Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

I hate him.

I hate him so fucking much.

“Are you okay, dear?” A soft voice startles me, and I stumble back a step.

I lower my gaze from the heavens. There’s nothing up there for me anyway.

Standing a few feet away is a woman.

She has a sad smile on her face and a tiny fluffy dog on a leash at her feet.

My heart is still racing from adrenaline and anger and pain. And the buzz of it all in my ears prevented me from hearing their approach.

I blink, trying to dissipate my tears.

But I don’t answer her.

I can’t.

Because I’m not okay.

“I can call the police if you’d like,” she whispers.

Embarrassment and shame flood me as I realize this is our neighbor from across the street. The house withThe Rooneyson the front door.

More tears fall. Wishing I could tell her yes.

But I shake my head.

I’m only seventeen. If she calls the cops, there are only two outcomes.

One, they don’t do anything, and I keep living with a monster. Only now, that monster will become even meaner because I’d gone to the authorities. The one thing he always warned me never to do. And him being worse than he is now… I don’t know if I can survive that.

Or two, they believe me and take him away. And then I go into the system, taking my chances with strangers, with nothing and no one to look out for me. It could possibly be better, or it could be worse in ways that I don’t even want to imagine.

The woman is silent for a moment.

I know she wants to do something. Ask questions. But I can see it when she accepts the truth of the situation.

That there is no good outcome for me.

Not today. Not tomorrow.

Mrs. Rooney tips her head to the hand clutched to my chest. “Would you like some ice for that?”

Pain throbs across all my fingers, and I know I shouldn’t accept… but I nod.

“Here.” She holds out the leash. “You hold on to Snowball for me, and I’ll be right back. We just stepped outside, so she might have to do her business,” sheadds, making it seem like I’m doing her a favor rather than her using the dog as a ploy to keep me in place.

But I like dogs, so I reach out with my uninjured hand and grip the leash.

I hold it as tightly as I can so the dog can’t run away.

Mrs. Rooney nods, then turns and hurries across the street to her house.

The dog watches her owner walk away but doesn’t attempt to follow.

When the woman enters her house, I look down at the dog. “Hi, Snowball.”