I ran.

It didn’t matter how hard my legs pumped, how fast my arms shot past my sides, or how many steps I took, I couldn’t get far enough away. He’d come in this morning, before breakfast, and ruined everything again. He swore he would never do it again.

I reach the top of the hill, panting, my pink tshirt sticking to my chest and back, my pigtails sticking to my neck and ears. I see the tree ahead, its leaves redder than the blood on the tile this morning, redder than kool-aid, even the cherry flavor that leaves a mustache on my lip.

I run.

He doesn’t even come after me, doesn’t want to. He promised, last month, that it was the last time. When you break a promise, it’s wrong. Mommy always told me that it’s wrong to lie, but she lets him do it all the time.

I am almost to the tree when I hear him call after me, “Margaret!” his voice is sharp, he uses angry words. I’m almost there. “Maggie!” He starts after me. I begin to cry. I don’t want my blood on the tile, I don’t want to hurt.

I am almost there.