The Child Thief

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It would happen again tonight: the really bad thing. The girl had no doubt. It had started a few months ago, around the time her breasts had begun to develop, and now, with her mother gone, there was no one to stop him.

From her bedroom she could hear him pacing the cluttered living room of the cramped apartment. He was in one of his fits, muttering to himself, cursing the television, his boss, the president, Jesus, but mostly cursing her mother for taking all those pills, cursing her to hell and back, over and over. But her mother was dead and would never have to suffer through another of his tirades, not ever again. The girl wished she were so lucky.

There came the sharp snap of a beer tab, then another, and another. Her hands began to tremble and she clutched them to her chest. She wished she could fall asleep, then she would at least be spared the waiting, the dread. But she knew there’d be no sleep for her tonight.

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