My mother told me to put the money in a bank, but I’d kept it. Secretly saving every penny…to run away if my brother ever did what he threatened and tried to kill me.
I didn’t know why he hated me so much. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d only ever tried to be nice. I’d worshipped him. I’d wanted to be him. And that made him hate me.
Now, I wanted nothing to do with him.
Which was perfect because I found my escape in the bony poodle. I willingly gave up my runaway fund to save him, and I didn’t regret a penny. Even when I went home that night and Drake was waiting for me. Even when I noticed our parents were out at some scientific seminar and the babysitter had her boyfriend round, sucking face on the couch.
He’d marched me out back to the large backyard and tied a rope around my ankles. He’d told me to run while shooting me with his BB gun. I’d done my best to hobble with my legs lashed together, but in the end, I’d laid there and taken it, wincing with every shot but not crying out.
My tears were what he wanted.
But knowing I had a life depending on me—a grateful dog that’d wagged his tail and whimpered when I’d left him under his bush—kept me going.
Every morning, I snuck out to feed and brush him. Every night, I went to make sure he was okay. I missed him so much when we weren’t together. His whines hurt my tiny heart when I had to go, and his joy at my arrival made me wish I never had to leave.
But I knew better than to bring the dog home.
Pongo the poodle I’d called him—from 101 Dalmatians. I took him scraps from our kitchen and smuggled him into the treehouse when it grew too risky to let him live alone in the park.
I shared my blankets with him. I told him my secrets. And he’d lick my hands and face and snuggle close.
He became my best friend. My world.
So when Drake found out, it shattered everything.
He didn’t just kill Pongo slowly…he tortured him—just like he tortured me.
He placed him in a cage so he couldn’t run. He poked him with sharp sticks until he bled. He threw rocks. He yelled abuse. He placed a hose into the top of the cage and left the water running for hours.
I tried to stop him.
I wriggled until the rope he’d bound me with gnashed through my wrists and ankles. According to the doctors, I’d rubbed myself down to bone.
I was almost glad when he finally killed Pongo. When he used his BB gun and shot him in the eye at point-blank, over and over until his whimpers went silent.
At least my poor friend was free.
When Pongo went silent, I screamed.
I didn’t stop screaming until my parents found us at the bottom of the huge garden, hidden far from the house, tucked away in the woods.
That time, Drake couldn’t pretend he hadn’t hurt me. He was sent for counselling. Men in white coats talked to him in sympathetic voices. And my parents actually cared about me.
My mother nursed me back, she tended to my wounds, but I never fully smiled again. She was gentle and kind, and I began to trust that maybe I would be okay.
Drake returned after some time away and things were okay between us. Our dad monitored our playdates, and our mum never let us go far from the house. Life went on, even if Pongo’s ghost stayed with me.
I didn’t smile until a year later when I found another stray. At first, I wanted to keep walking. I’d promised mum I’d be home in time for dinner after going to the park on my bike. My memories of what’d happened to Pongo made me almost vomit in the grass as a cat hobbled from the trees with a broken leg.
It meowed at me.
Its eyes so big and wet I was sure it cried.
My bike was used as an ambulance as I shot across town with the poor kitty. A different vet this time, but they didn’t turn me away. I used up another year’s worth of allowances and waited for days for the cat to be discharged.
By the time the skinny tabby was placed into my arms with a bright pink cast on its leg, I vowed I would protect it against anyone and anything. I kept it far from Drake. Far from my parents or home.
I made a shelter for it in the park. I brought it beds and bowls and food. I nursed it while the cast set its leg correctly, then took it back to the vet to have it removed. For four months, I cared for her, but I never gave her a name.