James Turnbow

When I gathered the courage to look up, he held a pair of socks.

These are yours.

He pulled them back to his face and inhaled deeply.

He wasn't lying.

The white swoosh with my initial scratched across it in sharpie told me that much.

But the moans pouring out of his mouth sickened me so much that repulsion almost overtook my fear.

Almost.

How did you get those?

I said as sticky, humid heat fell down my neck.

You pervert!

Are your toenails blue too?

The question was carried on the sound of rain and lingered in the air.

The stone that surrounded me suddenly felt like a tomb.

I kept the knife drawn on him, but the hunger in his eyes told me he didn't care.

A hammer from the sky delivered another crack from above, and as if a judge were sealing my fate, darkness took the room.

Tears slid down my face as I clutched my father's protection close to my chest.

His breathing shifted.

I hoped the wind howling outside hid the sound of me crying.

I didn't want to show the monster any weakness.

I hope they are, he said, dragging his boots across the concrete towards me.