I’ve been watching her for a while now. I’ve seen the lunches she packs with her own hands; the same worn-out jeans and pale pink sweater she wears nearly every day; the dark circles that orbit her eyes.
Deep, enthralling green eyes that somehow hold this terrifying yet humble beauty. So vibrant and so grave that you can tell, simply by looking at them, that this young girl has seen and felt more than men and women seven times her age.
I watch her again today as she walks into the classroom, her straight, butterscotch brown hair cascading down her back like a waterfall. She glances at the teacher and the freckles that dust her nose and cheeks scrunch together as her mouth spreads into a shy grin. Mrs. Frazer smiles back, but there’s a hint of concern splayed across her features. The same concern that emerges every time she looks at this soft and quiet girl. Of course, she never actually brings voice to her worries, but she does consider it.
As the morning bell sounds, the children scurry to their desks, awaiting the start of the school day. Within a few minutes, Mrs. Frazer begins her first period and the lessons start their daily cycle. After Science comes Math, then Social Studies, followed by lunch and ELA. Sometime during Mrs. Frazer’s lecture about nouns, the girl raises her hand.
“Yes, Emery?” Mrs Frazer questions.
“May I use the bathroom?” the girl responds.
“Yes, but be quick,” she answers, returning to her lesson. I follow the girl as she leaves. We stroll past the rows of metallic lockers and halt when we arrive at an ashen gray door. She hesitates before using her forearm to shove it open, her shoulders visibly relaxing when she sees the bathroom vacant. She swiftly shuts the door and pushes the door stopper under the inside crack, securing the door from the inside and preventing anyone from entering. I follow her to the mirror and observe as she takes a small tube of ointment out of her bulging pocket and lifts her sweater to her breasts, revealing scratches and purple-green bruises along her back and ribs. She expertly applies the cream all over her injuries, studying her own reflection while she waits for it to absorb. The minute it does, she drops her sweater and returns the tube to her pocket. She performs the task so skillfully, like she’s done it a million times before.
We walk back to class just as the bell rings, signaling the end of the school day. We exit the building through the whirl of chattering students, catching only bits and pieces of their conversations as we go.
“–he did it by text!”
“–can’t, I’m babysitting my sister.”
“I’m so excited–”
Her bike is positioned in the bike stand in front of the school. The school isn’t far from her house, just a bit over a mile and it doesn’t take longer than ten minutes to bike by herself. The girl loves riding her bike; the wind in her hair, the feeling of freedom, and the confidence that comes with controlling it gives her more joy than anything else. All too soon, she is pulling into her driveway. From the outside, the house is beautiful; its navy blue shutters compliment the creamy yellow exterior, and the multicolored garden and stone porch give the house a sense of modest elegance. But the way the girl’s body tenses as she approaches the door ruins everything. She can sense it. Even from the outside, she can sense His rage. It may not be in full swing at the moment, but like an animal with a storm, she can feel the tension radiating off of the house. Even when He isn’t home, she can feel it coming.
She hurries to her room, careful to make as little noise as possible. She drops her bag by the bed and climbs on top of its aqua covers. Sitting criss-cross applesauce, she opens a notebook and begins to draw. Drawing: very possibly the only thing in this world, other than her bike, that gives the child comfort and joy. A while later, a woman’s voice calls for her attention downstairs. Her mother looks like her: same button nose, same thin lips, same tense frame, even their scars are similar. They have to wait to start dinner until He’s home, so in the meantime, they discuss their day. Like always, the conversation is strained at first, nothing like your average mother-daughter dialogue, but soon they begin to relax.
Maybe the girl was wrong, maybe today will be different. Maybe He won’t come home so angry. Maybe they will be safe. How naive to even hope.
By the time He finally returns home, the conversation has dribbled back to awkward silence and the sky has gone black. The girl’s mother immediately rushes to greet him at the foyer, but He shoves her out of the way, hard. Dangerous anger radiates off of him in all directions, but the girl rushes towards her mother anyway. He blocks her path.
“Go to your room,” He snarls. She doesn’t budge. “You dare disobey your father?” His eyes grow darker as His anger is replaced with unfiltered rage. Not once in her ten years of existence has the girl ever disobeyed her father, until tonight. She looks at her mother, clearly in pain but eyes wide in silent warning:
Just obey, please,
and something inside the girl snaps. She scrunches her eyebrows together and shoves herself forward, desperate to reach her mother. A terrified, strangled cry echoes through the night. If the neighbors hear, they don’t turn on their lights. She is caught so tightly in His hands,

Blinding pain,
Searing pain,
Excruciating pain,

then…
nothing.

I reach for Emery and hold her gently. I have been watching her for a while now, but it’s finally time to bring her home.

“Do not fear, little angel,” I tell her, “you are safe now.”