Ghost of You

I woke up, sweat clinging to my body everywhere. I wiped the dried tears off my cheeks, my entire body trembling. There was a terrible pain in my left cheek. My muscles were stiff as I stretched, searching the room. Gordon was gone. My room had been trashed. My laptop was missing. Clothes from my dresser and closet were strung around the room. My desk lamp had been knocked over. The trashcan was knocked over. There was a strong smell of vomit in the room. I felt like I wanted to cry.

So, I did.

“Get it together, Tom,” I whispered after a few minutes, letting out a small sob.

I reached over the side of my bed and grabbed my orange teeshirt Gordon had ripped off me, my fist shaking as I tossed it over my head. I got down on the floor and dragged my black flip-flops from beneath my bed, slipping them on.

I went and crouched down beneath the window overlooking the driveway, and slowly, pulled open a small part of the bottom of the curtain to look out. Gordon's truck was gone. I stood up, searching up and down the street for it. It wasn't in sight. I knew now was my only chance. I bit my lip. But what about Mom? I closed my eyes, swallowing a sob as I thought for a minute.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” I whispered, opening my eyes.

I threw my curtains open and lifted up the frame of my window, along with the screen. I eased myself out of the window, landing on the plush grass. As much as I hated living in a one-story home, I counted this as a blessing.

I began a jog down the street, the muscles in my legs aching. I stopped halfway down the block. What if I saw Gordon? I had no idea where he was.

“Oh, God!” I cried, fear making goosebumps form on my arms.

But my gut told me to keep running. So I did. But I had no idea where to go.



The pale blue house in front of me seemed calm. Tears were rushing down my cheeks. I didn't want to do it. I didn't know what I would say. Would she call the cops? Would she kick me out? Would she even believe me?

But somehow, I found myself walking up the cement sidewalk, up the three stairs to the wooden porch, in front of the screen door, opening it to reveal the wooden door, the white doorbell framed perfectly to my left. I lifted my fist to knock. I was scared. Scared to death. I didn't want to do this. My fist hit the door anyway. I let out a sob and stood back.

The wooden door opened and Mr. Listing appeared. He had chocolate eyes and long, brown hair he would always pull back in a ponytail. He was wearing his work suit. He smiled at me.

“Tom,” he said, “what brings... oh, my God, Tom, what happened to you?”

I could feel the tears, and I knew I didn't want to stop them from coming. Mr. Listing held open the screen door, grabbing my hand and leading me inside the living room.

“Anna!” he called.

He sat me on the couch, crouching down in front of me and stroking the bruise underneath my eye, my tears falling onto his index finger as I avoided his eyes.

Mrs. Listing came down the stairs, a dish towel in her hand. “Yes?” she called. “Oh, hello, Tom... oh, my God, what happened?!” she asked, looking back and forth between her husband and I.

I tightened my lips. I didn't want to tell. I was scared to tell. Mr. Listing had a fearful look in his eyes.

“Tom?” Mrs. Listing asked again, coming slowly over to sit next to me on the couch.

There was a knot in my stomach. I opened my mouth, but words refused to come out.

“I didn't mean to,” I finally said, my voice cracking.

“Didn't mean to what?” Mr. Listing asked.

“Is that Tom I hear?” It was Sarah's voice from the stairwell.

“Stay upstairs!” Mr. Listing called, turning back to me. “Didn't mean to what, Tom?” he rushed, although his voice was calm..

“I didn't know I wasn't allowed. And he was drunk.”

“Who?” Mr. Listing asked anxiously.

“Gordon?” Mrs. Listing asked, biting her lip.

I nodded my head, tears bouncing around on my cheeks. “He said he ha-had to punish me, so he h-hit me with his b-ba-belt. I... I...” I was in tears then, weeping. I hugged myself. “And then he kissed me. He told me to take off my shirt, and he just wouldn't stop. I just wanted him to stop.”

There was a look of horror over Mr. Listing's face. Mrs. Listing screwed up her face as if she was in pain.

“He said he would hurt Mom. She took off, and he got drunk, and told me he would hurt her.” I was broken down by then. “Please don't let him hurt her,” I whispered.

Mr. Listing stood suddenly, dragging out his cellphone from his back pocket. “I'm calling the cops,” he announced, dialing the phone and going into the other room.

Mrs. Listing stroked my arm as I sobbed awkwardly on the couch. “It's okay,” she whispered, pulling me into a hug, rubbing my back. “It's okay.”

Mr. Listing appeared again, snapping shut his phone. “They're on the way.”