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F
LAWED
K
ATE
A
VELYNN
For JD, who always believes in me,
even when I don’t believe in myself.
One
My first memory of James is what keeps me here, smoothing hair out of a boy’s blood-spattered face. The
sirens screaming in the distance are too late.
They’re always too late.
Forehead pressed to his, I choke on the burnt stench of gunpowder and try to hum the lullaby James
used to sing to me.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…
James is why I never left.
I should have left.
 Two
I remember the tiny, white flowers that dotted our neighbor’s lawn and how my body sank into the lush
grass like it was made of pillows. I remember the way the sun baked my exposed skin and the tiny insects
and dandelion seeds danced around me on the soft summer breeze. I remember my white, cotton dress, the
only sleeveless, legless item of clothing I’d ever owned.
Mrs. Baxter gave it to me as an Easter present a few days before my seventh birthday, leaving it on the
porch, folded and wrapped in a pink ribbon. James snuck it into our room before our father saw, and
helped me tie the white sash sewn onto the waist.
I remember sitting on Mrs. Baxter’s lawn hoping she’d see me in it because I was too shy to knock on
the front door and thank her. I remember wishing I knew how to tie bows as well as James so I could have
worn that pretty pink ribbon in my hair.
I remember my father’s calloused hand clamping down on my shoulder.
He dragged me inside, out of the sunshine and into the dark dungeon of our house. Two of my dolls
were lying in front of the television in the living room. My carelessness normally would’ve cost me the
dolls, but not that day. Not when the sharp bite of beer hung in the air and clung to his rumpled weekend
clothes. My hands flew out to break my fall a second too late.
“How many times’ve I told you not to leave your shit on the floor? Huh, Sarah?”
“I’m sorry!” I scrabbled across the worn carpet, gathered up the dolls, and clutched them to my chest,
but it didn’t matter. He had already unbuckled his dreaded belt and was pulling it through his belt loops.
“Yeah? You’re about to be a whole lot sorrier.”
The stinging slap of leather against skin reverberated off the dingy walls. Once, twice, three times. I bit
my lip and tried not to cry out because crying out only ever made things worse.
The blows stopped abruptly. “Get your ass back in your room or this is gonna be a whole lot worse!”
he bellowed down the hall. “I’m not warning you again!”
A door clicked shut. My mother’s door.
The
pound-pound-pound
of my brother barreling into the room filled the void she left behind. From
where I lay curled on the floor, my brother looked like an angel.
“Don’t touch her!”
This is my first real memory of James. In every memory before that, he’s just a flash of color, a warm
body with a blurred face, a comforting voice begging me not to die. When he planted himself between our
father and me that day, an eight-year-old with small fists clenched at his sides, I think I fell in love with
my brother.
Our father sneered at him. “Do you think I’m scared of you, boy?”
James lifted his chin. “You should be.” But even I heard the waver in his voice.
“You little
shit
.”
I scrambled back into the dining room, dolls forgotten, mouth open in a silent scream as my brother
took what was left of the punishment meant for me. It ended when the back of our father’s hand sent him
sprawling to the floor. Before James could get to his feet, our father staggered toward the garage and the
refrigerator of beer waiting for him.
James crawled over to where I lay curled up beneath the dining room table and dragged me into his
arms. There was blood on his lip and one of his eyes had started to swell. “Shh,” he murmured. “He’s
gone. Everything’s okay now.”
I tried to dab his lip with the torn hem of my dress, but he gently pushed my hand away. “I’m okay,” he
said. “You’re hurt worse than me anyway.”
I could feel the welts rising on my back and arms. “You saved me,” I sobbed into his sleeve. “You
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