to shield him from the terror of what was really happening – Mommy was trying to get us somewhere safe (assuming that place even existed).
But it did exist. It had to. I had two bus tickets tucked into my jeans pocket and two more for the bus that would follow. After that, the plans got blurrier. There was enough money – just enough money – in my purse (stitched inside of a hidden pocket that I had sewed myself) to get us a room at a motel, and stay for at least a month if need be. By then, I hoped to have found some type of job where I could at the very least make enough money to get our own, real place to live. I had no idea how I was going to handle Murphy’s childcare, but it would work out. It had to work out. There were programs... assistance for single moms... And we simply had to leave. We couldn’t stay with Randall any longer. If we did, I was certain that eventually, on purpose or otherwise, he would kill me.
At this point I didn’t really care if I died so much as I knew it would leave Murphy defenseless against the world. Defenseless against Randall. I had prayed that the abuse would never filter past myself – that Randall would at the very least never hurt our son. But the years passed... One... Two... Three... Murphy was all over the place by then, getting into the same types of mischief that every other toddler on the planet seemed to find. And Randall’s patience with Murphy had grown increasingly shorter, to the point where he had, exactly one week ago, backhanded Murphy away from the TV.
“Little shit, you are gonna stop messing with those goddamn buttons! How many times have I fuckin’ told you?”
I’d known better than to fly at Randall in a rage, which was the one screaming instinct alive in me at the time. Murphy had come running to me, sobbing, the bruise on his little cheek already beginning to take shape. I’d pulled him into my arms, terrified that more was coming. But Randall had simply settled himself on the couch with a can of Coors Light and acted as though neither one of us existed, and I’d taken Murphy to his room. I hadn’t wanted to cry – I was trying so hard not to cry in front of Murphy. He was barely calming down as it was, and I didn’t want to scare him even more.
But I had cried anyway. I had sobbed into Murphy’s pillow while he unsteadily connected giant Lego blocks together on the floor. I had screamed – silently – with rage and fear and helplessness. Murphy had realized, eventually, that Mommy was crying, and held out a block to me, smiling sweetly. “Mommy play? Mommy okay?”
His face. His innocent, beautiful, loving little face, with the giant green eyes he’d inherited from me, had looked up at me with such deep concern. The bruise was turning darker shades of red and purple by the minute.
And that was it. I’d decided that day that I couldn’t just think about escaping anymore. I couldn’t let this ever happen to that face again – once was a million times too many. We WOULD escape. I had to make it happen – or die trying.
The “die trying” part was starting to seem more and more plausible as I ran down the trail. I’d tripped twice, and then fallen the third time, sending Murphy and I both to the rocky dirt path face first. I had managed to block his fall, taking the brunt of both hits. The wind was knocked out of me, and Murphy had started crying loudly at that point. I’d staggered, picked him up again, and whispered “sshh” over and over while I tried to regain speed. Randall would have noticed we were gone by now. Even with the Ex-Lax I had laced his beer with, he had to have been back from the bathrooms at this point. And I wasn’t even halfway to the hiding spot.
My hiding spot.
I’d picked it for the fact that it was very hard to get to, and I now worried that perhaps that would backfire. It was hard to get to – extremely. Uphill and off the trail to a steep ledge that curved back ever so slightly into a tiny cave-like hollow. It was impossible to see from the trail – I'd had