Chapter 4

I was getting impatient, snarling at the diary.

"Who are you?! You said you'd help me! Now there's no help, and you say wait! Wait for what?! If I wait any longer, Mr. Jenkins will come pick me up!"

The diary was silent for a moment, then words began to appear again.

[Eleanor's death was unexpected even for me, but trying to escape now will definitely get us caught.]

[Only when Mr. Jenkins comes to pick you up, escaping Roger, will you have a chance.]

I instantly calmed down.

I composed myself, carefully writing, letter by letter, in the diary.

"Who are you, really?"

The diary didn't respond again.

I could only keep it close to me, waiting for this last chance.

For the next two days, time felt like an eternity.

Mom was busy with Eleanor's funeral, her face devoid of tears, replaced by a withered, dead silence.

Dad, meanwhile, was worse than ever, as if selling me was something to celebrate. He drank even more heavily, pacing drunkenly in front of me, muttering obscenities.

"You better behave yourself at the Jenkins'! If they send you back, I'll break your legs!"

I lowered my head, my hand tightly clutching the diary inside my sleeve. [Wait], that single word became my only anchor.

Finally, the third day arrived.

A beat-up motorcycle sputtered to a stop outside our house.

Mr. Jenkins grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed, rotting teeth.

His cloudy eyes fixed on me, slimy and lingering, like insects crawling on my skin, making my entire body tremble with disgust.

"So, I'm taking her now, am I?"

Dad instantly switched to a sycophantic grin, hastily offering a cigarette.

"Take her, take her! Mr. Jenkins, from now on, this girl is yours to manage. Beat her, scold her, whatever makes you happy!"

Mr. Jenkins didn't take the cigarette. He walked straight to me, raising his hand to pinch my cheek.

I sharply turned my head away, my stomach churning.

"Tsk, quite a fiery spirit. Just my type!"

The chains finally came off.

I was roughly pulled up by Mr. Jenkins, shoved towards the motorcycle.

Just as I was about to be pushed into the sidecar, I sharply turned my head.

She stood at the threshold, her hair messy, the bruises on her face not yet faded.

The moment our eyes met, tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back, quickly blinking at me.

And discreetly, she slipped a small, polished knife into my pocket, its handle still warm from her palm.

I clutched the knife, my knuckles turning white from clenching, and nodded gently.

The motorcycle sputtered to life, kicking up a cloud of dust.

I stared fixedly in the direction of our house, until that dilapidated door and the solitary figure in front of it completely vanished around the bend.

A celebratory meal was already spread out at Mr. Jenkins' house.

The diary began to rustle again.

[Get him drunk.]

I gritted my teeth, stood up, and slowly walked to the table.

"I'll pour you a drink."

He froze for a moment, then burst out laughing, tilting his head back to down an entire glass of liquor.

I kept pouring, and imitating the village women, I urged him, "Drink more, it'll warm you up."

My encouragement made him drink even more heavily. Before long, his face was flushed crimson, his eyes glazed over. He slumped onto the table, grumbling, and soon began to snore.

I held my breath, waiting for a long while, confirming he was truly dead drunk. Only then did I reach for the keyring on his belt, snatching it and bolting out the door.

Outside, the sky had already darkened. The wind stung my face, but it felt sweet.

I ran like crazy, not stopping even when one shoe came off, an involuntary smile curling on my lips.

"Mom. We can finally escape. We're going to live for ourselves!"

The lights were on at home. I gasped for breath, tiptoeing as I pushed open the door.

The moment I stepped into the bedroom, my whole body froze.