” He smiles again, and I guess some girls would describe his smile as the perfect half-smile, not too cocky but confidant.

I swallow, “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Adam. Adam C. Liechent.” Impressive name.

“Nice to meet you, Adam.”

Class starts and I look to the front, pulling my sleeve down over the wrist Chase bruised and finding Alexa glaring at me. When Parch isn’t paying attention, I flip her the bird and turn away, ignoring the look of utter hatred and disgust she’s giving me and opting instead to look at the book on my desk.

We’ll be doing monologues all week—my favorite.

***

This lunch period is going to be spent in the library, because next week I have a psychology ‘pop’ quiz. News flash teachers: if you are going to do a pop quiz, don’t put it on the website. The smart people will check for it. I walk slowly over to my locker and find that new k—Adam is there also. I ignore him and go about grabbing my psych textbook and composition book along with my supplies for my last three periods. The sleeve of my right arm slips down to my elbow to show off a particularly dark purplish bruise and I rush to grab everything and shove it into my backpack then slip the sleeve back to my wrist.

“What was that?” I jump and twirl around to find Adam staring at my right wrist.

“Oh that?” I chuckle, “I hit it on something, nothing too bad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have studying to do.”

He takes one more glance at the now-covered bruise then looks me right in my eyes, “Alright Philena, but if you need me, you know where to find me.”

He walks swiftly to the lunchroom as I rush to the other end of the school and to one of the study rooms in the library. As I open my psych book the last thing on my mind is that the next day I’d find out he sat down at that certain empty table…