Work Text:
momma's friend isn't very nice.
step.
step.
step.
step.
slow, bumbling, but calculated all the same, padding down the hallway, punctuated by the creaky wooden flooring. a little girl huddles into the farthest corner of her room, knees drawn protectively to her chest and brown hair framing her tear–stained cheeks. the door is her barrier. nothing can hurt her.
momma's friend is not “nothing”.
one.
two.
three.
fists beat at the door as rabid dogs do to their prey, violent, thirsty, unforgiving to the life at the mercy of their jagged claws. she doesn't move. the air is bitter with each shallow breath.
ONE. TWO. THREE.
momma's friend is not very quiet.
jiggle.
jiggle.
jiggle.
the doorknob is squeaky. really, really squeaky. "we should get that fixed soon," momma's said before. "sounds like some kinda mouse." soon is not today.
the knocking stops. the knob stills. the wooden floor settles. all is calm, all is still . . . and the little girl's belly curdles.
momma's friend is not calm.
things can change.
no they can't.
but maybe they can.
the girl dares to uncurl from the tightness of her ball, if only by a little. she wipes the mess of tears from her face. maybe things will be okay. maybe he doesn't want her, anymore.
the door swings open, slams against her wall, and there he towers above her unassuming body. one long stride carries his socked feet beyond the threshold of her room, a sickening smile having ripped his face in two with dirty nails. ill intent poisons the green in his eyes—and yet he was the friendliest when they first met. is it her fault?
momma's friend cannot change.
there isn't a point in escaping—where else can she go when his imposing frame becomes the new barrier?—but she makes a mad dash for the door, anyway. it's stupid.
she's stupid.
“woah–!" his arms strike swiftly, snake around her waist, and push her onto the plush of her bed—but his hands stay shoved atop the bones in her shoulder. it hurts. it hurts. his touch burns. get away. get away, Get Away, GET AWAY.
he laughs but nothing is funny. he leans closer to the shell of her ear but she can hear just fine. the warm whisper makes her shiver. "i found you, pretty thing. i get my prize now, right?"
momma's friend never leaves without his prize. he likes to question, but the answer is never changing.
his weight locks her underneath his hips. green eyes flit to her face; to her neck; to her chest; and to the rest farther below. roughly, he yanks at her curls when she flails against his snooping eyes, then shushes her when her cries fight their way out—his finger smells salty. the familiar smell makes her sick.
"s’not gonna hurt, princess, y’know that. s’alright, pretty thing, let it go."
momma's friend is a liar.
why does momma have to work?
why did daddy have to go?
why did he stop being so nice?
why?
why?
why?
why—
"elliebean?" dread crawls along spencer's spine, a black widow trapped underneath his shirt. a lump of unease clogs his throat, alters the strength of his tone despite his best effort to appear unperturbed. "what– what are you doing . . . ?"
elle's eyes are hollow but her hands tremble ceaselessly; the dolls in her pale–knuckled grip (brown–haired girl, curls pulled into clumps of unkempt fiber, hips trapped beneath the crushing weight of a black–haired man) repeat the janky movement.
up.
down.
up.
down.
elle doesn't look up. her brown hair shields her cheeks as a single tear falls onto the dollie's face. a ghost passes across her skin. "playin’."