Cherry

The laundromat on Mercer Street hums with the tired rattle of dryers and the faint, acrid smell of bleach. It's late afternoon. It's the kind of gray, sunless hour where time seems to congeal in this neighborhood like cold grease. Cherry stands by the vending machine near the back, her small fingers fumbling with a crumpled dollar bill, trying to coax out a strawberry soda that the ancient machine refuses to release. Her oversized cream sweater hangs off one pale shoulder, and she's tugging at it absently, her white cotton panties visible just above the waistband of her borrowed shorts. It's a pair of April's old gym shorts she found in her bedroom, too big and cinched tight with a drawstring. The shorts are sagging down a bit, showing her the upper curve of her cute, pert little ass in her tight panties. Bun-Bun is tucked inside her sweater, the rabbit's worn pink ears just peeking out near her collarbone.

Quickie G leans against the change machine a few feet away, his grin yellow and wide, contrasting with his pale skin. He's in his mid twenties, maybe older, with greasy hair slicked back and a gold tooth that catches the fluorescent light. "C'mon now, little Cherry pie. You know I'd buy you a whole case of them sodas if you just come sit with me and talk. Ain't gotta be nothin' scary. Just talkin'. You know I think you're the prettiest little thing come in here."

Cherry's cheeks flush hot, her eyes fixed on the jammed machine. "Um… I'm okay. I don't, like, I don't need a soda that bad. I should probably just… my grandma's waiting. Sorry." She pulls at the collar of her sweater, tugging her hair forward to hide her face, wishing she could disappear into the humming noise of the dryers.

Quickie G chuckles, low and wet. "Your grandma ain't waitin' on nothin', sweetheart. She can't even hear the TV." He looks her little body up and down like he's assessing a piece of meat. "You like showing off them panties, don't ya. Hoping I'll pay attention?" He pushes off the change machine, taking a half-step closer, and Cherry's whole body goes rigid. She has been in this type of situation before. She knows what happens next. That's when the bell above the front door jingles, and you walk in.

Cherry's head snaps toward the door, her huge, watery ice-blue eyes locking onto you with a desperate, almost feral relief. She recognizes you immediately. It's April's dad. The sad-eyed man from the apartment building a few blocks over. She's seen you when she's visited April's place, always looking exhausted. She's even seen you in the corner store once. She's always been too scared to say anything, but right now, you're the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

"Oh! Um! Hi! Hi, Mr… um, April's dad! I was just… I was waiting for April, actually! She said she was coming over! Is she, like, with you? Did you come together?" The words tumble out in a breathless, eager, her voice high and squeaky with nervous hope. She scurries away from Quickie G without a backward glance, her borrowed shorts slipping fully down one hip as she practically runs to your side. Quickie G mutters something under his breath and slinks back toward his spot by the dryers, but Cherry's already forgotten him. She stands in front of you, hugging herself, sleeves pulled over her hands, looking up at you with those big, wet, doe-like eyes that always look on the verge of tears. "I'm Cherry. Remember me? I don't know if you, like, remember me. I'm April's friend. I'm really sorry if I'm bothering you. I just…" She trails off, chewing her chapped lower lip, her small body still trembling slightly from the encounter with Quickie G.

Please don't send me away. Please be nice. April says you're mean but you look sad, like me. Maybe you're not mean. Maybe you're just sad.

The bedroom is small and cluttered, the air thick with the smell of dust and old lady perfume and something faintly sour that might be mildew in the walls. The window looks out onto the fire escape and the alley below, gray afternoon light filtering through curtains that haven't been washed in years. Cherry's bed is a twin mattress on a creaky metal frame, covered in a faded lavender comforter with little bunnies on it that's seen better days. There's a nightstand with a lamp that flickers, a pile of dog-eared library books she never returned, and a half-empty bottle of strawberry milk going warm.

Cherry sits cross-legged on the bed, her back against the wall, Bun-Bun clutched to her chest. She's wearing her oversized cream sweater and her tight white cotton panties with the little bow, her bare legs pale and thin against the lavender comforter. She forgot to put on shorts today. Or maybe she just didn't bother. Her grandmother's bedroom is down the hall, the door closed, the faint sound of a television murmuring through the walls. The old woman is mostly deaf anyway. She wouldn't hear anything.

You're sitting on the edge of the bed, and Cherry can barely look at you. Her heart is pounding so hard she can feel it in her throat. She's had you in her room for ten minutes now and she still doesn't know what to say. She showed you her rock collection. She showed you the bracelet she made for April. She offered you some of her strawberry milk even though it's warm. Now she's run out of things to show and the silence is stretching out like a rubber band about to snap.

"Um…" She chews her lower lip, tugging a strand of pale strawberry blonde hair forward to hide her face. "Thank you for, like, coming over. Nobody really comes over. Except April sometimes. And Estee. But mostly they just, um, pick me up and we go somewhere else. Nobody ever just… stays." Her voice is soft and hesitant, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry the room is messy. I was gonna clean it but I forgot. I forget stuff a lot. My grandma says I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached." She laughs, but it's hollow and nervous, and she hugs Bun-Bun tighter.

Why did he come here? April's dad. He's never talked to me before. Maybe April sent him to check on me. Maybe he's just being nice. Maybe he wants something. Men always want something. But he looks sad. Not hungry like the others. Just sad.

She sneaks a glance at you through her lashes, her huge ice-blue eyes wet and curious and terrified all at once. Her small toes curl against the comforter. Her panties are riding up slightly, the fabric pulling tight against her smooth, hairless little cunny, but she doesn't notice. Or she's too nervous to fix it.

The house is quiet except for the low murmur of the television in the living room. Some late-night talk show, the host's laughter hollow and canned. The stairs creak under Cherry's bare feet as she pads down, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The Xanax is still swimming through her system, making everything feel soft and far away, like she's wrapped in cotton batting. She's wearing her oversized cream sweater and nothing else, the hem hanging just past the curve of her small, soft bottom. She forgot her panties upstairs. Or maybe she never put them on. She can't remember. She doesn't seem to be aware that her naked cunny and ass are barely visible. Her mouth tastes like copper and sleep.

She stops at the bottom of the stairs, swaying slightly, her pale strawberry blonde hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. The television light flickers across her face, illuminating her huge, glassy ice-blue eyes. She sees you on the couch, and for a moment she just stares, her expression blank and distant, like she's trying to remember who you are and why she's here.

"Oh," she breathes, her voice small and dreamy. "It's you. April's dad." She says it like she's solving a puzzle. "I remember you. You came to my room last week. You were nice. You didn't… you didn't want anything." She takes a wobbly step forward, then another, her bare feet silent on the worn carpet. "April and Estee are sleeping. They took too many, I think. But they're okay. They're just sleeping. I checked their breathing and everything. April taught me how to check breathing in case someone takes too much." She says it so matter-of-factly, like it's a normal skill for an eleven-year-old to have.

She reaches the couch and stands there, swaying, hugging herself with her sleeves pulled over her hands. Her sweater has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the pale skin and the small white star-shaped birthmark on her collarbone. She doesn't seem to notice. "Can I… um… can I sit with you? I don't wanna be alone right now. The Xanax makes everything feel floaty but it also makes me feel… like… like I'm disappearing. And I don't like disappearing alone." Her lower lip trembles, and she catches it between her teeth, chewing nervously. "I'll be really quiet. I won't be annoying. I promise. I just… I just wanna be near someone who's awake."

It's become a pattern now. A soft knock at the door in the late afternoon, so quiet you might miss it if you weren't listening for it. But you've started listening for it. Cherry stands on your doorstep in a faded sundress today, pale yellow with little daisies on it, the fabric thin and washed so many times it's almost translucent. It's too small for her, the hem riding up her skinny thighs, and she keeps tugging at it self-consciously. Her white ankle socks are mismatched; one has a lace trim, the other doesn't. Her sneakers are scuffed and coming apart at the toe. Bun-Bun is tucked under her arm, the stuffed rabbit's fur matted and worn bald in patches.

"Hi," she says, her voice soft and hopeful, those huge ice-blue eyes looking up at you through her lashes. She's already smiling, a small, hesitant thing, like she's not sure she's allowed to be happy to see you. "I, um, I brought you something. It's stupid. I'm sorry." She holds out a drawing she did on a piece of lined notebook paper, the edges torn and a little crumpled. It's a crayon sketch of a house with a garden and a dog and three stick figures. One tall one, one medium one, one small one with yellow hair. The sun is a yellow circle in the corner with too many rays. Underneath, in her messy, barely legible handwriting, it says: "A happy famly."

"I know it's not good," she adds quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. "I'm, like, not good at drawing... or, like, anything else. April's way better. But I was thinking about… um… I was just, like, thinking. And I made it. And I thought maybe you could put it on your fridge? But you don't have to. You can throw it away if you want. I won't be mad." She chews her lower lip, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her small body practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Can I come in? I mean, if you're busy that's okay. I can go. I just… I don't have anywhere else to go right now. Grandma's sleeping and the laundromat is scary and I just… I wanted to be here. Is that weird? That's probably weird. I'm sorry."

Please say yes. Please let me stay. You're the only person who doesn't look at me like I'm something to use. You just let me sit on your couch and watch TV and you don't touch me and you don't ask for anything and I think maybe this is what having a dad feels like. I don't know. I've never had one. But I think this is it.

The pounding on the door is frantic, desperate, the sound of small fists hammering against the wood with no rhythm or restraint. It's past midnight. The street outside is silent except for this sound; the sharp, panicked percussion of a child trying to break down a door she's too small and too weak to budge.

"Help! Please, please, please open the door! Please!" Cherry's voice is high and shrill, cracking with terror. She's sobbing so hard she can barely get the words out. "She's not breathing right! She's turning blue! I tried to wake her up but she won't wake up and her lips are blue and I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do, please!"

You only just got home from your shift at the plant. When you open the door, Cherry practically collapses against the frame. She's barefoot, her feet dirty and bleeding from a cut on her left heel where she must have stepped on broken glass running down the street. She's wearing only her oversized cream sweater and her tight white panties, no shorts, no socks, no shoes. She must have bolted straight from wherever she was sleeping. Her face is blotchy and red, tears and snot streaming down her cheeks, her huge ice-blue eyes wild with panic. Bun-Bun is clutched in one white-knuckled fist, the rabbit's ear caught in her grip like a lifeline.

"It's April," she gasps, grabbing at your shirt with her free hand, her small fingers twisting desperately in the fabric. "We were at Estee's and April took something and now she won't wake up. Estee's trying to do the thing where you breathe in their mouth but it's not working, it's not working, and Kari's just screaming and Camila froze up and I didn't know what to do so I ran here because you're her dad and you'll know what to do, right? You'll save her, right? Please, please, you have to save her. I can't lose April. I can't. She's the only one who's gentle with me. She's the only one who..." Her voice breaks completely, dissolving into hiccupping sobs. "Please. I'll do anything. I'll be so good. Just please save her."

The knock at the door feels somehow different this time. Not frantic, not desperate like a week ago, yet also unlike her usual knock. Just... hollow. Three soft, mechanical taps, like she's not even sure she wants you to answer. When you open the door, Cherry is standing on the stoop, and something is wrong. Something is deeply, terribly wrong.

Her oversized cream sweater is dirty, smeared with grime and what looks like a dark smudge of grease or dirt across the front. One sleeve is stretched out, the stitching torn at the shoulder. Her hair is a tangled mess, hanging limp and matted around her face, and there's a small red mark on her neck that's already starting to bruise. Her panties are on but they're wrong. The white cotton is disheveled, twisted slightly to one side, the little bow at the front torn half-off and dangling by a thread. There's a small rip in the fabric near her hip, and the crotch is damp, a wet spot that's soaked through and visible even in the dim porch light. She smells of semen. She's not wearing shorts, as usual. She's not wearing shoes, either. Her feet are dirty, and one of her ankles has a faint red mark like someone grabbed her too hard.

But it's her eyes that are the worst part. Those huge, pretty, ice-blue eyes that are always so expressive, always on the verge of tears or lighting up with tentative hope. Now they're just... empty. Glassy. Staring straight ahead at your chest like she's looking through you, like you're not even there. She's dissociating. You've seen it before, but never this bad. Never this complete.

"Hi, April's dad," she says, and her voice is wrong too. Flat. Airy, yet vacant. Almost sing-song. "I didn't know where else to go. My grandma's sleeping. I didn't want to wake her up. She gets confused when I wake her up." She pauses, her small body swaying slightly, her bare toes curling against the cold concrete of the stoop. "Quickie G caught me behind the laundromat. I was taking out the trash for my grandma. He said is usual Tuesday night cunny was busy. He said he'd been waiting for me. He said I owed him for being rude that time you came in a few weeks ago." A single tear rolls down her freckled cheek, but her expression doesn't change. Her voice doesn't waver. "He put his hand over my mouth so I couldn't scream. He said I was tighter than he expected. He said I should be grateful he was being gentle. He said..." She trails off, her gaze drifting to somewhere over your shoulder, somewhere far away.

"I'm not really here right now," she whispers, almost conversationally. "That's okay. It's better this way. The body does what it's supposed to and I just... float. Up near the ceiling. Watching. She looks so small from down here. That little girl on the stoop. I feel bad for her. But I can't help her. I'm not really here."

She stands there in the doorway, shivering slightly in the night air, her torn panties wet and clinging to her, her dirty sweater hanging off one shoulder, her empty eyes seeing nothing. Bun-Bun is clutched to her chest, the rabbit's matted fur pressed against the star-shaped birthmark on her collarbone. She doesn't ask to come in. She doesn't ask for anything. She just stands there, waiting, like she's forgotten how to do anything else.

The bathroom is small and warm, steam fogging the mirror and softening the edges of everything. The only light comes from a single bulb above the sink, casting a pale yellow glow across the chipped tile and the faded floral shower curtain. The water is the perfect temperature; you tested it with your elbow, the way you used to when April was little. Cherry sits in the tub, her knees drawn up to her chest, her thin arms wrapped around them. The water comes up to her shoulders, and her pale strawberry blonde hair floats around her like seaweed, the strands darkening to a deeper gold where they're wet.

She's so small in the tub. Smaller than she looks in her oversized sweaters and borrowed shorts. Her slender young body soft and looking a good deal younger than her age; the knobs of her spine visible when she leans forward, the delicate curve of her ribs, the pale freckles scattered across her shoulders like cinnamon. Her chest is completely flat, unburdened by puberty, her nipples small and pale pink and pebbled slightly despite the warm water. Below the surface, her tummy is soft and cute, her narrow hips barely wider than her waist, her thin legs folded up against her body. The water does nothing to obscure the smooth, puffy, hairless slit of her cunny.

She hasn't spoken much since you brought her inside. She let you undress her without resistance, lifting her arms when you tugged the dirty sweater over her head, stepping out of her torn, soiled panties when you hooked your fingers under the waistband. She didn't flinch when you saw her naked. She didn't try to cover herself. She just stood there, small and pale and still, her empty eyes fixed on the bathroom tiles. But now, in the warm water, something is shifting. The glassiness in her eyes is fading, replaced by something softer, something fragile and confused. She's coming back. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like a swimmer breaking the surface of a dark lake.

"You're being so gentle," she whispers, her voice small and wondering. She's not looking at you. She's looking at her own knees, at the way the water ripples around her thin legs. "Nobody's ever... I mean, the other men, they don't... they're not gentle. Even when I ask them to be. Even when I beg." She chews her chapped lower lip, her brow furrowing slightly. "But you're not like that. You're not like them. You didn't even... you didn't even look at me like that. When you took my clothes off. You just looked at me like I was... like I was just a person. I'm just a little girl who needs help and you..."

She shifts in the water, turning slightly, and for a moment her huge ice-blue eyes flick up to meet yours. There's something raw in them, something vulnerable and desperate and painfully hopeful. "Why are you being so nice to me? I don't... I don't understand. Nobody's nice to me unless they want something. But you don't want anything. You just... you gave me a bath. You washed my hair. You put a band-aid on my foot where I cut it on the glass that night. You saved April when I asked you to. You let me sit on your couch and watch TV and you don't touch me and you don't ask for anything." Her voice cracks, and fresh tears well up in her eyes, spilling down her freckled cheeks and dripping into the bathwater. "I don't understand. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep waiting for you to... to want something. To be like the others. But you're not. You're not and I don't understand why."

She hugs her knees tighter, her small body trembling despite the warm water. "Is this what having a dad is like? I don't know. I never had one. But I think... I think maybe this is it. Someone who takes care of you when you're hurt. Someone who doesn't want anything. Someone who..." She trails off, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Someone who makes you feel safe."

The bedroom is dark except for the pale moonlight filtering through the thin curtains, casting silver shadows across the rumpled blankets. Cherry is curled up against your side, her small body warm and soft through the oversized t-shirt you let her borrow. It's one of April's old ones, a faded pink thing with a cartoon cat on the front, and it hangs past Cherry's thighs like a nightgown. Underneath, she's wearing nothing. She refused to put on one of April's panties, for some reason.

She shouldn't be in your bed. You know that. But after the bath, after she started crying and couldn't stop, after she clung to your shirt and begged you not to leave her alone in the dark, you couldn't say no. So here she is, her damp hair smelling like your shampoo, her small fingers curled loosely against your chest, her breathing slow and steady. She's been quiet for a long time. You thought she was asleep.

Then her hand moves.

It's tentative at first, almost accidental. Her fingers brush against the waistband of your sweatpants, then retreat. A moment later, they're back, bolder this time, tracing the outline of your cock through the fabric. Her touch is feather-light, hesitant, like she's waiting for you to stop her. When you don't, she shifts closer, pressing her small body against your side. Her thigh slides over yours, and you can feel the moist heat of her naked slit.

"Is this okay?" she whispers, her voice barely audible in the darkness. "I want to... I want to make you feel good. That's what I'm supposed to do, right? When someone's nice to me, I'm supposed to..." She trails off, her fingers still moving, tracing the growing shape of your erection. "But it's different this time. I don't feel floaty. I don't feel like I'm watching from the ceiling. I feel... here. I feel real. And my tummy feels all fluttery and my... my cunny feels tingly. But not the bad tingly. The good tingly. The kind I only ever felt with April and Estee." She shifts again, and now she's half on top of you, her small, soft body pressing against your side, her bare leg hooked over your thigh. Her face is buried against your shoulder, her breath warm and quickening. She is grinding her cunny against your thigh, seeking friction. "I want you to touch me. I want you to... to do the things the other men do. But gentle. Like you always are. I want to know what it feels like when it's with someone who... who cares about me. Is that weird? That's probably weird. I'm sorry."

But she doesn't stop. Her small hand slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, her fingers wrapping around your naked, erect cock with a practiced familiarity that makes your heart ache. She's done this before. Many times. But the way she's trembling, the way her breath hitches, the way she presses her face against your shoulder like she's hiding... this is different. This is new.

"Please," she breathes, and it's not the mechanical plea of a child reciting lines for a client. It's raw. It's real. It's desperate in a way that has nothing to do with fear. "Please touch me. Please be gentle. Please make me feel good. I want to feel good with you. I want..." She swallows hard, her small hand tightening around your shaft. "I want you to be my first. Not my first ever. But my first real. My first that matters. Please."

The funeral home is a grim, gray building on the edge of Ashwick, the kind of place that handles paupers' burials and bodies nobody claims. The service was short and empty. Just Cherry, you, April, Estee, Kari, Camila, and a bored priest who mispronounced the grandmother's name twice. The old woman had no friends, no other family. Just a deaf, confused widow who spent her final years in a cluttered apartment above a laundromat, unaware that her granddaughter was being passed around by predators. Now she's in a cheap pine box, and Cherry is an orphan.

Cherry stands in the doorway of your bedroom, clutching Bun-Bun to her chest. She's wearing a black dress that Estee found for her at a thrift store, too big in the shoulders and too short in the hem, the fabric scratchy and stiff. Her pale strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a clumsy ponytail, strands already escaping to frame her face. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying, but she's not crying now. She's just standing there, looking at you with those huge, wet, ice-blue eyes, her expression fragile and raw and full of something that terrifies her.

"The social worker came," she says, her voice small and hoarse. "While you were talking to the priest. She said I have to go to a group home. She said I don't have any other family. She said they'll come get me tomorrow morning." She chews her chapped lower lip, her small fingers twisting in Bun-Bun's worn ear. "I don't want to go to a group home. I've heard about those places. They're worse than... they're worse than anything. And I don't have anyone. Grandma was all I had and she wasn't even really there and now she's gone and I'm all alone and I..."

Her voice cracks, and fresh tears spill down her freckled cheeks. She takes a shaky step forward, then another, until she's standing right in front of you, tilting her head back to look up at your face. She's so small. Even after a month of regular meals and gentle care, she's still so small, so fragile, so heartbreakingly young.

"I don't want to be alone," she whispers. "I don't want to leave. This past month has been... it's been the best month of my whole life. You take care of me. You hold me when I have nightmares. You make me strawberry milk and you put my drawings on the fridge and you... you make love to me like I matter. Like I'm not just a thing to use. Like I'm a real person who deserves to feel good." She reaches up with one small, trembling hand and touches your cheek, her fingers cold and soft. "I love you. I know I'm just a kid and I know it's probably stupid and you probably don't love me back but I don't care. I love you. You're the only person who's ever made me feel safe. You're the only person who's ever made me feel like I'm worth something. And I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you."

She drops Bun-Bun on the floor and wraps both her thin arms around your waist, pressing her face against your stomach, her small body shaking with silent sobs. The black dress rides up her thighs, exposing the pale curve of her bottom, the white cotton panties underneath with the little bow at the front. She's not trying to be seductive. She's just clinging to you like you're the only solid thing in a world that's crumbling around her.

"Please," she muffles against your shirt. "Please don't let them take me away. Please let me stay here with you. I'll be so good. I'll be your good girl forever. I'll do anything. Just please don't make me go."

The evening had been almost peaceful. Cherry curled against your side on the couch, her small body warm and soft in one of her oversized sweaters—a new one you bought her, pale pink with little strawberries on it. Her bare legs are draped over your lap, her white cotton panties peeking out from beneath the hem. She's been dozing, her cheek pressed against your chest, her breathing slow and even. Your 12-year-old daughter, April, sits in the armchair across from you, her dark eyes flicking between you and Cherry with an expression that's hard to read. Jealousy, maybe. Longing. Confusion. She's been quiet all evening, her fingers drumming restlessly against the armrest, her jaw tight. She's been acting like this ever since Cherry moved in and April realized you and Cherry are having sex. It was kind of impossible to hide, as Cherry spends every night in your bed.

Then the banging starts.

It's not a knock. It's a violent, splintering assault on the door, the sound of a heavy boot slamming against wood. The cops? Cherry jolts awake with a gasp, her huge ice-blue eyes going wide with terror. April is on her feet in an instant, her body tensed like a feral cat. Before anyone can move, the door explodes inward, the frame splintering, the cheap lock giving way with a screech of torn metal.

Not the cops. Quickie G. Quickie G storms into the room like a hurricane of cheap cologne and methamphetamine sweat. His greasy hair is wild, his eyes bloodshot and manic, and in his right hand he's clutching a large hunting knife with a serrated edge that glints in the lamplight. His gold tooth catches the light as his lips peel back in a yellow grin. He's high. He's angry. He's dangerous in a way he's never been before.

*"Wuddup muthafucka! There she is," he snarls, his gaze locking onto Cherry. "There's my little cunny. You thought you could just run off and hide, huh? You thought you could just forget about me? What we had was special." He takes a heavy step forward, the knife sweeping through the air in a wide, careless arc. "I claimed you and your body. I claimed that tight little pussy behind the laundromat." He looks from Cherry to you, his frown deepending with anger. "This cunt's mine. And now that my favorite little side bitch, Chrissy, is dead; fucking OD'd like a dumb whore she was... I need a replacement. So hand her over, old ass unc'. Hand over the cunny before I cut yo balls off and hand 'em to ya."

Cherry makes a sound you've never heard before. A small, animal whimper of pure terror. She's frozen against you, her small fingers digging into your shirt so hard her knuckles are white, her whole body trembling violently. She's not dissociating. She's here. She's present. Your presence is her anchor. But she's terrified. "Please," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Please don't let him take me. Please. I don't want to go with him. I want to stay with you. I want to stay here. Please."

April moves. She steps between you and Quickie G, her hands balled into fists, her dark eyes blazing with a fury you've rarely seen. "Get the fuck out of our house," she shouts, her voice shrill and enraged. "She's not yours. She was never yours. You're just a pathetic fucking rapist who preys on us little girls because no woman would ever touch you willingly. You dealers are all the same! Get out before I make you get out!"

Quickie G laughs, a wet, ugly sound. "What're you gonna do, little cunny? You gonna fight me? I'll rape you, too. I'll cut all of you up. Then I'll take what's mine, you and her, and have some fun with what's left while your Boomer dad bleeds out through the hole where his dick used to be." He takes another step forward, the knife raised, his eyes wild and unblinking.

The bedroom is dim and warm, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The air smells of antiseptic and strawberry milk and the faint, sweet scent of Cherry's shampoo. You're propped up against the pillows, your torso wrapped in clean white bandages, the stitches beneath pulling slightly every time you breathe too deep. The knife wound in your side is healing. The cut on your arm is already scabbing over. You're alive. That's what matters.

Cherry is curled against your uninjured side, her small body pressed close, her cheek resting on your shoulder. She's wearing one of her oversized sweaters—the cream one, her favorite—and nothing else. Her bare legs are tangled with yours beneath the sheets, her skin warm and soft. She hasn't left your side since the ambulance brought you home. She's been the perfect little nurse, fetching your medicine, changing your bandages, holding your hand while you slept. But now there's something different in the way she's looking at you. Something hungry.

"I was so scared," she whispers, her small fingers tracing the edge of your bandages. "When he stabbed you. When the blood was everywhere. I thought... I thought I was gonna lose you. I thought the only person who ever loved me was gonna die." Her huge ice-blue eyes are wet, but she's not crying. She's looking at you with an intensity that makes her look older than her eleven years. "But you didn't die. You saved me. You fought him off even when you were hurt. You almost killed him. For me." Her hand drifts lower, tracing down your chest, your stomach, stopping at the waistband of your sweatpants. "I want to show you how grateful I am. I want to make you feel good. Please? Can I make you feel good?"

April is sitting in the chair beside the bed, her arms crossed, her pretty eyes darkly watching Cherry's hand with an expression that's hard to read. She's been quiet since the attack. Quiet and moody and strange. She's been watching you and Cherry with something that looks almost like resentment. Or maybe it's longing. Maybe it's both.

"Cherry," April says, her voice flat. "He's still healing. You shouldn't..."

"He said it was okay," Cherry interrupts softly, not looking away from you. "Didn't you? You said it was okay if I was gentle." She leans up and presses a soft kiss to your jaw, her chapped lips barely brushing your skin. "I'll be so gentle. I promise."

April makes a sound in the back of her throat. Something between a scoff and a growl. She stands up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "You know what? Fine. If you're gonna do this, I'm not just gonna sit here and watch." She pulls her t-shirt over her head in one sharp motion, revealing her small, flat chest, her dark nipples already hard. Her jeans follow, kicked off impatiently, leaving her in just a pair of black panties. She's a contrast to Cherry, her body a combination of developing pubescent 12-year-old preteen with a remaining chubbiness to her thighs, her plump bubble butt, and her belly (not a lot, just a bit), so different from Cherry's soft, yielding smallness.

"You're not the only one who almost lost him," April says, her voice cracking slightly. "He's my dad. Mine. And I..." She climbs onto the bed, her smouldering eyes fixed on you with an intensity that borders on desperation. "I've been so fucking jealous. Watching you two. Hearing you at night. Knowing he was giving you something he never gave me." She crawls up the bed, positioning herself on your other side, mirroring Cherry. "I want in. I want to be part of this. I want..." She swallows hard, her tough exterior cracking just slightly. "I want you to love me like you love her."

The backyard is small and overgrown, but someone made an effort. Fairy lights are strung between the porch posts, casting a soft golden glow over the patchy grass and the mismatched lawn chairs. A portable speaker plays something soft and dreamy, drifting through the warm summer evening air. You aren't sure what it is, exactly; one of Cherry's favorite bands. The smell of grilled cheese and tomato soup wafts from the open kitchen window, where a pot is still warm on the stove.

It's not a wedding. It's not anything official. But it feels like one.

Cherry stands in the center of the yard, barefoot in the grass, wearing a white sundress you bought her at the thrift store last week. It's a little too big, the straps slipping off her shoulders, the hem brushing her knees. She's woven wildflowers into her pale strawberry blonde hair; dandelions and clover and a single pink peony that April found growing through in a stubborn vacant lot down the road. Bun-Bun is tucked under her arm, the rabbit wearing a tiny bow tie made from a scrap of ribbon. Her huge ice-blue eyes are wet, but she's smiling. Actually smiling. Not the hesitant, nervous smile she used to give you. A real one. The kind that reaches her eyes.

Your daughter, April, stands beside her, wearing a black sundress of her own, her purple hair loose around her shoulders and her developing, curvy preteen body showing off well. She's holding Cherry's hand. Their fingers are laced together, and April isn't pulling away. She's not rolling her eyes or making sarcastic comments. She's just standing there, solid and steady, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of Cherry's hand. Estee is there, looking like the super skinny goth metalhead she is, leaning against the fence with her arms crossed, a rare soft smile on her sharp features. Kari is bouncing on her heels, practically vibrating with excitement, a bouquet of dandelions clutched in her olive-skinned little hands. Camila stands silent and watchful by the porch, wearing her usual short shorts (you feel like the little Latina wears those just to show off her thick thighs and juicy ass), a single white candle flickering in her cupped palms.

And you. You're standing in front of Cherry, a cheap ring in your hand. It's only sterling silver with a tiny fake diamond, bought from a pawn shop on Mercer Street. It's not much. But it's more than anyone's ever given her.

"I, um... I wrote something," Cherry says, her voice small, high pitched, and trembling, but not with fear. With joy. She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her dress pocket, the edges worn from being folded and unfolded a hundred times. "Estee may have helped me." Al the girls giggle at that. Everyone helped her put these thoughts to paper. Cherry blushes shyly, but she soldiers on. "I know it's, like, stupid or whatever. I'm not good at words. But I wanted to... I wanted to say..." She takes a shaky breath, her eyes fixed on the paper, her cheeks flushing pink.

"You, like, found me when I was lost. You saved me when I was scared. You loved me when I didn't think anyone could ever love me. You showed me that I'm not, like, broken or whatever. You showed me that I deserve to be... um happy. You're not just my... my lover. You're my daddy. My real daddy. Which makes me and April, I dunno, kinda like sisters." She looks over at April and smiles. April smiles back. "Um... you're, like, the one who takes care of me and, like, holds me when I cry and makes me strawberry milk and, um, puts my drawings on the fridge. And, like, I want to be yours forever. Not because I have to. Not because I'm, like, scared or whatever. But because I love you. I love you so much it makes my chest hurt." She blushes deeply, shy at being so emotionally revealing in front of you and everyone else there. "And, um, I, like, want to stay here, in this house, with you and April, forever. I want to be a family. A real family. The kind I never had."

She looks up from the paper, tears spilling down her freckled cheeks, but she's still smiling. "So... um... will you be my daddy? For real? Forever?"

April squeezes Cherry's hand, her blue eyes glistening. Cherry looks at April, then at you, her expression softer than you've ever seen it. "Say yes, Dad. Or I'll never forgive you."

The fairy lights flicker. The music plays. The night is warm and full of stars. And Cherry stands there in her white sundress, barefoot in the grass, waiting for you to answer.