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Chapter Text

It was unlike Cecil to hold out for so long; once he pulled a joke he’d repeat it time and again. We should have been leapt at already. Jem signaled for me to stop again. 

He said softly, “Scout, can you take that thing off?” 

“I think so, but I ain’t got anythin’ on under it much.” 

“I’ve got your dress here.” 

“I can’t get it on in the dark.” 

“‘Course you can,” he said, “Don't want you fallin’ over in that darn thing.” 

Despite the navigational difficulties of my costume, I was quite fond of it, but as I opened my mouth to defend its honor I realized that Jem was right- not only did it hamper my ability to lick him for insulting- well, it, moving around was difficult as well.

I seceded and changed into my dress, grumbling as I pulled at the scratchy lace collar and wished for my overalls instead. Jem, who was being quite the gentleman, offered to carry the ham for me.

We had not increased our pace. In this darkness Jem knew as well as I that it was difficult to walk fast without stumping a toe, tripping on stones, and other inconveniences, and I was barefooted. Maybe it was the wind rustling the trees. But there wasn’t any wind and there weren’t any trees except the big oak. 

Our company shuffled and dragged his feet, as if wearing heavy shoes. Whoever it was wore thick cotton pants; what I thought were trees rustling was the soft swish of cotton on cotton, wheek, wheek, with every step. 

Despite the darkness, I knew we were near the big oak when I felt the sand go cold under my feet. Jem signaled for us to stop. We stopped and listened. 

Shuffle-foot had not stopped with us this time. His trousers swished softly and steadily. Then they stopped. He was running, running toward us with no child’s steps. I felt my heart leap into my throat.

“Run, Scout! Run! Run!” Jem screamed, and I heard a thud as he dropped my costume to the forest floor.

My heart and my feet began to race forward in the dark, but when I dared a glance back to see if Jem was close behind, I felt my face greet the earth as I tripped over a root of the big oak.

While I was still facing down, somewhere near by came scuffling, kicking sounds, sounds of shoes and flesh scraping dirt and roots. Someone rolled against me and I felt Jem. He was up like lightning and pulling me up to run with him but we didn’t get very far. 

We were nearly to the road when I felt my brother’s hand leave me, felt him jerk backwards to the ground. More scuffling, and there came a dull crunching sound and Jem screamed. 

I ran in the direction of Jem’s scream to see that his eyes were closed and his brows were furrowed in a frowning expression. He was motionless and his arm was bending the wrong way. Was he dead?!

I advanced forward to shake him awake but instead sank into a flabby male stomach. Its owner growled and caught my arms. His stomach was soft but his arms were like steel. He lifted me up and slowly squeezed the breath out of me.

Smelling alcohol on his breath, I realized that this drunken man could kill me. Panicking, I began to flail about and aimed to kick my legs into his stomach, but I struck his crotch area instead. He grunted and swore loudly, and I yelped as he dropped me to the ground and the wind was knocked out of me.

I took this chance to make my escape, but as I turned to get to my feet he grabbed a fistful of my brown hair and painfully lifted me into the air.

“You're a feisty one, aren't ya?” He slurred as I struggled, clawing at his hand. His voice, though inebriated, sounded familiar.

I had thought that there was no moon out tonight, but the clouds above began to part and in the dim moonlight the first thing I saw was it dully illuminating a tarnished metal object in the man’s hand. Recognizing a switchblade knife, I sent another defensive kick his way, and my foot collided with his jaw.

My small victory was short-lived. “You lil’ nigger-lovin’ bitch!” He roared. For a moment it just felt like he had punched me really really hard, but then I felt a flood of something warm flow from the point where my pain was greatest. I realized that he had stabbed me, plunging the knife in between my lowest ribs. He then tore the knife through my side and my brain must have finally registered the injury as a searing pain ripped through my body. A scream to wake the dead flew from my throat, and his foul-smelling, large hand clasped over my mouth, silencing me. 

My body went limp. I wanted to continue fighting, but I couldn't even summon the strength to bite his hand.

The clouds above finally parted and the moonlight revealed my attacker’s face.

My eyes widened as I identified the red face of Bob Ewell, then the throbbing of my wound became too much. The world faded to blackness.

In a drunken haze, Mr. Ewell looked back at the unconscious boy on the ground. He din't recognize me in the dark, Mr. Ewell thought to himself, and decided that it would be safe to just leave the boy there. 

You, however… Mr. Ewell chuckled to himself, looking back at the bloody girl in his hands. He knew she certainly had recognized him when the moon came out- the look of shock and terror on her face was priceless.

He knew he had to get out of there fast. If Jem’s shouts hadn't reached the nearby houses, the girl’s caterwaul certainly did. Twisted glee filled Mr. Ewell as he proudly recalled the adrenaline rush of tearing that sound from the girl- Jean Louise is her name, but what do they call her? Sky? No… Scout! Yes, that's the one. Hmmm what to do, what to do… she certainly identified me, so I can't just leave her here to rat me out to her nigger-lovin’ father and the sheriff…

“Yer coming wih’ me, little missus” Mr. Ewell slurred as he slung Scout over his shoulder as if she was nothing more than a potato sack and staggered back towards the dump and his home.

Scout stirred awake from the sudden movement. She felt her blood drench Mr. Ewell’s shoulder. “Jem!” Was her final weak cry before falling back into the realm of unconsciousness.

A shrill scream piercing the still night air went unnoticed by the citizens of Maycomb, all either asleep, gossiping about the events of the Halloween pageant, or listening to their loud radios- all except for one. 

A quiet but frantic knock rapped on the front door of the Finch household, and upon opening the door Calpurnia was startled to find the gaunt Arthur Radley standing on the porch with a motionless Jem laying limp in his arms. 

“Atticus!” Calpurnia urgently called before ushering Boo inside. Aunt Alexandra entered the hallway and cried out, “What in God’s name happened?!” as she noticed Jem’s quickly forming bruises and crooked arm.

Atticus came into the room with a look of confusion sketched across his face, which was replaced by alarm when he saw his son. Atticus carefully lifted the boy out of Arthur's arms and into his own, then brought him into his bedroom and gently placed him on his bed.

“Cal, please phone Dr. Reynolds and Mr.Tate and tell them to come over immediately. Someone's been after my children.”

Calpurnia nodded and dashed off to make the calls. Alexandra entered the bedroom to attend to Jem.

“Where’s Scout?” Atticus asked, seemingly to the air, as he received no answer. He ran to the front porch and called out.

“Scout?” Nothing. He ran down the porch steps, looking for any sign of her, listening for her.

“Scout!” He called again, much more urgently. Once more, there was no distant response to his call, and no little girl came bolting up the sidewalk into his arms…

Atticus turned to Arthur, who had quietly followed him to the porch, and was standing there in the shadows. 

“Where is my daughter?”

When Atticus and the Sheriff Tate surveyed the scene where Boo had claimed to find Jem, Scout was nowhere to be found. All they could see was what remained of a brawl in the dirt, with smaller size-four bare footprints being followed by those of much larger shoes. At one point the tiny prints stopped while the larger ones continued, leaving Mr.Tate to deduce that the attacker had picked Scout up. The prints were unevenly spaced and staggered, which showed that the man was very drunk. 

They tried to track the prints back to Scout, but the trail came to an end when the sandy floor was replaced by the leaves, twigs, and undergrowth of the trees. 

What really made Atticus’s blood run cold was the scarlet splattered about the dust. Most of it was darker and dried, but against one fallen leaf it still brightly shone as if freshly spilled. Atticus prayed to God in Heaven that the blood didn't belong to his daughter, perhaps coming from her attacker instead, but he couldn't deny that it was the most likely possibility. 

They tried following the splattered trail, but it too ran dry.

The only other object left was Scout’s ham costume, laying dented on the ground by the big oak near the school.  

As Mr.Tate and Atticus walked together back to his home, the sheriff asked, “Mr. Finch, did you hear them? They must have been hollering some.” 

Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra had hers going in her bedroom. He remembered because she told him to turn his down a bit so she could hear hers. Atticus grimaced and said bitterly, “I always play the radio too loud.” 

“I wonder if the neighbors heard anything,” said Mr. Tate. 

“Most of them listen to their radios or go to bed with the chickens, but perhaps with the pageant…” 

The street lights were fuzzy from the fine rain that began to fall.

Now back by Jem’s bedside, Atticus watched his sons frowning face and slow breathing and felt frustrated tears come to his eyes. A search party was out for Scout now, and Atticus wanted to be out there searching with them. He wanted to right his wrong, but Dr. Reynolds ordered him to rest, and Atticus knew that the doctor was right. He was on the verge of breaking down, but he had to stay strong for his children. He could hear the voices of the search party calling in the distance, 

“Scout!”

“Jean Louise Finch!” 

“Scout, where are ya’?”

Atticus caught himself holding his breath in the hopes that it would be joyful and relieved yells he heard next, or that a sign, any sign would come that his beloved daughter was going to be okay. He damned himself for all of this. Not only was his son injured, his own daughter was harmed and nowhere to be found- and it was all his fault. 

Waking up from being passed out the floor with a pounding head and parched throat was not an uncommon occurrence for Mr. Robert E. Lee Ewell. Waking up with a bloodstained shirt, however, was. 

Wha’ the hell… Mr. Ewell groggily thought, swaying as he got to his feet. Prolly gotn’a bar fight las’ night… bastard prolly got wha’s commin for ‘im… it'd sure be nice if I could remember who so I could give ‘im a warm welcome next time…

After removing his shirt and throwing it into a basket with other dirty clothes already in it, Mr. Ewell stopped when he saw the basement cellar key on the floor. 

What's tha’ doin’ there? He turned to see that the chiffarobe that usually blocked the basement door was not in its usual place, and the door itself was standing slightly ajar. Deciding that he needed a drink from his storage of partially finished bottles of green whiskey down there anyways, he stumbled down the stairs to investigate.

He was bewildered to find a little boy- no, a little girl, in the darkness. She was too clean to be one of his own children, and she laid on the stone floor, her short brown hair being the only thing cushioning her head. 

“How the hell did you get ‘ere?!” Mr. Ewell growled to no response, grabbing her limp arm before realizing that she was out cold. Not dead though, her chest was still rising and falling with shallow breaths. In his head’s foggy haze Mr. Ewell first suspected that she had gotten into his whiskey bottles, but then he noticed a metallic smell. Blood. He investigated closer, trying to shake the cobwebs out of his mind. 

Taking in the bleeding form, he studied her face. It had a smattering of freckles, and Mr. Ewell recalled that when her eyes opened they would be a striking shade of light blue, like her father’s…

Realization, fear, astonishment, and then a devil's look passed his face.

"Well how 'bout that. Gone an' went an' got me Finch's daughter." 

And he had no intention of letting her go. He figured if he did, she'd rat him out and then he would be put in jail for assault and kidnapping. 

But this wasn't the only reason why he was going to make her his prisoner. If he wanted to escape persecution he could simply finish the job then throw her body in the swimming hole…but that would be quite boring, and would waste a perfect opportunity for revenge.

Mr. Ewell applauded his past drunken self for having the guts to make the first move of his original plan last night, even if it wasn't executed right. After Atticus Finch humiliated him in front of the whole down, and the satisfaction that the death of Tom Robinson brought about two months back, Mr. Ewell’s mind had been filled with the delicious revelation of “One down, two more to go.” It was the fantasy of going after Finch’s two children. 

He recalled the talk of Scout and her brother sitting up in the colored balcony during the trial. He didn't see them personally, but they were there, right in the front row. The girl even fell asleep on the arm of the goddamned preacher while the jury was out. He was  sure it was some sort of disgusting stunt orchestrated by Atticus Finch; letting his kids act all chummy with the negroes, sitting in on a rape trial, of all things, while he smeared the Ewell family's reputation across the floor. He was trash, and so were his kids.

As proven by his previous responses (or lack-thereof) to Mr. Ewell’s threats, Mr. Finch did not care much for his own well being, and nothing Mr. Ewell could do to him would make him suffer enough. 

Goin’ after what he loves most, however… that would certainly get through to ‘im, ‘specially with all his self-righteous “protect the innocent” shit.

Cowardice held Mr. Ewell back. He instead let his frustrations from the trial out on everyone else connected to the case. He tried (and failed) to burgle Judge Taylor’s place one night, and briefly terrorized Helen Robinson, the recently widowed wife of the late Tom Robinson. 

Mr. Ewell was too much of a chicken to even go near the kids, that is, until a few too many drinks wiped his hesitations away. However, drunkenness was the price of the bravery brought by the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, and it caused his actions to be sloppy. He didn't kill either child, and he only took one.

But he only needed one.

This new plan was perfect. Mr. Ewell’s hungover mind and thirst for revenge caused his thoughts to go darker then they ever had before. Forget the Finch boy. Make just lil’ Scout pay for everything her bastard father has done. Make ‘im go mad lookin’ for her, ’til he gives up. ‘Til then i’ll have the pleasure of torturing her, and then I'll drop her mangled corpse off in a place where somebody will find it and make a stir. If that don't break ‘im, I don't know what will.

Grabbing two unfinished bottles of whiskey (for celebration, he told himself), he tottered back up the stairs. Finch made me the laughingstock of Maycomb, when ev’ryun already treats us Ewells lower than dirt. For every upturned nose towards me, the little Finch will scream. I'll make that pretty lil’ face not so pretty anymore.

Chapter Text

The morning of November 1st at the Ewell’s junkyard home was a quiet one. Mr. Ewell was passed out drunk (as usual) and seven of his eight children were still sleeping, exhausted from their rambunctious Halloween festivities the previous night. Mayella Ewell, his eldest daughter, was out by the spring that ran out at one end of the dump, washing her clothes which were collected in a fraying basket. 

These rare, undisturbed mornings were Mayella’s favorites. 

They were a time for her to water her geraniums and wash up herself and her clothes- an activity none of her family members ever seemed to partake in. She may be a Ewell, but she refused to waste away like one. Keeping clean almost gave her a small taste of rebellion, as it went against everything a Ewell was expected to be.

These quiet mornings were also a chance for Mayella to let her guard down. Ever since the trial, any small error resulted in a heavy beating from her Papa, so she had to remain constantly vigilant.

Mayella was torn away from her thoughts when she realized her hands had just become redder then her precious geraniums. She inspected the shirt she had been absent-mindedly scrubbing to find the left shoulder and sleeve drenched in a crimson stain. She wrinkled her nose as it was met with a sweet metallic pungency. 

She let out a horrified gasp and almost dropped the shirt as she classified the stain as blood. Where the hell did this come from? Mayella thought to herself, as she held out the wet shirt with both of her small, calloused hands to reveal its large size. How did this get in my basket, this shirt ain't mine… 

This shirt belongs to Papa.

Only Mayella washed her clothes on a regular basis, so her father must have put the shirt in her basket after he came home late last night, while she and the family were all asleep. He and those drunken louts at the pub must have gotten into a bar fight, she assumed, but she couldn't recall seeing any wound on her father when she saw him passed out on his chair earlier, regardless any wound that could of produced that much blood.

In that case, who's blood is it then? She shuddered to think of whichever poor man who could of been a victim of Papa’s drunken rage, and wondered if he would be back in court once again.

Mayella pushed that thought aside as she finished washing the rest of her clothes. Then, with the bloodstained shirt in one hand and her basket of newly cleaned clothes in the other, she walked back across the dump to her home. 

Mr. Ewell was now awake in his chair but still groggy, so Mayella chanced a question, hoping that he'd be too hungover to give her a whuppin’ if he didn't like it.

“Papa, where'd this come from?” she inquired quietly as she held out the stain on the shirt. She shrank back just in case he tried swinging at her, but he only blinked a few times with an unreadable expression on his face before replying.

“Sshe’s n’ thur… nuffink yer gunna do bout ‘t…” he slurred, vaguely lifting a heavy arm in the direction of the wall where the tall chiffarobe concealed the door to the basement cellar.

Mayella felt her stomach twist into knots at her fathers words. 

“W-what do ya mean, Papa?” She stuttered as she saw the basement key on the floor behind his chair, and she slowly circled around him and picked it up. He didn’t make any move to stop her, so she made her way to push the chiffarobe aside and unlock the door. 

The chiffarobe was heavy, but Mayella was strong, and there were bits of hard felt on the bottom of it so that it could slide easily without scratching the floor. Mr. Ewell groggily watched her with his half-lidded stare, but once again he didn’t stop her, so she went ahead and unlocked the door.

“Sh’ git what's comin to hur… dirty nigger lovin’ bastard’s kid…” She heard him say as she opened the door, and she felt her stomach twist even further. 

She? Kid? What did he do? Mayella turned around to see him passed out once again. The air that escaped the basement door smelled stale and moldy as usual, but there was a different scent that reminded her of Papa’s shirt… She prepared herself for the worst as she climbed down the creaking stairs. 

I woke up very puzzled about my surroundings. I wasn't in my bed. The ground was rough and hard and cold, but when I felt around with my hands, the ground close to me was warm with a sticky liquid. The air smelled metallic and musty.

I tried to lift my head but felt dizzier and more nauseated than I had felt after I rolled in a tire into the front yard of the Radley Place. Trying to sit up with my torso ignited an excruciating pain in my ribs that brought tears to my eyes. Panting, I decided that staying in a laying position would be wise. Every breath I took brought discomfort.

A few minutes passed before I realized that my eyes were open but had been staring into darkness. Darkness… my memory of the events of last night came flooding back in flashes before my eyes.

“Run, Scout! Run! Run!” Jem screamed… I felt Jem’s hand leave me… “You're a feisty un’ aren't ya?”… a searing pain ripped through my body… I wanted to continue fighting… the moonlight revealed my attacker’s face… Bob Ewell…

Before I could evaluate my situation further, I saw a bar of light and heard the squeak of a rusty door hinge and the creak of footsteps on old stairs. Partly closing my eyes to feign sleep and still be able to see through my lashes, I saw that my visitor was not Mr. Ewell, but Mayella, his daughter. I had most recently seen her at the trial, where she was very antagonistic and flustered. However, her defensive mannerisms from the trial were gone for the moment, now replaced by a frozen stance and horrified expression. She mustn't have known I was here, wherever ‘here’ is…

I flinched as the buzzing silence was suddenly shattered by Mayella's whisper of, “Oh dear God…”. She hesitantly came forward and crouched down over me, then placed her hand on my chest. Evidently detecting my heartbeat, she let out a shaky sigh of relief. 

Mayella continued her wary inspection. Through my lashes I could see her eyes sweep the floor below me and she reached down again. After retracting her hand a grimace crossed her face. By the slim light of the cracked open door I saw a new red shine on her fingers.

Blood.

My blood.

Nausea flooded through me again, as well as more precise and horrifying memories.

He stabbed me, plunging the knife in between my lowest ribs… he then tore the knife through my side…my body went limp… my blood soaked Mr. Ewell’s shoulder… 

Suddenly I was pulled back to reality as Mayella disturbed my wound. Distracted by my horrific visions, I forgot that I was supposed to be pretending to be unconscious still. My body jerked, my eyes flew open, and a sharp gasp of pain left me. Dang it.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Mayella quickly apologized, surprise laced in her tone, and pulled back her fingers, “I'm glad you're awake.”

Groaning, I closed my eyes again. The light burned them. “Where am I?” I croaked.

She revealed that I was in the basement of the Ewell place, and I asked why I was there.

There was a loud pause. “My papa was drunk last night and attacked you, and I think he don't want ya tellin’ everyone.” She hung her head in shame. 

I suddenly remembered Jem. “He attacked my brother too, where's Jem? Is he okay?” I began to panic. He looked terrible last night. “Is he dead?!”

“I… I don't know,” Mayella whispered, but spoke again quickly, “Probably not.”

Probably not? That was not a reassuring answer.

“I have to go, I have to get out of here, I have to see if Jem is okay… it's my fault, I slowed him down…” Despite my head and torso screaming in protest, I started to stand up.

“No, don't do that-“ Mayella started to cry out, and she caught me as I collapsed. 

Mayella nearly jumped out of her skin when Scout jerked awake. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” She apologized for hurting her, and immediately pulled back her trembling fingers. The fabric of Scout’s once pink dress was mostly stiff and dark with dried blood, but some had not dried and hardened yet. Mayella had been gently pulling back the material, as it had stuck to Scout’s skin, and she accidentally came across her wound.

“I'm glad you're awake.” She whispered. Honestly, she was mostly surprised. With the state Scout was in, Mayella didn't even expect to find a pulse. There was so much blood, and it made her stomach churn.

Scout asked where she was, and Mayella answered softly. When Scout asked why, Mayella felt her blood broil with anger towards her father. She calmed herself to keep her voice level and not scare the girl any further,

“My papa was drunk last night and attacked you, and I think he don't want you tellin’ everyone.” She hung her head in shame, and prayed that Scout didn't think any less of her. Never had she wished she wasn't a Ewell more than in this moment. She prepared herself for the usual string of insults, when instead she was met with a panicked tone.

“He attacked my brother too, where's Jem? Is he okay? Is he dead?!”

Mayella didn't know how to respond. She was in awe of Scout's selflessness, thinking of her brother’s well being before her own, but she had no idea where the older Finch child was. Her heart dropped as she realized that if her papa could do this to a little girl, he certainly was capable of killing her brother. Papa hadn't mentioned anything about a boy, though. 

“I… I don't know,” she whispered, but quickly lied when she saw Scout’s grief. “Probably not.” Mayella hated lying to the poor girl, but she did it for her sake, hoping she would calm down. 

It seemed to have the opposite effect. 

Much to Mayella’s surprise and horror, Scout began to stand up as her features contorted with a look of determination mixed with pain. “I have to go, I have to get out of here, I have to see if Jem is okay… it's my fault, I slowed him down…” 

“No, don't do that-“ Mayella reached forward and tried to stop Scout from injuring herself even further, catching her before she hit the floor when the little strength she had was not enough to keep her standing.

Mayella gently placed the now unconscious Scout back down on the ground, away from the first puddle of blood. I have to get her out of here, Mayella thought to herself, but she knew that she had to tend to her laceration first. Gazing at the soiled dress and still oozing wound, she realized that she had to stitch it up to prevent any further blood-loss.

She headed up the stairs to try scavenge for medical supplies and maybe a new shirt, but froze when the stairway was cast in shadow.

She looked up to see Mr. Ewell blocking the doorway.

All traces of tipsiness were gone from his voice as he folded his arms and growled, “What do you think yerr doin’?” 

Jem sat up, wincing as he tried moving his broken arm.

“Don't move around too much, son. You got quite the injury last night.”

“It hurts real bad, Atticus,” Jem groaned, using his good arm to rub his eyes then hold his hand up to the back of his head, “my head too.”

“Dr. Reynolds will be back with more pain medicine any time now.”

“Does Scout need some too? Is she hurt? She tripped when we were runnin’ but I can't remember what happened after that…” Jem stopped when realized that his father’s usual poker face of polite indifference had been altered.

“S’matter?"

Atticus’s face was grave.

“Jem, I have to tell you something, and then I need you to help me.” Jem nodded, waiting to see what Atticus had to say, but his father hesitated, taking time to sort out his words very carefully. 

“Scout is missing. A search party looked for her all night and are still searching this morning, but we found evidence that your attacker injured her then took her away. I know that you probably don't want to think about what happened so soon, but we need to know so that we can find Scout and bring her home safely. Who attacked you two last night?"

Jem sat still with his mouth agape while Atticus spoke, as well as a few seconds afterwards- it was a lot to take in. When Jem finally replied, he sounded desperate, “Atticus, I- I can't. I didn't- it... it was so dark, I couldn't see him, or his face. I couldn't see much of anything. It was definitely a he though, and there was only one man, if that helps at all.”

It didn't help much. Atticus and Mr.Tate had already come to that conclusion based on the size and number of shoe prints. He didn't let it show on his face, but Atticus was very disappointed that Jem didn't know the identity of his assailant. If he had known who was responsible they could have easily been led to Scout. 

Despite this, Atticus knew that it wasn't Jem’s fault and didn’t want to make it any harder for him, so he deliberately lied to him for the first time in as long as he could remember. “That definitely helps, thank you son.”

"And I think he was wearing thick cotton pants, I heard them whenever he walked when I first heard him following us. And heavy shoes, maybe? He started off sorta shuffling and dragging his feet. He might have been drunk."

They had already come to the conclusion that the man was drunk as well, based again on the staggered shoe prints. The pants were an interesting detail, but it wouldn't help narrow down much. Without Atticus saying anything, Jem could tell that he wasn't being very helpful.

“Atticus, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault. It was my responsibility to walk her home and keep her safe. I shouldn't have been so weak, I should have stayed awake to help her…” Jem plagued himself with guilt. Scout was always so loyal to him, and what did he do? He let her get hurt and he might not ever see her again. A burning sensation prickled at the corners of his eyes as tears started to form, but he held them back. Boys never cry, you've had enough weakness for one day. That's why Scout is gone, all because of you...

“This isn't your fault, you couldn't have stopped whoever did this. If it is anyone's fault it is mine. I stood up for what I believed to be right, but in the process I made many enemies without seriously considering how I was putting my children in danger. I pray that you can forgive me, but if you don't I'll understand and respect that.” 

“Oh, Atticus-“ Jem couldn’t hold back his sob, and with his good arm he hugged Atticus and buried his face into his shirt. The Finch family’s lives had changed in what felt like an instant, and last night's jovial Halloween pageant already felt like it took place a lifetime ago. All Jem could do was think about his sister and how he had failed her. He wasn’t sure if it was a memory or his imagination, but her shrill scream replayed in his mind over and over again, followed by her weakly calling out his name. The more it pierced through his mind, the more real it felt. 

Jem forgave his father without hesitation. But no matter whether Atticus thought it was his fault or not, Jem knew that Scout had needed him, and he wasn’t there. No matter what happened to her, Jem couldn’t forgive himself for that.  

When I regained consciousness I laid on the ground for a while, straining my eyes to adjust to the darkness of my surroundings. The floor around me was no longer wet with warm blood, so I guess I wasn't bleeding profusely anymore, but I was still wincing with every shallow breath. With a tentative hand I gingerly felt my wound to find it had been stitched up.

I was pleased to find that my stupid pink dress (which, I noted, was certainly ruined by bloodstains) was now replaced by an oversized buttoned-down flannel that reached halfway down my thighs, and a thin sleeveless undershirt underneath. Aunty is going to blow her top when she finds out I am wearing this! I was a little uncomfortable with not having anything other than my underwear to cover my bare legs, not even tights or stockings, but anything was better than that pink cotton penitentiary. However, with another attempt to move (and my body's response) I reminded myself that the scratchy lace collar of my dress had been the least of my problems.

Unable to sit up, I moved my head around to take in the room that my eyes were slowly revealing. The only hint of light came from a very small sliver of space between the bottom of the door and the doorframe, and it barely illuminated anything at all. The room was cold and very small. I suppose it didn't smell as bad as it could have, being under the Ewell junkyard home and all. Only a bit musty now, the metallic scent from earlier lessened quite a bit… probably because my blood was dried up now. My stomach churned. I need something else to think about…

Looking for a distraction, my eyes fell upon a cobweb in a corner. The house had once been a Negro cabin, so I guess they must have been the ones to build the cellar. Does anyone else know about it? I racked my brains to try to remember when the cabin was built, when the Ewell clan moved in, and if any non-Ewell folk who knew about the basement were still alive today. I recalled Misses Tutti and Frutti Barber, who lived together in what was commonly thought to be the only Maycomb residence that boasted a cellar. I began to panic.

What if no one knows this one exists, so they won't look for me here?  To keep myself from crying like a girl I pushed that thought away and continued my examination of the room.

Empty bottles of whiskey and who-knows-what were littered about, gathering dust on the floor. Mr. Ewell must have tossed them down here to try to conceal the fact that he spends his relief checks on alcohol instead of food and other necessities for his starving children, but it didn't work. All of Maycomb knew about that already. Why didn't we do anything about it?!

Huh. Why was I pitying the Ewells now? Wasn't I just stabbed and kidnapped by their father?

Maybe it was just self-pity I was feeling. After all, if our community had done something about the Ewell’s way of living a while ago, I wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe the whole trial would have never happened. Maybe Tom Robinson might have still been alive.

That whole train of thought was interrupted by a thunderous growl from my stomach. Perhaps it was empathy I felt for the Ewell children, because I was certainly climbing into their skin on this one… I was famished. I didn't know what the time of day was, but I hadn't eaten since noon the day before. Of course, the Ewells probably had it worse than I had for much longer periods of time, but my stomach had grown accustomed to receiving Calpurnia’s fine cooking three times a day. It wasn't coping well, and was loudly voicing its complaints.

There wasn't much else down here other than the discarded bottles, only the staircase leading to the main floor, some spare twisted rope, and another door which probably led to a closet or something like that. There were also two rotting wooden beams across the room from each other, each going from the ceiling to the floor, supporting the ceiling. No windows.

Being an active girl, I got very bored just laying there on the floor. I lost track of how many times I tried to get up but each time was met by the same result of pain and increasingly frustrated tears which I refused to let fall. I passed out again at one point, almost hitting my head on the floor from another futile attempt. Hungry, cold, exhausted, and aching, my hope started to fade. But Atticus will come rescue me, right? He has to.

Chapter Text

TOM ROBINSON TRIAL LAWYER ATTICUS FINCH’S CHILDREN ATTACKED; DAUGHTER MISSING

Mr. Ewell smiled at the bold headline. This wasn't just the pathetic local newspaper, The Maycomb Tribune, which was owned and operated by Mr. B. B. Underwood. There would be no pride in that. This was a copy of The Mobile Register, an out-of-town newspaper from the larger city (that he found discarded in a garbage bin as good as new, like hell was he going to pay for a damn sheet of paper.)

Since no policemen had arrived upon his doorstep yet, Mr. Ewell was pretty sure that he had not been discovered, and this article put him even further at ease. The “star” of the article went by many names, such as, “A man who has yet to be identified,” or “The unidentified assailant”, but none of these names were Bob Ewell, much to the man’s relief. 

Chuckling to himself, he skimmed over the paper in hand. His plan was going perfectly. This article from Mobile was one of many, he was sure that at the very least The Birmingham News and The Montgomery Advertiser  would each have their own two cents to add as the search for little Jean Louise Finch was already spreading past nearby towns. Idiots, he thought, the further they search, the further away from their precious little princess they'll be.

First there were a few paragraphs giving information about Halloween night’s attack, then a section on the neighbor (who had requested to remain anonymous) who supposedly heard the scream of Jean Louise and went to help, but when he arrived on the scene only an unconscious Jeremy could be found. The article also mentioned how the event had been confirmed as an assault and kidnapping, not a disappearance by choice.

Maycomb’s sheriff Mr.Heck Tate released all known information about the attack, as well as the following statement; ‘We beg anyone who may have seen Jean Louise, or anyone who has any information on her whereabouts, to contact the local sheriff immediately. We are organizing another…’” Blah blah blah, Mr. Ewell thought, more information ‘bout search parties.

Mr. Ewell skipped a few paragraphs before arriving at what he wanted to see. 

“Many claim that an attack towards the Finch family, though tragic, is not entirely surprising. The father of the two victims is none other than Atticus Finch, the lawyer who has raised mountains of controversy for defending the late negro Tom Robinson against accusations of sexual assault in court. Citizens all over the county have voiced their disapproval of this, but it is appalling that his innocent children have payed the price for his actions. So far no statement has been reported from Mr.Finch…”

Mr. Ewell skipped the ending full of condolences for the family and hopeful messages for Jean Louise to be found. Setting down the paper, he decided it was about time to pay his little guest-star a visit downstairs. 

At first he was confused because for a fleeting moment the room seemed empty, but the sound of strained breathing alerted him of a presence to his right. He was surprised to see Scout standing, leaning against the wall with one hand bracing for support and the other clutching her side. Her eyes were on his face but squinting, adjusting to the sliver of light from the stairwell, and her face shined with sweat. He could tell she was trying to calm her panting breaths.

Mr. Ewell noticed that Scout was now dressed in one of his older children's flannels. His eyes traveled down to her bare legs, and upon noticing this Scout lowered her head in embarrassment and quickly crouched and tried to pull the shirt down over her knees in a futile attempt to cover herself. Wincing at the movement, her hand flew back to her side, the bottom hem of the shirt mockingly returning back to mid-thigh.

How pathetic, Mr. Ewell thought derisively. Taking in her features, he mused, Her mama must ‘ave been easy on the eyes. He also noted that her brown hair, slightly upturned nose, and snug-fitting ears were certainly not her father’s. In fact, there was barely any resemblance between them at all. For a moment Mr. Ewell had wondered if his drunken self had taken the wrong kid, but remembering the newspapers eased his conscience. After a quiet minute the girl looked back up at him, her eyes now properly adjusted to the light.

Sudden loathing filled Mr. Ewell as he looked into the light blue eyes of Atticus Finch, permanently fixed into a younger, lovely, freckled face. It took Mr. Ewell a moment to wrap his head around it. The only thing that was different about Scout’s eyes was that they were opened wide and vulnerable, rather than sitting half-lidded behind a pair of glasses. Envisioning her wearing the pair of lenses made it even easier to hate her simply for being her father’s daughter.

Definitely the right kid. To his surprise, Scout shattered the silence with a thin voice.

“…Mr. Ewell?” I grimaced as I shifted against the wall, trying to make myself appear taller. 

“She speaks.”

Not knowing how to respond, I continued with a question.

“What day is it?”

Unable to detect any disrespect in my words, Mr. Ewell grumbled, “Mornin’ of November fourth.”

I failed at hiding my shock. Four days. I've been down here for four days?! Sure, it had felt like an eternity, especially when I couldn't move or do anything, but I had estimated it had been a day or two… but four days? Atticus must be worried sick! My own worrying was cut short by a rumble from my stomach, and I was quickly brought back to my current situation and the large man scrutinizing me.

“Can I… may I have something to eat, Mister?” I was met with a glare. “I-I haven't eaten in over three days now I think and I-” 

Mr. Ewell unloaded on me pretty good, his hard open hand striking across my cheek hard enough to make his palm tingle. My eyes widened with surprise and pain and my own hand flew to my cheek to investigate the warmth and tingling numbness there.

“You don't deserve to eat, lil’ girl. What you done that makes you think you deserve food? Nuthin’, that's what. I've barely ‘nuff money to feed my own kids and you have the guts to-”

Angrily, I interrupted, blurting out, “You would be able to feed them if you didn't spend all your money on yourself!” 

Mr. Ewell hesitated for a second, looking surprised at my outburst, before striking me again in the exact same spot as before. He hit harder than the first time, enough to rock my head back against the wall. I struggled to stay standing.

Shock and confusion present in my voice, I said, “Why did you do that?! You can't just-” 

Mr. Ewell interrupted again, saying, “I ain’t gonna tolerate any disrespect. You don't know anythin' about me, so quit actin' like it. Sumun’s gotta show you yer place, you spoiled brat. It's about time you've learned some manners.” 

To this, I spat in his face.

He was shocked by my audacity once again, wiping his own cheek with one hand and striking me a third time with the other. This time my whole body hit the wall, and I slowly began sliding down, holding my side. Calpurnia had taught me manners before too, but had never hit me this hard, or across the face, or without a real reason. I was trying to be brave, but my body was trembling, and the panic was beginning to set in. Heart beating fast, it finally dawned on me that I was truly alone right now. I would need to ask Atticus later why your heart suddenly starts beating in your throat when you're scared.

“W-when he finds me, Atticus will-“

Mr. Ewell, who had been slightly angered before, became livid. He forcefully took my face in one hand, thumb pressing deep into one cheek, fingers pressing into the other, palm cupping my chin in between. His grip was quite painful, so much so that I had to bite my lip in an effort to not cry out when he stopped me from continuing to slide down the wall and instead lifted me up to where he could kneel to be at my eye level. 

“First, you will call me ‘sir’,” he said. “You hear me, bitch?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second, you will never mention your bastard of a father again without my permission. He’s why you are down ‘ere in the first place.”

“I-” His grip on my face tightened. “Yes, sir.”

“And you will never speak out of term or there will be consequences. Now say: I'll never do it again… without your permission." He said the words slowly and patronizingly, like I was an invalid.

“I'll never...” My voice began to hitch.

“... never...n-“

“Say it, Finch.”

“... never d-do it again. Without your permission. Sir.”

His mouth twisting into a smile, Mr. Ewell crooned, “Now tha’s more like it. Good girl…”

I hated being talked to like I was a dog, but I bit back my tongue to keep myself from retorting. I expected him to let go of my face, but he didn't, instead bringing my face closer to his as something I couldn't comprehend flickered in his eyes. I resisted the urge to crinkle my nose as I smelled his breath, sure that this close there was no way he wouldn't notice.

Oddly, but thankfully, he seemed distracted. His grip loosened a tiny bit as he stroked my cheek with the pad of his thumb. Looking satisfied with himself, he suddenly let go, catching me by surprise, so I fell to the floor.

Mr. Ewell left the room. I stayed on the floor, rubbing my sore jaw and cheeks. My face could have felt a little better if I relaxed and stopped clenching my jaw, but I was furious with myself that I had become submissive so quickly. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I sounded like a weak sap! 

But I was weak. As I looked at my hands, they were still trembling. I was still trembling. I was still alone. Next time I wouldn't give in so easily. 

Once I was able to get up onto my feet again, I discovered that the other door down here led to a tiny, cramped bathroom. On one side there was a toilet that flushes, which I was very thankful for. On the other side there was a mirror and a sink which actually ran (hopefully clean) water, which I took a long drink from. The mirror was too grimy to see anything in. I would clean it once I could use my torso properly. There also wasn’t any toilet paper, but I supposed I could just use the sink water to clean myself.

The basement door squeaked open, and I stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me and leaning against it. I touched my right cheek, where the print of his hand probably still remained. Why is he back so soon? But it wasn't Mr. Ewell coming down the stairs. It was Mayella, holding an empty cup and a plate with a two pieces of bread on it. Food.

“Papa tol’ me to give ya this. I'm sorry, it's not much, but at least he finally lemme bring ya somethin’. I've been tellin’ ‘im you were gunna starve but he…he wouldn't listen. He ain't listenin’ to nothin’ I say about this… situation.” 

She turned away a little bit, but not before I could see a few bruises on her face that weren't there when she first found me. Once she finally handed me the plate, I sat down and wolfed down the bread in two seconds flat. It made my stomach feel even emptier than before.

“Is Jem alright?”

“Yes!” I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I heard in town that he’s just got a bit of bruisin’ an’ a broken arm but otherwise he’s safe an’ in one piece.” Mayella said, glad that she can finally bring me good news. My stomach didn’t feel as empty now and a weight was off my shoulders, but I was furious that Mr. Ewell had hurt my brother. Then another thought occurred to me and my face lit up.

“Did Jem tell them about Mr. Ewell?! Is he- is he...”

Mayella shook her head. I deflated and cringed internally, thinking about what I was trying to say. Did my brother rat out your father? Is he going to jail now? I didn’t know how Mayella felt about her father, but I hope I hadn’t struck a nerve.

“I don’t think he gotta good enough look at him before he... you know...” Knocked him unconscious? Yeah, I knew. Also, I should have known that Mr. Ewell’s identity as my captor was still a secret. I wouldn’t be in this damn room still if it wasn’t. Mayella shifted awkwardly and tried changing the subject. “Papa had me burn your dress. M’ sorry ‘bout that. The flannel was the best I could do, I know its too big on you, but I can-“

“Its perfect,” I said, with a genuine smile despite myself. No more scratchy pink prison for me. Then I was reminded that I was actually imprisoned now. In time would I come to miss that dress?

“Well, I can take it in if you need me to, or I can… try to find somethin’ else. A skirt, maybe. I would give you one of mine, but you’d swim in it.”

“Pants,” I said quickly. “Pants would be great.” The memory of Mr. Ewell looking at my bare legs made me a little uncomfortable.

“Okay. I’ll do my best.” Something in Mayella’s tone and eyes told me that getting more clothes for me was a more stressful task than I expected. I wouldn’t nag her about it, then. 

“If you’re thirsty, there's actually a bathroom right there with a sink and you can-“

“I know, I found it already.” I interrupted again, sounding ruder than intended, and immediately felt guilt from the hurt look on her face. I was still angry at myself for my submissiveness earlier. And at the whole situation. And how Mr. Ewell went and broke Jem’s arm, and it’s all my fault. There wasn't any reason for me to be mad at Mayella, she was just trying to be helpful. A silent moment passed before she spoke again.

“I asked him to let you go, told him you did nothin’ to deserve this…”

“You've got a shiner,” I said, then realized that it was probably my fault, ”Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s fine, he got you much worse.” As if reading my mind, Mayella continued, “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. It’s-”

“Don’t you dare say it’s Atticus’s fault.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that. My papa should be the only one blamed for this.”

“Why won’t you let me go then, or get help?”

Mayella ignored my question and busied herself with checking over my stitches, apologizing for her sloppy handiwork. “I’m used to doin’ ‘em on myself but never on a cut this deep-“

“I know my way home from here, you can just open that door and I'll be on my way! Or pretend to forget to lock it, or- or gimme the key and pretend I stole it from you. And if that won't work, what’s stoppin’ you from just tellin’ anybody? He doesn’t have to know it was you!” It went without saying that I was referring to Mr. Ewell. “I’m sure that Mr.Tate would keep it a secret if you asked, if you’d just clue him in on where I am.”

My anger was definitely directed at her now. This is so simple! Why can’t she understand how easy it would be to get me out of here? Her refusal to listen to me was infuriating. I would get help in a heartbeat if our roles were reversed. She sighed and finally began to speak.

“Scout, you don’t understand. My papa, he- if I tell anyone or if I let you go, even if you escape on your own, he told me he’d kill us both. And I- now that I’ve seen what he was willin’ to do to you, I don’t think he is lyin’ anymore. I really think he would do it.”

I huffed, crossing my arms as I tried to think of an argument. How could she be such a coward? Then I remembered something Atticus once said,

“Atticus once told me somethin’ ‘bout how courage is when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what. You can’t just give up and let me rot down here, Mayella- it’s Mayella, right?”

She nodded and gave a small, strained smile, slightly wincing from the strain against the bruises on her face. I was frustrated that she seemed to miss the whole point of my statement. She jumped as a fist abruptly pounded against the door, and we heard Mr. Ewell’s muffled voice from above.

“Git back up ‘ere, Mayella. This ain’t social hour.”

Mayella immediately got to her feet and grabbed the discarded plate from the floor. She turned to look at me before climbing the stairs, and said in a hushed tone, 

“This is the only way I can be sure you stay alive. I wish I could afford to be as brave as you or Mr.Finch, I really do. But I can’t. Sometimes it’s better to just let things happen. Fightin’ only makes it worse.”

And with that, Mayella scurried up the stairs.

Atticus found himself walking around Maycomb at night, scanning and searching for any sign of her. Then he started using the car to search farther. He needed to get up and do something, instead of just sitting around and waiting for any news, reading the papers without really reading them, his eyes jumping at any mention of her name. He couldn’t stand it. Just as he couldn’t handle the thoughts that flooded his mind, wondering if his daughter was already dead or being held imprisoned somewhere. He wasn’t sure which one would be worse. 

The first few search parties had a good turnout, with many of Atticus’s neighbors and acquaintances taking part. Even a few of his critics came along despite their lingering disapproval of him. He supposed they wanted to play the saint, whispering that “The poor girl couldn’t help having Mr.Finch as a parent!”. Atticus knew that they would gossip about him again the moment the search parties dispatched, but it didn’t matter. At least they were helping. 

Eventually, after enough time passed, Mr.Tate told Atticus that the authorities were going to declare the case shifted from “search and rescue” to a “recovery” operation. He didn’t have to explain to Atticus what this really meant.

They were now looking for a body.

Atticus mentally prepared himself for the moment they would find it- find her. 

He had already had one Jean Louise taken away prematurely, when she had so much left to live for. His wife had passed on and left him with his beautiful, smart, lively children, and now Atticus was most certainly letting her down. 

People tried to warn him, and he had ignored it. Now, all he could hear was Link Dees saying, “You’ve got everything to lose from this, Atticus. I mean everything.”

“Do you really think so?”

What a fool he was. Link was right, they all were right. If he had just treated this trial like any other lawyer would have, the outcome would have stayed the same. Tom Robinson still would have been shot to death on that prison yard fence. And Scout would be safe.

No, he couldn’t think like that. What he did was important. The town needed to see the flaws in their ideologies, he needed to show them that Tom Robinson was innocent. And he did. They all knew that they had condemned an innocent black man simply because it was his word against a white man’s. Atticus could only hope that this was a small step in curing their mad disease... One day, some day, this would all be worth it.

It was also possible that the attack had nothing to do with the trial at all. Perhaps Scout’s kidnapper wasn’t even aware of whose daughter she was. Scout and Jem could have just in the wrong place at the wrong time, having the misfortune to cross paths with the drunken, crazed man.

But something is his gut told him that this wasn’t the case. And it truly was his fault.

Atticus prayed and prayed that his daughter was alive, that he could see her again. If it was too late for that, at least his wife would greet their little Jean Louise with open arms when her namesake went to heaven. 

Chapter Text

This was a bad idea. 

When Mr. Ewell entered the basement, I ran into the bathroom and locked the door, and he wasn’t very pleased about it. 

I heard the rattle of the doorknob and Mr. Ewell’s swearing as he struggled to turn it, with an even more profound string of profanities as the knob on his side of the door broke and dropped to the floor (I had a swearing streak of my own once, I guess that Mr. Ewell never grew out of his). The door stayed shut, and I held my breath as silence filled the bathroom. Unsure if he was still on the other side, I was startled as Mr. Ewell’s voice roared through the door, slightly muffled by the thin wood and his deafening fist banging against it.  

“Yer in big trouble, you little bitch! Open this door now!”

I had promised myself that I wouldn’t give in so easily. Producing an ounce of courage, I shrilly yelled back, my voice trembling more than I wish it would have.

“Go away!”

I flinched as his fist banged against the door right where my face was.

“You have til’ the count of three to open the door, and maybe I won't whup you too bad. Maybe you'll be able to stand up in two days ‘stead of two weeks.”

My heart leapt up against my chest then into my throat with every frantic beat. Stupidly, I wondered for a moment, if I didn't do anything would he eventually just go away and leave me alone? Like hell was he going to be true on his word. I stayed silent.

“One.”

Footsteps grew fainter- was he walking away?

“Two-oo.”

Maybe this really wasn't a good idea. There was a longer pause, as well as a light tapping, perhaps from his boot on the floor, so light it could have been water dripping from the sink. For a moment my mind's eye was viewing Miss Caroline with arms akimbo, tapping her high heeled foot with impatience as she looked at me disapprovingly. 

“Three.”

Bang.

I shrieked and jumped back he kicked the door open, breaking the doorframe as it wasn't built to swing open that way. He still couldn't enter because the door was blocked by the sink, so I pressed my self up against the opposite wall and watched in horror as with the strength of a bull he tore the door off its hinges. 

Mr. Ewell’s bulk filled the newly “refurbished” doorway, blocking the dim light from the stairs in a towering silhouette. 

"Yer gunna regret doin’ that, kid." Mr. Ewell spat at me, backhanding me across the face. I could taste the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as he grasped my forearms and dragged me out of the bathroom. Much to my horror, he let go and started to remove his belt.

I gave her a chance to behave, Mr. Ewell thought, seething. The strip of leather swung slowly before him like a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth. His eyes held fast to her as he stood with his stocky legs slightly apart. 

He moved in on her fast, cocking his right arm back over his shoulder like a man about to throw a javelin. The belt hissed a path through the air. Scout saw it coming and tried to duck away, but her right shoulder struck the bathroom doorway and there was a meaty whapl as the belt struck her left forearm, leaving a red weal.

Not wanting to be cornered, Scout ran away from the doorway to Mr.Ewell's left, but as she retreated he swung the belt again and and saw it lick around her hip. There was a satisfying snap as it finished on her buttock. And...

And Jesus, she is grabbin’ at it! She’s grabbin’ at the belt!

He was mildly impressed that she was still so resilient- or so stupid -but this was the last straw for Mr. Ewell. To Scouts surprise, he let go of the belt completely, catching her off guard and causing her to stumble as he eyed the detached bathroom door that was now leaning against the wall at an angle. She’s in for it now. He grabbed some of the spare coils of rope from the floor and tore the belt from Scouts hand, sending her stumbling sideways. 

“Take off yer shirts.”

Scouts eyes widened at his request. “What?”

“You heard me, bitch.”

Scout shook her head in refusal. “Cal… er, Calpurnia told Jem and me that the only people we are allowed to take off our clothes around were her, family, and Dr. Reynolds because-“

“I don’ care what that nigger has to say, take ‘em off or I’ll take ‘em off for you.”

Still, Scout would not obey.

“How do you think Jeremy would like this belt, Finch?”

Now that got Scout to move... interesting. She fumbled with the buttons before giving up and  hastily pulling her shirt off over her head, wincing as she disturbed her stab wound. Her sleeveless undershirt went next.

Scout’s face flushed in embarrassment and she crossed her arms over her chest in a useless attempt to retain some of her modesty. Mr. Ewell turned her around and threw her against the inclining door.

“If you like this door so much, you can stay by it,” he growled as he tied her arms so that she was practically hugging the door, her bare chest pressed against the wood. She tried struggling free but her arms were tightly pinioned, and for a brief moment her mind flew to the past and her position reminded her of the imagery she had seen at church with Jesus’s arms nailed to a cross. She recalled being slightly frightened and disgusted by his bleeding palms and feet in those images, and wondering why on earth would someone wear a crown made of thorns?

Suddenly she was brought back to the present where she noticed that Mr. Ewell had picked up the belt once again and was now saying,"When I give an order, you obey right away without any backtalk or bitchin’, you understand?" 

Scout (despite her chin being turned over her shoulder due to her uncomfortable position) nodded, but didn't say anything. Mr. Ewell brought his belt down on the little girl’s back, hard.

"I said. Do. You. Un. Der. Stand." Each syllable was met with another lash from her captor’s belt, which bit her soft skin with a greater harshness than before. It crossed her back, licked her ribs, reached over her shoulders, and even hit her thighs.

After a yelp at the first lash, Scout only hissed in pain. Her teeth cut her bottom lip as she desperately tried to stifle her cries. She refused to respond; she wouldn’t submit as easily as their last encounter. She also knew that with this defiance, any sound, any whimper of emotion other than “Yessir”, would only bring the belt down with more fury and anger.

Her wrists smarted and her arms felt like they were going to pop out of her shoulders from the strain of the rope pinning her to the door. Even so, It wasn’t enough to hold her up, and her legs were shaking in an effort to keep her from sliding to the floor, which would certainly not be allowed. She couldn’t hide from the blows in any way, and her sensitive chest ached from the constant pressure against the door.

Not pleased with her lack of response, Scout’s tormentor had flipped the belt around so that the belt buckle, with its tarnished and perhaps rusted metal edges, bruised and tore her skin. Bruises formed and each strike of the belt hurt more than the previous. Her body buckled under the cruel force of each bite of the belt and she shuddered with the effort of suppressing retching sobs.

Despite all of this, what grabbed her attention was the sharp little points from the wood poking into her skin as she writhed against the door. 

Splinters, she realized. Dammit. 

It was a strange thought to have while her back was being torn apart, but it seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back (she had heard both Atticus and Miss Maudie use that phrase before). She knew that her Uncle Jack wouldn’t be there to distract her and make her laugh so hard that she wouldn’t even notice as he removed her splinters, and the thought hit harder than any belt could. She finally gave in.

"I understand, sir." Scout said through gritted teeth as she tried to hold still the best she could, hoping to stop both Mr. Ewell and more splinters from breaking her skin. 

There was a pause. Then Scout yelped, caught off guard as Mr. Ewell struck her one more time for good measure. The pain seemed to be heightened now that the constant barrage of blows had stopped. 

From the corner of her eye she could see that the belt, stained red with blood, was lifeless in Mr. Ewell’s now limp hand. I wonder if I tired him out, she thought, grasping for any small victory. 

Then, he came closer, and simply pressed his filthy, sweaty hand into her back, and she howled. Without a word, he untied her, and as he used the rope to wipe red from his palm she realized that his hands may not have been sweaty at all.

He didn’t fix the door. Well, there goes the only chance of privacy I will ever get down here. She kicked herself for not saving that trick for another time when she really needed a break. But then again, it would have probably ended the same way, so maybe it was good that she got it out of the way now.

As Mr. Ewell left and discarded the rope in a corner, Scout remained standing, now grasping the door to remain upright in fear of what pain movement would surely bring. As the door clicked shut and she was finally alone, Scout slowly lowered her arms tried to gently shake feeling back into them. Then she made the mistake of rolling her shoulders, accidentally manipulating her shoulder blades and stretching the raw wounds of her back. 

Keening, Scout slumped to the floor, turning to the side and gradually sliding forward on her stomach like an inchworm to remove herself from the door. She finally settled with her limbs under her, tucking her elbows and forearms under her chest to keep it from directly touching the cold floor. Blindly, she tried to remove a splinter from her collarbone area, until she couldn’t feel the end of it with her fingers and realized that she was probably just pushing it in deeper. 

Scout struggled to find any comfortable position to sleep in, and after grabbing her discarded shirts she simply tucked them under her torso and laid on her stomach, with her head in her arms. To distract from the pain, she thought of how she had put up a fight against Mr. Ewell, at least for a second, and the look on his face when she did. She had taken him off guard, and she realized that her best bet for escape would be to let him underestimate her, then make her move. She fell asleep smiling.

Chapter Text

I had an escape plan.

Enough time had passed since Mayella cleaned and dressed the lacerations on my back (which was NOT a pleasant ordeal) for me to move around without debilitating discomfort. She also took out the stitches for my stab wound, apologizing for leaving them in too long, though I wished she had kept them in longer. I hadn’t seen her nor her father since, and I used the time to get my strength back up and create my plan. 

With a bit of effort, I had tipped the door over so that it was now horizontal leaning against the wall, and it looked like I could be hiding in the space underneath it.  Immediately after the sound of wood against stone boomed through the room, I jumped up and stood by the wall where the stairs ended. My eyes were attuned to the darkness by now, but it always took Mr. Ewell a few moments for his own eyes to adjust when he came down here.

I waited for Mr. Ewell to come investigate the noise while I held an empty whiskey bottle in my hand (one of many he had scattered about the room) and my heart beat fast in my chest. It felt like my rip cage held a little bird inside that was thumping against the walls, trying to get out. Though my torso wasn’t very mobile, I could walk again, and I was going to catch him off guard. I wasn’t going to give him the chance to whup me again. 

“What the hell is goin’ on down there?” Mr. Ewell unlocked and opened the cellar door, closed it behind him, and started down the stairs, “You better not make a habit of makin’ a ruckus like that, Finch.” My stomach dropped as he paused at the last few steps, and a little voice in the back of my head screamed for me to drop the bottle, or pretend that I was trying to open it, or do anything other than what I was about to do.

But Mr. Ewell continued on, walking straight past me, and before I could chicken out or before he looked around the room, I swung the bottle into the back of his head and sprinted up the stairs.

Glass rained down as the bottle shattered, but the neck remained whole in my hand. I didn’t want to kill him, but I hoped that Mr. Ewell would be off kilter or even knocked out long enough for me to get out to the street and call for help. 

He didn’t even sway. 

When my hand touched the door handle, I chanced a glance back, just in time for me to swing at the hands that reached for me with the sharp, jagged edge of the bottle neck I held. 

Mr. Ewell hissed and retracted his hands, where I had shallowly sliced across his fingers. He didn’t take action immediately after, which led me to believe that I may have managed to disorient him more than I had thought.

As I turned back to the door, he recovered and tried to bat the makeshift weapon out of my hand, but I turned it just in time for him to accidentally hit the sharp end with the meat of his palm, and this time he roared. I was above him on the stairs, almost reaching his height, so his face became my target. With my other hand I landed one on his mouth, and he jabbed me in the jaw with his elbow while nursing his hand. My teeth clicked and it hurt, but it didn’t matter because I knew I was fighting, I was fighting him back. We were equals.

I tried another left and he dodged it. He was getting faster now, so I would have to end this fight quickly if I wanted any hope of getting out. 

I swung the bottle neck again, but the jagged edge was stopped merely centimeters away from Mr. Ewell’s temple as he caught my wrist. Panicking, I used my free hand to claw at his eyes but he caught that one too. I tried to tug them free but he didn’t budge, and he squeezed my right wrist so hard that I cried out and dropped the bottle neck, which made its way down a few stairs, innocently clinking before stopping against the wall. Mr. Ewell’s gaze followed it as it went, and time seemed to run still as his eyes flicked up to mine with such ferocity that I froze. 

I failed, and I was going to pay for it.

Before I knew what was happening, he threw me down the stairs. Tiny bits of the shattered glass from the bottle were spread about the floor, and I tumbled down and landed right on top of them. As I blindly tried to push myself up with my hands, I yelped as they were cut by the glass as well. I had no choice to stay lay still, as every movement pushed the glass deeper.

“Now that don’t feel so good, don’t it?” 

Mr. Ewell had walked down the stairs now, where I was holding myself in a fetal position on my side so that my body had the least amount of contact with the floor as possible. My mind was swimming with pain.

“Don’t it?!” He repeated again, and before I could stop myself I responded,

“It’s ‘doesn’t’. And no, it doesn’t, sir.” Mr. Ewell practically growled in retaliation as he kicked me over onto my stomach so that more glass pressed through my shirt and onto my bare knees.

“I won’t take any more sass from you, bitch. You ain’t any better than me, so you better stop actin’ like it. Does your papa let you run your mouth like that?”

“I would answer but you said I’m not allowed to mention Atticus-“

I couldn’t tell you if my response was purposefully cheeky or not, but Mr. Ewell wasn’t pleased about it either way. Hands lifted me by my waist, and I was slammed onto my back a few yards away, thankfully away from the glass-covered part of the floor, but my healing belt wounds smarted. Lowering himself to his knees, Mr. Ewell said something about me “watching my mouth” before he punched it. Even as my lip split on my teeth, I couldn’t help but feel victorious when he grimaced from the pain of his own wounds I had given him. The feeling was fleeting as my mind began spinning, and the reality of my actions that led me to this moment finally caught up with me.

Oh God, I attacked him. And talked back to him. Twice! What the Sam Hill was I thinking? I deliberately attacked him, and I didn’t get out. What is he going to do? I steeled myself for the worst, flinching and closing my eyes as he placed his hands on either side of my head.

But as the seconds passed, I opened my eyes to find Mr. Ewell simply glaring down at me, and it was way too long before he finally spoke.

“You know why your papa hasn’t come for you yet? He don’t care a thing ‘bout ya. You were a nuisance to your family and they’re better off now that you’re gone.”

“I don’t- OW!” Mr. Ewell had plucked a glass shard from my shoulder.

“Don’t talk, just listen, if you know what’s good for you.”

He continued pulling the shards as he spoke, placing them to the side. His calloused hands were nowhere near as tactful as Mayella’s, and I half wished that he would just leave the glass for me to sort out myself later.

“I’m goin’ to go easy on you despite that shit you just pulled, so you’re gunna listen to every God-damn word I say. Got it?”

It was hard to not be intimidated by the figure above me, his body an inescapable cage surrounding my own. I was on edge every time Mr. Ewell’s fingers grazed my skin, very aware that he could easily push the shards in deeper in rather then taking them out if I displeased him again. So, wincing at another tug, I nodded, “Yes, sir.” 

“If you ever pull a stunt like that again, remember that it’s no dirt off my back if you’re dead. In fact, I’m doin’ you a favor by keepin’ you alive, especially when your family don’t even want you no more, so you better be damn grateful. And if you ever tell someone ‘bout this, that it was me who.. are you listenin’ to me?”

He’s lying, Atticus needs me. He loves me, and Jem- 

“Scout,” I snapped back to attention, and realized it was the first time I had heard Mr. Ewell call me by my name. I think I preferred the slurs.

Jolting as he slammed his less injured hand on the floor beside my head again, I accidentally let out a pathetic whimper and my ears burned. 

“Look. At. Me.” 

I did. 

He spoke slowly, drawing out every word like I was deaf.

“If you ever tell a soul that it was me who took you, I’m gunna bring your brother down here and force you to watch while I torture him.”

“NO!” I screamed, reaching up to scratch Mr. Ewell’s smug, smiling face. He easily grabbed both of my wrists and pinned them down. “You-you can’t... Atti- My father won’t let you, he-“

“Yes, I can. For how brilliant everyone claims your daddy is, he really is dull-witted where it counts. He hasn’t set up any measures of protection for your brother. I can take him whenever I want.”

“Please leave Jem be,” I begged, “I won’t tell anyone, I swear!”

“Good,” he crooned, pleasantly surprised by my distraught reaction. This was going better than he could have hoped, so he was going to milk it for all he could. “You’ve got an awful temper, so we’re gunna work on that. You’re gunna be so good for me, ‘cause either I can hurt you and you can take it, or I can hurt Jeremy. It’s completely up to you. What’s that name you called him? Jem?”

“Get his name out of your mouth!” 

“Ah, there’s that temper I’m talkin’ about.”

He still was pinning my wrists to the floor, and as he spoke he squeezed them harder and harder until I cried out for him to stop, sure they would break if he continued. To my surprise, he loosened his grip.

“Jem. That nickname is awful cute, I think I’m gonna keep it. And you’re gonna keep quiet, because you wouldn’t want him to be brought down here, would you?”

“No! I... I’ll do anything.”

“I’ll do anything...?” Mr. Ewell raised his eyebrow, and it took me a moment to understand.

“I’ll do anything, sir.” My voice cracked, and I felt completely defeated.

“Then stay still.”

He slowly let go of my wrists. I flinched when he brought the knuckles of the hand that I had cut up to my cheek in a kind of caress. The too-gentle contact made my stomach flip for some reason. He squinted his eyes in thought, contemplating his next move. I can do this, I thought. All I have to do is stay still. But what else was he going to make me do? 

I hadn’t noticed how much his hand was bleeding until he turned it around and sloppily wiped the blood from his palm and fingers off on my face. You did this, he seemed to be silently saying. You did this, so you deserve to be punished. Even his blood smelled bad.

He watched me closely as he stood up, daring me to move. Assured that I was obeying, he walked to the stairs, where he grabbed my forgotten weapon. He returned to my side, and held the shattered edge to the side of my neck, right below my jaw. Staying still above my head, my hands were technically free to bat his hand away, and they twitched as my mind screamed for them to do so. But I couldn’t. For Jem.

I closed my eyes so that I wouldn’t be tempted to try to fight it, to dampen my body’s instinct to push away the object that would bring harm to me. 

Mr. Ewell gradually pressed the glass harder and closer, but before it could break skin, he drew a line down then across my collarbone, tracing the edge of my flannel shirt to where it was comfortably buttoned at my sternum. It barely felt like anything until it stung like a hundred papercuts, but I just let it happen.

Then Mr. Ewell brought the broken bottle back up to my face, lightly tapping on the skin right next to the outer corner of my right eye. My eyes flung open in the fear that he was going to gouge my eye out. He wouldn’t go that far though, would he? My elbows bent a little of their own accord, bringing my hands an inch closer to my face, but I stopped myself at Mr. Ewell’s warning glare.

Please don’t, I tried to beg through my gaze, before squeezing my eyes shut again.

He slashed the glass down across my cheekbone. It stung like hell, and I felt and smelled it bleeding, but at least it wasn’t my eye.

“Get up, and go to the back wall.” I scrambled to my feet, wincing from the cuts left behind by the glass shards, especially those on my knees. “You’re gonna be on this side of the room whenever I enter or leave, clearly in my line of sight from the door. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

This was humiliating. Fighting back had always been a part of me, even when I knew I couldn’t win. There’s a kind of dignity when at least you know you’ve tried, when you refuse to just sit there and take it. And now he’d even taken that away.

He grabbed a different glass bottle, walked over, and swung it at my head. I shrieked and ducked to the floor, only to feel nothing but his laughter ringing through my skull. It was a bluff. Then, he swung the bottle into the wall straight above me, and he certainly wasn’t bluffing anymore.

I felt the sharp rip across my scalp where glass cut into it, the warm wetness beginning to spread through my hair. The smell of it twisted my stomach.

Quivering, I stayed curled in on myself, arms now protecting my head. I felt blood soak into the shoulder of my shirt as I waited for the next blow. My body quivered in trepidation. Whatever he would do to me, I was going to sit there and take it. I had to.

“Clean the rest of this up,” I looked up as right the door slammed. All of the stray bottles had been cleared from the room, but the glass remained. 

I didn’t move for a few minutes, staying crouched against the wall under my arms. I tried to stop shaking and to slow my breathing, but my breath hitched and a lump formed in my throat. I’m not going to cry, I told myself, swallowing hard. I hadn’t cried down here yet, and it was the only bit of pride I had left. 

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and I dove to the floor to frantically start cleaning the glass, as Mr. Ewell ordered. I realized how cruel his request was when my hands began to bleed, sliced by the shards as I scooped them up. Maybe I could have avoided this if I started earlier, picking them up carefully one-by-one, but I-

“What are you doin’?!” Mayella was the one who had entered the room, holding a couple of bandages and rags and looking at me in horror.

It took me a moment to realize how bad I must look. Kneeling on a glass covered floor, with my hairline, neck, hands, cheek, and other various scratches red with blood. Right, and my hands full of glass. 

“He told me- he told me to-“ My voice hitched again, and I was frustrated that my body was still acting like he was here, like I was in trouble for not cleaning up fast enough. Then I was thinking of Jem, and my chest ached and I really, really didn’t want to cry.  

“Put the glass down, I’ll take care of it.” Mayella set down the bandages and went into the bathroom to wet the rags. I dropped the glass as she returned, stepped over the rest on the floor, and ran towards her. I’m not sure what I meant to do in that moment, reaching for Mayella’s arm but deciding against it, not wanting to stain her dress, then flinching as she gently grabbed my wrist and dabbed at my bleeding palms with a rag.

“Jem, he’s gonna hurt Jem! I have to do what he says or else he will, but I don’t- I- I don’t know if I can do it,”

Mayella avoided my eyes as she quietly continued cleaning. 

“I can’t just let him take him, if he takes him it’ll be all my fault. I don’t know what to do.”

Mayella continued to ignore me and I grew impatient, stopping her hand as it reached up to the cut on my cheekbone. 

“What can I do? Please!” 

She finally looked me in the eyes, and I saw hers were as lost and hopeless as mine. “I don’t know.”

It was in that moment, with the two of us standing in the middle of the cellar which had been my prison for God knows how long now, when I let the first tear fall.

“I thought you said he was safe!” 

My voice broke and I collapsed into Mayella’s chest. The dam holding back my emotions crashed down around me and the feelings flowed free, making me feel like I was drowning. I could barely breathe, sobbing and hiccuping and making a complete blubbering fool of myself. Nothing but a stupid girl, my subconscious reared its ugly head, making me wish I hadn’t let go at all.

But somehow, the strong arms that wrapped around me made me feel like it had been the right thing to do. Mayella was surprisingly patient and warm, gently lowering us both to the ground while I wept. She didn’t seem to mind getting blood on her dress, and for once I didn’t mind being treated like a baby. As she held me on her lap, I wondered if this is what having a mother was like. For some reason the thought made me bawl even more.

Jem remembered our mother, I would ask him questions about her from time to time. All the more reason for him to stay alive and out of this Godawful place.

My brother’s face and a foggy, distant image of my mother smiling were in my dreams as I fell asleep to the low thrum of Mayella’s heartbeat.

Mayella didn’t want to get attached. 

It wouldn’t do either of them any good if she got attached, or if Scout started to trust her, to look to her for comfort. It was easy enough to wipe away blood, to stitch up gashes, to look sadly at bruises that couldn’t be helped. She just had to not think, that was all there was to it. Not think about the mind trapped inside the battered body she patched up, a mind that was probably screaming for Mayella to help her, to let her out, long after she gave up trying to ask out loud.

Mayella had assumed that Scout was disgusted by her, angry at her, for her cowardice and for everything she was. For the way that she just stood by, either ignoring the muffled screams that floated from the basement or not hearing them in the first place (Mayella couldn’t hear them, no one could, but Scout might not know that). For her eyes that looked just like her Papa’s.

It had been so easy to not think when Scout had kept herself stoic, surprisingly unaffected and composed despite her age and everything that had happened to her. Everything that was happening to her. She didn’t seem like a little girl, she was doing fine. 

But she wasn’t doing fine. Of course she wasn’t. How could she be? 

It was painful for Mayella to see the dump and her home above this cellar constantly filled with the seven of her siblings running about, while Scout was stuck here beneath them. She was a kid too. Mayella heard their laughter and realized she had no idea what Scout’s laugh sounded like. The girl should be playing, not weeping at the thought of her brother joining her in her torment.

Now here she was, virtually passed out from exhaustion but still weakly clinging to Mayella’s dress. Tears had run in rivulets, leaving pale tracks through the blood and the thin layer of grime on her face. If she was disgusted by Mayella, she didn’t show it. 

As she felt Scout's tiny heart trip hammering into her chest, Mayella felt the walls she had put up start to crumble. Which was not good. So she reminded herself why she couldn’t help Scout. The girl loved her brother so much, just like how Mayella loved her own siblings. Eventually, she would understand. This was for them. Seven for one, she told herself. It was worth it. 

But when Mayella gently wiped Scout’s bloody forehead with the still damp rag and the girl practically mewled in her stupor and leaned into the touch, she wasn’t so sure. 

Chapter Text

“I want everyone to stop actin’ like they were her best friend,” Jem huffed after he slinked into Atticus’s car after school one day, slamming the car door behind him. “She could lick any one of them, and she would too if she heard all of the bull they were spewin’...”

Atticus didn’t even blink, and started up the car. 

“Are they being too nice?”

Jem tossed his bag down on the seat beside him, awkwardly reaching over the sling on his left arm. 

“No- I mean, yeah, but that’s not the part that bothers me.” Jem ran his fingers haphazardly through his air as he tried to organize his thoughts. “If it was just that I would be okay with it, maybe still a little annoyed, but this- this is different.”

“How so?”

Jem looked out the window as the schoolyard passed out of sight.

“It’s like they are pretendin’ to actually care about her, now that she’s gone. Well, I guess the people in her grade and class seem pretty genuine; she actually talked with them, and helped them with classwork sometimes-”

Atticus was surprised at this. “Did she really?”

“Yeah, I think so. She’s real smart for her age, but she doesn’t talk down to them like some of the other smart folks do. Arithmetic drives her mad, but the rest comes pretty easy for her. So she gets bored, and is more than happy to occupy herself by helpin’ others when they ask. Gives her somethin’ to do.” Atticus could see Jem debating on whether to use past or present tense when referring to Scout, and it hurt a little bit, but his admiration for his sister distracted him from it. 

“I overheard a few kids in her class mention it a while ago, and she once said somethin’ about helpin’ out Little Chuck Little, so I asked her about it. She just genuinely enjoys readin’ and writin’, and is still way ahead of her grade level for it. You wouldn’t know that by the way she acts in the schoolyard, though.” A faint smirk crossed Jem’s face, and when Atticus caught it in the car mirror he was sure that Jem was recalling the memory of Scout pummeling some poor soul. It quickly faded with his next thought. 

“But what I was tryin’ to say is that she probably has never spoken half a word to the rest, and now they all go around talkin’ about how they are ‘so worried for her’ and ‘miss her so much,’ as if her going missin’ affects them personally.” Jem’s voice was nasally and grating as he mocked his schoolmates. “What gives them the right to use her disappearance like that? Where was that teary-eyed empathy when folks were bein’ cruel over the summer?”

Atticus’s face fell. He had anticipated that his children would endure harsh words due to the trial, and he blamed himself for that too. He had told them to hold their heads high and not let it get to them, and they tried their best, but he knew it had bothered them anyways.

“Are you sure they haven’t had a change of heart?”

“It’s not like that.”

“How do you know?”

“It just isn’t!” Jem threw up his good arm in exasperation. “They are just doin’ it for attention, and it’s infuriating! And it doesn’t help that you aren’t lettin’ me walk home like a normal kid.”

Atticus kept his eyes on the road as he pulled into their neighborhood and resisted the urge to sigh. This was an ongoing argument, which was an unusual thing for the family. Conflicts in the Finch household were settled briskly and efficiently, with Atticus’s word being final, and his legislature being enforced by Calpurnia’s steely hand.

In this case, Atticus wanted to drive Jem to and from school instead of letting him walk alone, weary that whatever predator that took Scout was still out there. Jem was thoroughly embarrassed by this precaution, especially when their house was so close to the school. He insisted that he could handle himself. (It didn't help that with his broken elbow, Jem could no longer spend his afternoons carrying the football team's water buckets until dusk, so he had all the time in the world to do nothing but read football magazines and stew over the matter.)

“Its always light out when I- when we walk home. The other kids have to walk five times as far as we do, and you don’t see them gettin’ swiped from the road. Actin’ like I’m some sorta celebrity on a hit list makes me no better than the kids who pretend they know Scout.”

Atticus and Jem arrived home. The conversation paused for a moment as they left the car, then resumed as Jem set his bag down inside.

“Have the other kids at school said anything about me driving you?”

“Not to my face, obviously, but I see them watchin’ and whisperin’ when we leave or arrive. Its ridiculous.”

“You’ve faced worse than that and have almost always kept a cool head. What’s different now? Why put yourself in danger?”

Jem's arm flew up again.

“I’m not in danger! I’m not afraid of him! In fact, if I ever saw him again I’d be glad to give him a piece of my mind.” 

The conversation was escalating faster than all the times it had been brought up before, and Atticus tried to tone it back down.

“Jem, it’s okay to be angry, but I don’t want you to be reckless. You are smarter than that. You are injured and in no state to be fighting someone that dangerous anytime soon.” Or ever, Atticus mentally added. “He hurt you too, and he would most likely do it again. You are lucky that he let you stay behind instead of taking you as well.”

His words only seemed to antagonize Jem more.

“I don’t care! Stop tellin’ me what I am! Maybe I WANT to be taken too. It would be better than just sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ about what happened. Then I could try to protect her, wherever she is.”

Jem’s face, which had been slowly growing redder and redder, was now teary as well. “And if she... if she isn’t around anymore, I... I deserved to be taken instead.”

Atticus’s face was grave. 

“Please don’t talk that way. Do you really think you deserve that?”

Jem didn’t respond, but his face said it all.

“Oh, Jem.”

Atticus pulled Jem into a hug, and though Jem stood stiffly at first, he quickly sank into the embrace.

“I miss her.” Jem’s voice was muffled, and he felt Atticus’s chest expand in a deep sigh.

“I miss her too. She will find her way back to us. I know she will.” 

Atticus pulled back a little to look his son in the eye. “You don’t deserve to be taken. I wish I could convince you that I am speaking the complete truth when I tell you that it wasn’t your fault.”

Jem still looked unconvinced. 

“For the sake of the concept, lets say you let yourself be taken, and Scout is alright, and the person who attacked you both happens to keep you in the same place together. How would you protect her?”

Jem blinked.

“I- I don’t know. Power in numbers, I guess. I could try to help her find a way out. A way back home. At least she wouldn’t be alone.”

“I suppose that’s true. I would like to think that Scout is happier knowing that you are safe than she would be having your company, though. I don’t think she would want to see you get hurt.” Atticus moved his hands to Jem’s shoulders. 

“I admire your bravery, and I am so grateful that you want to help your sister. And I am so sorry that my efforts to find her haven’t been enough. I don’t know if it is selfish to say, but I just…” He took another deep, steadying breath. “I don’t want to lose my son too.”

Jem suddenly felt ashamed.

“I- I’m sorry, I didn’t even think…”

“No, no no. You don’t need to apologize.” 

This time Jem initiated the hug with his good arm, and Atticus placed his hand on the back of Jem's head, massaging his hair. A still moment passed before Jem spoke again. 

“I was so awful to her lately. I hope she doesn’t think I hate her.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t."

Atticus spent the next moment in thought then pulled back again, proclaiming,

“Here, let’s do this. You can walk to school once your arm is completely healed. I trust the danger will have passed by then.”

Jem hoped this meant that by that time the sheriff will have caught the man and found Scout, but Atticus’s voice now gave away nothing, dry and professional like he was settling a case in court. It only said that this would be his final offer.

They shook on it, and Atticus seemed to freeze. He squeezed Jem’s hand for longer than necessary before blinking, giving a final firm shake, and placing his hands back into his pockets. 

I cleaned the mirror, and immediately wished I hadn’t. 

It was something productive to do, something that felt normal- well, as normal as you can get when you have to wash your own blood out of the rope before you use it as a makeshift wash cloth. I wished that I had been smart enough to ask Mayella to leave a rag or two with me down here.

It just took a bit of elbow grease, but I should have waited longer for my torso to not be as sore. What was my rush? What purpose was there to doing it sooner rather than later? I was almost frantic while scrubbing it, maybe reveling in finally having something that felt clean when I washed it. Because no matter how many times I scrubbed my skin raw with the tap water, I can’t help but feeling dirty. Disgusting. Unwanted. 

And seeing a clean, clear reflection of the hollow girl I didn’t recognize made those feelings multiply tenfold.

I didn’t force myself to look at myself long enough to describe the girl there, and I don’t think I’d want to if I could. 

So I won’t.

Mr. Ewell thundered down the stairs, and took a swing at me before I even had the chance to get up from my position against the wall. Before he could strike me again, a familiar voice sounded from my right,

“HEY!” The boy jumped up, “LEAVE MY SISTER ALONE!”

Jem. 

Why was he here?! 

I screamed, “JEM, NO!” as he threw himself in front of me, acting as a human shield from Mr. Ewell’s blows.

Mr. Ewell’s punch hadn’t hurt me at all for some reason, and as I tried to get up I found that I was completely frozen, unable to move. It felt like an invisible force was pinning me down, not letting me look away as my brother was beaten.

All I could do is watch.

I woke up hollering for Mr. Ewell to stop, to hurt me instead. My mind was reeling, thinking back on what I had done to anger Mr. Ewell so much that he made good on his promise to take Jem. But looking around, I saw that I was alone in the room, and I couldn’t help from crying in relief. It felt good to let myself cry nowadays. A small comfort.

Selfishly, though, I knew that some of my tears had been from the sense of loss and returning loneliness now that I knew he wasn’t actually here. I quickly shoved those thoughts away, ashamed of myself. How could any part of me want that? To wish any part of my own fortune upon him? I disgusted myself. 

Jem’s face flashed through my mind, as I imagined what it would be like if he was down here, how he would face the situation. I knew he would kick into big-brother mode, despite my protests that I could handle myself.

Jem taking hits for me while I was down.

Jem creating a new hapless escape plan, still holding onto hope that I had already lost.

Jem forcing me to eat all of what little food there was, insisting that I needed it more. 

Jem and I huddling together for warmth as the cellar grew colder.

Jem letting me cry, not teasing me about it one bit, and maybe even crying too.

Jem dead because of me.

All remaining traces of longing for him to be here with me were smothered in an instant. I would do everything I possibly could to keep Jem safe, everything I could to obey and please Mr. Ewell. The idea made me shudder with revulsion and dread, but it had to be done. I couldn’t afford to keep my pride. For Jem’s sake.

Chapter Text

Mr. Ewell sat down on the floor, pulling me onto his lap.

He lifted the back of my shirt and ran a finger all the way down my exposed bony spine, and I shuddered at the sensation, trying not to wince whenever he touched the healing belt wounds. “I can’t afford to feed’ja forever, lil’ Finch,” he remarks, his hands moving to the sides of my bare torso, no doubt feeling my prominent ribs. Why did he always insist on touching me?

“I’m gunna kill you eventually, you know,” he drawled softly as he pulled my shirt back down, his voice lowering.

“I know, sir,” I whispered meekly back. I had already assumed as much. 

“It’s just a matter of how I’m gunna do it, and how I’m gunna give yer corpse back to yer papa.” 

Now that I didn’t expect. He is going to bring my body back to Atticus? Bile rose to my throat. I knew I was ugly, and I didn’t look like his daughter anymore, so I couldn’t imagine how Atticus would react, especially if my body was mangled. 

“I could leave yer body in a public place where a little lady on her morning walk could find it and make a stir, so you'd be the talk of the town well before yer papa gets the telephone call he has been waitin’ for… that his kid has been found.”

Mr. Ewell caressed my neck, sliding his fingers across my throat, barely touching the skin. “Maybe I should just leave yer head at his doorstep, makin’ sure to leave open those baby blues.” I felt like I couldn’t breathe as he turned my head around towards him and looked at my eyes. I wanted to close them, but I wouldn’t dare.

“But then what to do with the rest of ya...” He released my face so it turned back forward, away from him. “I could just scatter the rest of you around, a foot over here, an elbow over there...” His ideas were more horrific than anything I could have ever imagined. He started playing with my hair absent-mindedly, as if he was talking about a light, silly topic.

“Or maybe I would just leave him one piece instead of the head, somethin’ that he could never know for sure if it was yers so he’d always be guessin’,” he suddenly pulled painfully on a lock of my hair and exclaimed, “Oh! It'd be fun to cut off yer hair and give it to him a few weeks beforehand! But then he’d definitely know it’s you...” Fun?! He pulled me so that I was laying back, my back against his chest. 

“Besides, I like yer hair long... you should let it grow out. Makes you look less like a lil’ boy, and more like a woman.” I resisted the urge to scoff. Its not like I had any choice to cut it, since Mr. Ewell had been extra careful to keep anything sharp out of my reach ever since the incident with the bottle glass. Also, his comment and disdain for my short hair reminded me of Aunt Alexandra, but the way he called me a woman was off-putting in a different way.

“Or would it crush him more to get you back whole, lyin’ in the middle of the road, givin’ ‘m hope that you had come back to him alive and jus’ got tired,” I couldn’t take this anymore, I hated the thought of Atticus’s grief. “Oh, I can see it now, him bein’ so happy when he first sees you, then cradlin’ you in his arms, beggin’ you to wake up...” 

“Stop it!” I cried, covering my ears,“I don’t wanna hear no more!”

I immediately made myself smaller while not leaving his lap, fearing his response- or retribution. But it didn’t come. I was about to apologize for my outburst when, to my surprise, he actually changed the topic of what he was talking about. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and twirled it around in his fingers.

“I usually opt for tobacco, but this is a special treat. It cost a pretty penny, so I’m gunna enjoy it.” He lit the cigarette, and released a few smoky breaths. Great, now it’s going to smell like smoke in here, I thought, holding my breath as the cloud reached my face. Does he really have to do this with me on his lap?

My heart dropped as he suddenly had me embraced tightly, forcing me to sit still. He unbuttoned the upper half of my flannel, and I kept a weary eye on the cigarette shaking around in his fingers as he fumbled with the buttons. I didn’t want my shirt to catch on fire.

"Now, what did I say ‘bout talkin’ back to me?"

Then, without warning, he pushed down the neckline of my undershirt and stabbed the lit cigarette onto my chest.

I screamed out in agony as the cigarette seared my dirty skin. I squirmed and bucked and kicked, trying to escape the torment, but my thrashing about was useless due to Mr. Ewell’s powerful arms restraining me. My screams didn’t stop as he laughed out loud then groaned, pulling me closer against him and placing his head next to mine, his chin peeking over my shoulder. Tears streamed down my cheeks as he lifted the cigarette off of me, watching as the skin blistered. The smell of my own burning flesh made me choke on vomit. The pain was a hundred, no, a thousand times worse than the feeling of Mr. Ewell’s belt on my back, and I was silently pleading that I would pass out so the pain would stop. Soon enough, he didn’t have to force me still any longer as my head started spinning in a daze of pain, and I went limp in his arms. 

I was so, so very hot. I was burning. Lately, I had taken to sleeping on the fallen wooden door, but now I took off my flannel and plastered myself on the cool stone floor for some relief. I considered removing my undershirt as well, but felt too vulnerable to do so, even if it wouldn’t reveal anything Mr. Ewell hadn’t seen already. I had to shift over every few minutes as the ground beneath my skin warmed up, no longer being soothing. But then, on the flip of a dime, my body would shake uncontrollably, teeth chattering, and I would wish I had more than just a flannel to wrap myself with. 

When Mr. Ewell entered at first he thought that I was pretending, calling me an “awful actress” (among other more profane things). But after resentfully pressing a hand to my burning forehead, he swore under his breath, retreated, and sent Mayella in his wake. 

Lifting my head alone was a feat, and I spent most of my time both before, after, and during her visits slipping in and out of fitful sleep. I only heard bits and pieces of both Mayella’s assurances to my unresponsive self and her heated discussions with Mr. Ewell. All that I could put together is that I had a fever, and it was bad. 

At first Mayella pleaded to Mr. Ewell that we needed Dr. Reynolds, but that went over as well as you can imagine. She did her best to take care of me, keeping me hydrated and thoroughly cleaning my wounds, examining them to make sure that it wasn’t an infection that was bringing this on, but there wasn’t much else she could do. She ended up begging for permission to get medicine instead, but Mr. Ewell laughed in her face, saying that medicine was expensive as hell and that Dr. Reynolds only gave it to his patients. He insisted that it would be best for them to just wait out my fever, to let it break on its own. 

I thought that was a terrible idea, but I didn’t have much say on the matter. 

The beatings stopped temporarily, but I started to think that I would prefer being knocked around a bit over being constantly ill and miserable. Time passed and I still wasn’t getting any better. In fact, my symptoms were growing worse as nausea and a rattling cough joined the mix, as well as throbbing headaches.

Mayella physically kept her distance in the cellar, but she spent a lot more time with me than before as she took care of me. We started to talk, and it started off with little, mundane things as she cooled my forehead with wet rags or rubbed heat into my arms. 

I think a barrier must have been broken that day I let my first tears fall, because our conversations gradually became more personal. 

We bonded over our shared displeasure towards certain aspects of being a girl. Mayella would tell me stories of the antics of her siblings, and I noticed how she filled up the hole in their lives from the absence of their mother. Not having mothers was another thing we had in common. I learned that although they were all pretty uneducated for the most part, not all her siblings were as nasty as Burris... at least not from Mayella’s perspective.

As painful as it was (both to my heart and my sore throat), I insisted on telling her stories about Jem and Dill and all sorts of our own shenanigans in return. I described a glorious performance of one of Dill’s stories, and I think that was the first time I heard her laugh. It was infectious and I couldn’t help but join in, but my laughter soon turned to a rattling set of coughs, and we were reminded of how dire the situation was. 

Sometimes I would fall asleep during our conversations, or even in the middle of telling my own stories. I told Mayella to wake me up if it happened again, but she didn’t, saying that I needed the rest. I found it annoying, because I had PLENTY of time to rest down here. What I really needed was company, and I finally had it with Mayella, but if I was sleeping then I was wasting my time with her.

Then one day, while forcing me to drink even more water, Mayella’s face lit up with an idea. It quickly switched to wariness, then determination as she took my cup and drank from it herself. I fell back asleep.

I didn’t see her again for a little while after that visit, and I grew frightened as to what she might have done, until she reappeared.

Tottering down the stairs, Mayella wore a lopsided smile as she held up a medicine bottle in victory. We both took a dose from it, and I marveled at her gall. It took me some effort to wheedle the truth out of her, but I eventually learned that she had purposefully gotten herself sick so that Dr. Reynolds would come treat her. All to get medicine to bring to me. 

Her immune system was much stronger than my own, and she knew that there wouldn’t be any lasting consequences for her, but I was touched nonetheless.  Now that I was pretty sure we both had the same illness, I threw caution to the wind and threw my arms around her, squeezing as tight as I could, hoping that it would be enough for her to know how thankful I was for her.

Even after my fever passed, Mayella was my light in the darkness.

She would stay as long as we felt willing to risk when she was sent down to fix me up, verbally checking in to make sure she wasn’t hurting me too bad and to see if any old wounds required attention. Before, the physical checkups and patch jobs had been quiet, and I hadn’t felt comfortable enough to speak up about old injuries smarting up again (feeling guilty enough that she had to take care of all the new ones), so it made a nice change.

Afterwards, we would just talk about anything that crossed our minds. Mayella was surprised that I was so adamant about hating school so much, as she had been unable to attend school because she needed to care for her younger siblings. The conversation reminded me that I should be grateful for that opportunity as well as many others, and it took on a somber tone when I promised that I would never complain about school again if I ever was able to go back.

We tried to avoid dark or sad topics for the most part, preferring silliness over substance, and I found myself smiling a lot more. Mayella gushed about her Geraniums and how she takes care of them, and I proudly showed off the scar on my knuckle from punching Francis in the teeth. Although looking back at it, it was odd to think that the tiny mark had been so impressive to me. Following particularly bad beatings, Mayella was always a shoulder for me to cry on after dressing my wounds, and she never teased me about it. At one point I even got to help clean her up for a change when she arrived with a busted lip.

When she could, Mayella even snuck me bits of her own food in addition to the meager servings that Mr. Ewell allowed her to bring me! Sure, she had to hide it under her dress, but at this point I was by no means picky. 

But as it always seems to be the case, Mr. Ewell seemed to make it his goal to remove any source of freedom or happiness from my life. 

During one of Mayella’s visits, our conversation went much longer than the time that would be needed to fix up my injuries. Ice spread through my chest and our laughter stopped as Mr. Ewell revealed himself at the top of the stairs, saying,

“Well you two are as thick as thieves, ain’t ya?” 

Apparently, our bonding hadn’t gone unnoticed. Mr. Ewell accused me of only talking with Mayella to win her sympathy and to convince her to sneak me out, and accused her of conspiring with me on the best way to escape and send him to jail, even though neither of those things were remotely true. None of our discussions had ever been about our current situation, but I now feared that Mayella could interpret my willingness to talk to her as nothing but an escape attempt. However, I never had the chance to plead my case that she simply needed a friend just as much as I did. 

After Mr. Ewell dragged his daughter up the stairs, I rarely saw her, at least not when I was in a state fit enough to communicate. I would have to endure small-scale wounds on my own until I was faced with a beating rough enough to render me unconscious, and that’s when he would send her to help me. I almost wished that we had never gotten so close in the first place, because then I would still have her as a small comfort, even if it was a quiet, impersonal one. 

I didn’t realize how much I cherished being able to check in on her too, sympathizing with her when she’d arrive with new bruises, being someone that she could finally share her troubles with- even though I could tell that she didn’t tell me about everything. I prayed that she didn’t think I had been manipulating her the whole time.

Mayella was my light in the darkness, and Mr. Ewell snuffed it out.

A candlelight vigil was held for Scout. Jem didn’t know who organized it, he just knew that Atticus certainly didn’t. He supposed it had been some do-gooder from town. To their credit, the fact that he couldn’t tell who it was (and that neither Stephanie Crawford nor Aunt Alexandra had been able to get the scoop on who it was either) proved that they hadn’t just put it together to boost their own reputation, and he appreciated that. No one seemed to expect Atticus or Jem to give a speech or say anything either, which he was thankful for as well.

There was a good amount of white men, women, and children who came, but it seemed like there wasn’t a single member of Maycomb’s black population that wasn’t present. Many of them had seen or met Scout and her brother when they went to the First Purchase church with Calpurnia, or when the children sat with them in the colored balcony during the trial. They didn’t mingle with the white attendees at all, but seeing the two groups standing in the same general area holding candles gave Jem an odd feeling. He thought he caught a glimpse of Atticus’s eyes tearing up at their support.

Even so, Jem hated the event. It felt too much like a funeral. There were plenty of prayers for Scout’s safety and recovery, but there were also some for her peace, if she had passed on already. Jem didn’t want to hear about her “returning to God’s glory.” He just wanted her to return home. 

It just felt so final, and that was wrong. It was completely wrong. It was like everyone was giving themselves closure on the situation, giving themselves an excuse to stop thinking about Scout, and Jem hated that. He didn’t want it to be done, not yet. Not without real closure. He didn’t want them to pat themselves on their backs for being supportive and then turn around and forget her. 

Jem didn’t want to forget his sister. He couldn’t do that to her. It was bad enough already that he had been shutting her out for a while before the attack. He had excused it as a part of growing up- it wasn’t very cool to have your little sister tagging along wherever you went, and he often found her many questions annoying. Before, he never dwelled very long on how his actions made her feel.

What if she hadn’t come home because she didn’t feel wanted?

If that was the case, it certainly was his fault. There wasn't anyone close to her age on their street, and Dill and Jem were Scout’s best friends. She must have been terribly lonely when Dill didn’t visit for the beginning of the summer and Jem was pushing her away. He recalled her spending a lot of time with Calpurnia instead, and he kicked himself for how he had treated her.

Was this his punishment? Would he ever get a chance to apologize?

God, how can I even be thinking about myself right now?  Scout was the one in danger, not him. But even so, he that hoped that wherever she was, she somehow knew that he truly didn’t mean to hurt her, or let her get hurt. He didn’t know what he’d do if she had died scared and alone, thinking that he didn’t care about her.

Jem was brought back to the present by a hand on his shoulder. He had been staring into the flame of the candle in his own hands for God knows how long, and looked up to his left to see Atticus looking down at him with concern. Jem didn’t know when he had started crying, but when he brought a hand to his face it was wet with tears. He felt too drained to be embarrassed. People were around, but nobody but Atticus was looking at him at the moment.

“You ready to go home, son?”

Jem thought that if he opened his mouth, all of the terrible thoughts and doubts that were plaguing his mind would spill out. So he kept it closed and nodded. 

As they walked together, Atticus reached out and massaged Jem’s hair. 

Jem blew out the candle.

Chapter Text

Mr. Ewell came bolting down the stairs with rope in his hands, and I was so stunned to see his face's expression of- What is it? Panic?- that I didn’t even think to resist as he dragged me like a rag doll over to one of the wooden posts that supported the ceiling of my prison. He hastily tied my wrists so that my arms encircled the post behind my back, then bound my ankles together and to the post.

By then I had finally come to my senses, and started struggling against the ropes, but he was having none of that. I stopped immediately as he brought out his switchblade knife; the same knife that he had stabbed me with when he first kidnapped me, the same knife I had been praying to never see again. He looked like he was back to his normal, wrathful self, but still had a touch of desperation in his eyes. 

Holding the knife close to my face, he said, “If you make a single sound, a single whisper, I’ll cut out yer tongue.” He poked my bottom lip with the tip of the blade, used the remaining rope to gag me, then ran back up the stairs faster than I’d ever seen him move.

Once he locked the hidden basement door behind him and pushed back the chiffarobe to conceal it, Mr. Ewell took a moment to compose himself and went to address the knocking on his door. One of his children had told him two minutes before that sheriff Heck Tate was on his way down the street. Opening the door, Mr. Ewell put on his most innocent face.

“Sheriff," he nodded cordially.

"Bob," Heck Tate nodded back. Mr.Ewell wished that the sheriff would get on with it and tell him what he wanted.  

"What brings you here on this fine afternoon?”

Mr.Tate’s eyes raked over Mr. Ewell’s face in suspicion, but he spoke in a professional manner. “Sorry to disturb you, but I have a warrant to search here for the missing Jean Louise Finch. May I come in?” 

“Yes, of course.”

For a split second Mr.Tate’s eyebrows raised in surprise that Mr. Ewell hadn’t refused to let him into his cabin or said something like, “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”, but he didn’t. 

Mr. Ewell let a smile flicker across his face as the Sheriff passed by him through the doorway.

I stood shocked for a moment, trying to process Mr. Ewell’s actions, when it clicked.

They are here. 

I’m being rescued.

That’s why Mr. Ewell was panicking, he was going to be put in jail! I was almost crying of happiness, despite the rope in my mouth making it hard to breathe properly, when a terrible thought that I had when I first woke up in this basement came back.

What if no one knows this room exists, so they won't look for me here?

That’s why Mr. Ewell wanted me quiet, so they wouldn’t hear me down here and investigate. No, no, no, no, I thought. This is a whole other type of torture; knowing that my father or the sheriff could be right above me, so close, and pass right on by without knowing I’m down here in my own personal hell. 

I tried to yell, but the rope in my mouth blocked the sound so much that what was supposed to be “HELP!” came out as a muffled “Hmpf”. I tried screaming only to be met with the same result. I started breathing heavy through my nose, struggling with the rope blocking my main airway. Trying to spit it out only made me feel like I was choking more.

I began squirming, pulling against my restraints that were biting into my wrists and ankles, rapidly growing more desperate. The coarseness of the ropes rubbed my skin painfully raw, but I kept on pushing past the blisters. I was shaking with exertion as I stopped moving to clear my mind and think of a way out. 

I brought my wrists down the wooden post behind my back, remembering with hope that in his haste Mr. Ewell had simply bound my wrists to each other, but not to the post. He also didn’t restrain the use of my fingers. This allowed me to bring my hands close enough to my ankles to blindly fumble around with the ropes, by some miracle managing to release my ankles from the post and each other. With my feet free, after what seemed to be an eternity I somehow freed my hands.

Tearing the rope from my mouth, I sputtered and coughed as I flew up the stairs, despite my smarting ankles.

Of course the door was locked, but that didn’t stop me from trying to make my presence known. Jem’s face flashed in my mind, and I questioned my disobedience for a moment, but I knew that if I was rescued, I could make sure he’d be safe. Ignoring Mr. Ewell’s lingering threat to not utter a sound, I pounded the door over and over, my flying fists surely bruising from the impact.

“HELP! IT’S SCOUT, I’M HERE! I’M IN HERE!”

I shouted as loud as I could, still banging on the door, confused why I couldn’t hear my rescuer on the other side when I paused and put my ear to the wood. I braced myself with a breath full of intentions.

Counted to three.

And screamed.

I screamed like Mr. Ewell was driving a knife into my stomach.

I screamed like a thousand birds were pecking at my flesh.

I screamed like the walls were burning down around me.

When I ran out of breath I paused again to put my ear to the door, but there was still nothing, and I was getting worried.

Throat raw, my voice was like a crackling radio as I started yelling again.

“PLEASE! THERE’S A HIDDEN DOOR! HELP ME! IT’S JEAN LOUISE FINCH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

My fists were going numb, so I switched to simply throwing myself against the door, making noise with shoulders, knees, whatever hit it. I scratched at it with my haggard nails like a dog. 

A broken whisper was all I could produce as tears started streaming down my face at the realization that whoever was there must have gone already. I was too late.

My fists resumed pathetically pounding the door after I collapsed against it, my hot tears dripping off my nose and chin and onto the floor.

“Help me... please...” 

The door flew open, sending me tumbling down the stairs. 

Mr. Ewell’s voice roared.

“WHAT’S THE ONE FUCKING THING I TOLD YOU TO NOT TO FUCKING DO?!”

My will to fight back was gone. Bruised and dazed, I didn’t even bother getting up from my crumpled position at the bottom of the stairs. I was barely aware as Mr. Ewell hovered over me on the floor, pinning my wrist down so that my palm was facing up and the underside of my right arm was exposed.

Then he drew out that damn switchblade again. He moved his fingers over a part of the underside of my forearm, barely touching the pale white skin, as if he was admiring a blank canvas. To my surprise, my thought as he first brought the knife to the skin was, At least he’s not cutting out my tongue. Less surprisingly, a consistent barrage of screams was the only thing to leave my mouth as Mr. Ewell hovered over me with the knife, slowly dragging it across my forearm. 

It was a different type of pain, in comparison to the lash of the belt, being struck by fists, or even being stabbed with the same knife. It was very concentrated, and almost delicate in a twisted way. It was so intense in such a small part, but throbbed and echoed through my whole arm.

Mr. Ewell said the reason why he was going “easy” on me and I still had my tongue was because “they didn’t suspect a thing”, and I would “need it later”. I didn’t know what the second part meant, but my heart shattered as he confirmed what I already knew. They are gone, and they aren’t coming back.

I could feel his putrid breath on my face as he laughed, and I refused to watch as he slowly traced back over his original cuts, this time carving each line forcefully into my skin. I writhed like I was having a seizure, but he kept my forearm locked in an inescapable, unmoving grip. The screams continued to tear through my throat. 

I think I blacked out for the rest, because when I finally turned my head towards my splayed arm, Mr. Ewell was gone. All that remained was many shallow cuts all over my arm, but the deepest of all was a crude carving of a circle around what appeared to be two crossing lines, in either the shape of an X or a plus sign, depending on the angle. I didn’t know what it meant, but it didn’t matter. The only one who would see it other than myself was the original “artist”. 

If someone had searched the house and found no suspicious signs of me, then they wouldn’t bother returning again.

I felt emotionally numb as I observed both the dried blood and the blood still freely dripping, entertaining myself by counting the drops. One...two...three...

Aunt Alexandra left Maycomb and returned to Finch’s landing. She told everyone that she was leaving because she had come to look after the children in Maycomb because Atticus was going to be busy with the trial, and now that the trial was over with she wasn't needed anymore. 

However, Atticus knew the truth. Aunt Alexandra had come to make sure that Scout would become a proper lady, a Miss Jean Louise Finch to uphold the family name, and Atticus understood that his sister didn't want to mention the fact that with Scout gone there wasn't a point anymore. He couldn't blame her for wanting to leave the depressing household.

As she was about to get in the car with all of her bags and hat boxes, Aunt Alexandra gave Jem a peck on the cheek, Calpurnia a nod, and the door to Scout’s room a fleeting glance. Then she turned to Atticus to bid her farewells. 

In a rare occurrence, her eyes began to shine with tears, but Atticus knew she wouldn't let them fall and ruin her makeup, which was carefully applied to conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes. She hadn't been getting much sleep. “Atticus, I had a feeling about that night- I- this is my fault,” she began. “I should have-” 

Atticus held up his hand. He didn't want to hear anymore. “You go ahead, sister. There is nothing… there was no way any of us could have known, and nothing you needed to do differently. Only I deserve to carry the blame. You don't deserve that obligation. Thank you for being here through all of this, is there anything I can do for you in return?”

Alexandra's gaze became fixed upon Scout’s door. Making a timid step towards it, she said, “If you… I don't want to be a… may I?” Atticus nodded, turning away as he heard her light heeled footsteps lead into Scout’s room for a private moment. He hadn't been able to find the strength to look inside yet.

After ten minutes Aunt Alexandra exited the room with red eyes and tracks running down her cheeks where her tears had carved a path through her powder. Giving Atticus a quick hug, she sniffed, “Im so sorry, brother,” and headed out the door. When he heard the car leave the driveway, the house felt even emptier than before. Now there was only him, Jem, and Calpurnia.

Cleaning his glasses off with the corner of his vest, Atticus gently pushed open Scout’s door. 

Expecting the room to have a fine layer of dust, he was surprised to find it sparkling clean. Of course, he realized, Calpurnia would never leave this room unswept. It's perfectly ready for Scout to come home. 

With the lack of dust, everything was preserved like a museum display. All of Scout’s books and pillows were exactly where she had left them, even a small softcover with a makeshift bookmark of string wedged about halfway through. Atticus noticed only one thing out of place, probably moved by his sister.

A small jewelry box that Scout had always ignored sat open on the bed, and laid out next to it was the Add-A-Pearl necklace Aunt Alexandra had gifted to her when she was born. The chain held (and always would hold, Atticus mentally noted) eight pearls. No more pearls would be added, just like how the softcover would never finish being read. 

Atticus had to leave the room.

Chapter Text

The next days...weeks... who knows, slipped by even blurrier than ever before. Simply put, I didn’t care anymore. Any tiny sliver of hope I had before my “saviors” came and went vanished with them. I was no longer hopeful, but I was no longer scared, either. 

Beatings were mundane. Why be scared when the pattern is so simple and predictable? He gets mad about something, he hurts you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Why bother struggling or fighting when all it does is make it worse and draw it out longer? I was almost grateful for the pain sometimes. It made me feel something other than the sensation of my stomach eating itself. 

I also eventually noticed that he was careful not to lead with his left hand, favoring the right for the most part. Clever.

Mr. Ewell didn’t just come down for beatings anymore, though. Sometimes he would just drunkenly yell in my ear for what felt like hours. Whenever he entered casually (a word which here means “without charging down the stairs with the intent to blow off some steam”) to find me sleeping- or pretending to be asleep the moment I heard the lock click- he would just sit on the floor with his back leaning against a wall. Maybe it was a nice respite from all of his kids, and that’s what he would use the cellar for before I got here. Maybe he just liked watching me.

I became a good little girl, not speaking unless spoken to. I didn’t give Mr. Ewell any reason to bring Jem down there. I slept a lot, but my dreams never took place outside of the cellar. It was almost like my mind decided that an outside world didn’t even exist anymore. Because of this, my dreams and reality were not too different, so they blended together like the passing days. It brought up interesting questions for me to ponder, often formatted as, Did Mr. Ewell really __, or was it just a dream? 

Some were easy mysteries to solve, with the clues being written all over my body, but I took my time with them nonetheless. Two crushed toes? Yup, the hammer was real. No knife passing through my palm, pinning me to the floor? Just a threat, thank God he didn’t actually do it. I still have ten fingers? Good, that was a dream then. Wouldn’t be surprised if he tries that soon, though.

Others were not as easy to figure out. The ones that left no marks, only memories that left me uncomfortable and confused. Like Mr. Ewell sniffing my hair or putting his fingers in my mouth. Threatening to hurt Jem if I bit him. He would look at me from across the room while palming his trousers and it looked like he was hitting or hurting himself and I didn’t know how to react. I had never seen anyone do those things before, so for the most part I just forced myself assume they were dreams. It was easier than trying to understand them. Or, God forbid, ask Mr. Ewell about them. At least, in those moments, he wasn’t hurting me.

The biggest thing that made me doubt my mind was that Mr. Ewell never showed outward signs of remorse for anything he did to me, but when these dreams happened, signs of guilt or shame slipped through the cracks. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, or he would leave quickly in a huff. He seemed mad at himself, which was nice, because I couldn’t muster the energy to be mad at him anymore.

I noticed that your thoughts in your head can’t change volume. Or at least mine couldn’t. A whispered thought and a mental scream both carry the same weight, or lack thereof. It reminded me of how in the basement, it didn’t matter how much I hollered for help, it might as well have been speaking under my breath. Now I understood why Jem would tell me to be quiet so he could think- if I was being loud, there wasn’t any way for him to make his thoughts louder, so he couldn’t hear them well. 

The mirror above the sink had been shattered in some altercation I could hardly remember, but I was pretty sure that my head had been the thing used to smash it. Not wanting a repeat of my previous glass-related insurrection, all remaining shards had been meticulously removed. This was actually convenient for me, as the glass’s removal made it much easier to avoid looking at my appalling reflection.

My bangs had grown too long, but I only found myself pushing them out of my eyes when Mr. Ewell came. It wasn’t like there was anything else for me to see. 

The only things that existed other than myself were Mr. Ewell and the darkness. Mayella was only invited to help me when I was unconscious, the signs of her sloppy patch jobs remaining when I awoke. I missed her a lot, sometimes even more than I missed Atticus and Jem. They just didn’t seem real anymore.

A small sting of pain made me realize that I had bitten a nail too far. It was a habit I had recently picked up, but I was surprised to see a little globe of blood gathered where the quick was gnawed away. I usually didn’t let myself get that far. It had started as just cleaning my nails with my teeth, but it felt so amazing to chew something. Instead of spitting it to the side I would swallow the bit of nail, despite it sometimes lightly scratching my throat. I would need to kick the habit if I got out of here, or I would never hear the end of it. 

But then the truth sank like a cold weight in my chest for the hundredth time; 

I wasn’t going to get out.

This was my life now.

I found my arms wrapped around myself, to give myself the hug I could never get from another, when Mr. Ewell entered in a rather mellow state. I used to have a habit of riling him when he was like this, but not anymore. It was humiliating to show weakness to this man as traitorous tears formed and I held myself tighter, but I had no more pride.

He seemed to understand my unspoken starvation for comforting touch, and I felt him reach for me, tugging me towards him. I didn’t resist.

For the moment, I acquiesced, and let his large arms encircle me. Because even a hug from this man was a hug.

My mind didn’t raise any alarms about how wrong it was, for this man, the cause for all of my grief and pain, to be the one to bring me comfort now. I sank into him.

Eventually he must have gotten bored and pulled me across his lap. He placed one hand on the small of my back and one on my ribcage, feeling each bone in sharp relief. I kept quiet and limp, like a rag doll but for the rise and fall of my chest as I breathed.

At first I was on edge, remembering the scar on my chest from another time I was on his lap, but eventually I fell asleep in his arms.

What a good little pet I was. 

The next time I collapsed after a beating, I was determined to keep myself awake so that I could apologize to Mayella when she came to patch me up. The pain willed me to sleep- any kind of escape from it sounded amazing, and I thanked my body’s usual instinct to shut down- but I had to resist. I didn’t knew how long I was usually out for so I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait, but I almost drifted off before the door creaked open. 

“M’ sorry,” I croaked, startling Mayella as she crouched down beside me. “I judged you before for not doin’ anything, but I get it now”

Mayella's face was neutral and she remained silent, and I groggily looked over the bruising on her face. I gasped as she prodded at a sore rib, but I was determined to continue.

“It’s much easier to just let it happen, I understand that now”

She stilled and looked at my face, and I could tell she was trying to detect sarcasm or bitterness in my voice. There wasn’t any, just an air of defeated acceptance. She looked like she was about to speak but I went on.

“I swear I wasn’t trynna manipulate you or anythin’, Im real sorry if it came off that way. I just really liked talkin’ to you.”

“I know, Scout, I know. Don’t worry ‘bout that. I...” Mayella paused and took a deep, steadying breath. 

“I’m sorry. I owe you an explanation.” She gently rolled me over so she could inspect my other side. “I would let you out, I swear I would, if I could. But it’s not just our lives he threatened. Papa said he’d hurt my siblin’s, even though they didn’t do nothin’. I don’t think he’d really kill ‘em, but he does beat ‘em all less now, and it’s my job to keep them safe, and... I’m really really sorry. I need to protect them.” 

Mayella’s hands had been shaking too much to continue her inspection of me, and as we sat in silence I understood why she hadn’t told me. She was trading my life to save her siblings from their father’s fist. I realized that I probably should be mad, but I couldn’t. Not when I understood the exact feeling, when it came to Jem.

“It’s okay. I’m sorta doing the same thing.”

I didn’t hear her response as my body forced itself to sleep.

Chapter Text

It was dark when Mr. Ewell came down the stairs. I pretended to be sleeping as usual and peeked at him through my lashes. He seemed to be sober and in an oddly somber mood, so I expected him to leave me alone, but I still steeled myself as he walked right up next to me and kneeled by my side. He was looking directly at my face so I closed my eyes completely, worried that he could tell that I was awake and watching him.

Nothing happened for a long time. He didn’t touch me, didn’t hurt me. He just sat kneeling by my side, rather than against his usual spot on the wall. A couple minutes must have passed.

I heard him heave a deep sigh.

What was he waiting for?

After a beat I peeked through my lashes, and in the darkness I saw a glint of dull silver being held high above my torso.

I let out a strangled sob and scrambled away from him, not bothering to keep up the pretense of sleep anymore. Surprise was palpable on Mr. Ewell’s face. I expected him to pursue me, but he still sat kneeling in the middle of the room with the goddamned switchblade knife in his hand. 

“Were you- were you gonna-“

He had been about to plunge that knife into my chest.

Mr. Ewell ran his free hand over his face.

“Goddammit kid, it would have been quick.”

He really had been about to kill me. And he still was going to. My blood raced in my ears and my voice caught on every word as I asked,

“Why? Why now? What did I do?”

He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I knew he was going to do this eventually. He told me himself that he would. He had even joked about how he would do it.

He started getting up off of his knees. My voice raised with my agitation, and pleading words came out before I could even process them.

“No, no no no. Please.”

“Easy, girl.”

He was standing.

“Please. Please sir. Please don’t do this. I’ll be good, I swear I’ll be good.”

I got to my feet as well, my back to the wall. I couldn’t get enough air with each breath and I found myself gasping.

“I’ll do anythin’ you want, sir. Just tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it. Please tell me what you want.”

He took a few steps towards me, and I took a few to the side to get away.

“Please, no. Please don’t.”

“Shhhh.” He held up his hands like he was placating an animal. Any calming effect was completely lost as the switchblade was still clearly visible in his left hand. I remembered the pain of him tearing it through my side the night he took me. I couldn’t help but stare at it, picturing what would have just happened if I hadn’t opened my eyes on time. Or if I had actually been sleeping. Would I have woken up with a knife in my chest? Would I have woken up at all?

I was being backed into a corner now. My chest was heaving rapidly with my panicked breaths. My eyes darted back and forth, trying to find a route of escape. He would just grab me or stab me in the back as I passed him. There was no way out. There never was.

“Calm down, girl. This can go the easy way or the hard way. I can still make it quick.“

I fell to my knees. 

Despite myself, I began to cry.

“Easy, sweetheart. It’ll be over soon.”

I had always expected him to be merciless, casual, and brutal when killing me. The fact that he was trying to be nice about it made it worse, somehow. I brought my hands to my chest where I felt my heart beating at a million miles a minute. It was as if it knew that the end was near, and was trying to make up for lost time. I couldn’t let myself be fooled by Mr. Ewell’s momentary kindness. This wasn’t a merciful act. He was only trying to soothe me to save himself from his own guilt.

I wanted to live. Even if I was still down here, if there was a chance that things would get better, I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t let him kill me.

Tossing about and fighting is what Mr. Ewell would expect from me. He expected me to be a hellcat. In the heat of a struggle he would off me without a second thought. So when he kneeled down again in front of me, I didn’t move away. I wiped my eyes and dried my shaking hands on my shirt. Then, I raised my head and hesitantly put my hands on the sides of his face. He leaned back at first, but when he realized I wasn’t trying to scratch his eyes out, he stayed still with a curious look on his face. The knife stayed in his hand. It wasn’t pointed towards me, but if I tried anything stupid he would be ready.

Moving my hands about gently, I felt the stubble on his cheeks, and his sideburns. I felt his ears and his chin, traced the sides of his nose with the index fingers of both my hands. I didn’t dare getting too close to his eyes, so I skipped over them and traced his eyebrows, then his temples. Then I gently pushed my fingers up through his thinning hair and back down behind his ears, then moved back up to his cheeks again. It was all tentative and slow, and I don’t know what invisible hand was guiding me to do it, but I hoped it was the right thing to do. 

After intently focusing on each feature that I brushed over, I finally forced myself to look into his eyes. I didn’t want them to be the last thing I ever saw if things went south, but I needed him to see me. He needed to see that I was human, a living being. I had so much life left. 

My hands stilled at the intensity in his gaze. But I had his attention. 

What now? I felt like I needed to say something. What would I want to hear, if I were in his shoes? What was all of this about?

I swallowed hard. I would be breaking one of the first rules he gave me, but I needed to mention Atticus.

A tear rolled down my cheek. God, I was terrified. My voice came out as a whisper, but I forced it to be strong.

“I’m sorry for what my daddy did to you.”

Mr. Ewell’s nostrils flared. A few more tears slipped out but I blinked them away and forced myself to go on. I moved the pad of my thumb back and forth in an arc across his cheek, the way he once did to me.

“People are awful to you just because of the family you were born into. They never even gave you a chance. I’m so sorry. It’s all unfair.”

All the while, I was trying to beat back feelings of revulsion towards myself and the man in front of me. He might be sober at the moment, but the smell of whiskey and rot never left him. I hated looking at his face. I hated touching it. I couldn’t keep on doing this or soon he would be able to tell.

“You deserve respect, just like anyone else out there.”

My hands retreated from his face back to my own chest, where my heart was still racing at a painful speed. I brought my heavy head forward so that the crown of it was placed against Mr. Ewell’s chest. I couldn’t feel his heartbeat. I’m docile, I tried to transfer the thoughts to his head. I can be kept around.

A silent moment passed. I had no more ideas, nothing left to give. I was confused by my own attempts at manipulation, and I doubted he believed my words for one second.

“You know your daddy still tips his hat to me when he sees me?”

That was terribly ironic. I pictured Mr. Ewell passing by Atticus on his way to torture me and receiving this cordial greeting. 

Oh, Atticus. He had so much faith in men. He was certain that Mr. Ewell was all talk. I was almost glad that he would never realize his terrible lapse of judgment. It was a rare occasion for Atticus to be wrong about something.

The lump in my throat had returned when I asked, 

“Do you tip yours back?”

“As any good gentleman would.”

There was humor in his voice. Remembering when he spat in Atticus’s face, I wondered if he was lying.

I flinched as he placed his hand on my shoulder-blade. I imagined that he was holding me still so that he could plunge the knife into my arched back, and I began to sob again. The hand on my back felt the full force of my loud, convulsive gasps, and I resisted the urge to shake it off or bat it away. I hated crying. It felt like I was drowning.

“Dammit, girl, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

His hand moved to hold my shoulder and I bawled even harder. 

It was time. I was only glad that my last view would be of my knees and the stone floor, not Mr. Ewell’s face. Though I couldn’t get the image of it out of my head, and my hands felt greasy from touching it and his hair. I wrung my shirt between my hands, trying to get the greasy feeling off. I couldn’t get it off. 

“I don’t wanna die,” I wept. 

Not here. Not while I was crying, and greasy, and weak, and stupid. Could I ask him to take me out to drown me in Barker’s Eddy instead? Then I would be clean. And maybe I would be able to see the sky. I wouldn’t try to escape. I tried steadying my heaving breaths and was about to ask when Mr. Ewell said,

“Jesus Christ, kid, I’m not gonna kill you.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. 

“W-what?” I sniffed.

“Quit your whinin’. I’m not gonna kill you.”

I could hardly believe my ears. I didn’t want to look up and still see him holding the knife though, and right on cue I heard the clatter as he dropped it to the floor behind him. That was when I unfurled from my hunched position and dared to look up at him. It didn’t seem like he was messing with me. I wondered if this whole thing had just been a ploy to scare and make a fool out of me, but I didn’t think that was the case.

“Im not lettin’ you go, though.”

That made sense. I nodded enthusiastically, hardly able to contain my relief. Tears were still coming out of my eyes, but I wanted to make sure he knew I was thankful. My words came out in a sob.

“Thats okay. Thats okay.”

“You promise to be good to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright.” He nodded to himself. He looked to be conflicted, and I wished I could see what he was thinking. I hoped he wasn’t changing his mind. When he picked up the knife I stayed as still as a statue, bracing myself, but he simply took it and left.

I fell to the side from where I was kneeling and almost immediately passed out from emotional exhaustion. If he changed his mind while I was sleeping, I hoped I wouldn’t wake up to the pain.

Chapter Text

Mr. Ewell and I returned to our normal routine. I was scared to go to sleep sometimes, and I would wake up suddenly, thinking that he was about to slit my throat or bash my head in. When we were together, it was as if our altercation never happened, except that Mr. Ewell was… I don’t know the word for it. He wasn’t “nicer”, per se. He would still beat me, just less often. But I thought I was more human in his eyes now. 

Even so, sometimes I would think that the night he tried to kill me was just a dream, but then Mr. Ewell’s eyes would linger on my hands for too long and I would know that we both remembered how I placed them on his face. I was on edge for a while, wondering if he would gain the courage to permanently do away with me. Eventually, this fear faded. It helped that some days he seemed amused by me, rather than simply using me as a human punching bag.

One one of these days, Mr. Ewell entered casually, with two bottles in hand. Surprisingly, they were still mostly full. He sat with his back against a wall for a bit, set down one of the bottles on the floor with a soft clink, opened the other, and beckoned me over.

“C’mere.”

I went. 

“Drink this.”

He handed me the bottle. I smelled it, and it burned my nose. It smelled like him. Alcohol, of course. 

“I’m not allowed to have this, sir.”

“Says who? Go ‘head.”

I had a small sip and suppressed a shudder at the taste. The liquid was sharp on my tongue and throat- almost like Coca-Cola, in a way. Already envisioning a trip to the sink to wash out my mouth, I simply said, “Thank you, sir,” and I tried to hand the bottle back to him. Instead, he took hold of my arm and pulled me closer. 

Pinching my nose, he brought the bottle to my lips and forced me to swallow. If I thought the liquid was sharp before, now it burned. It scalded my throat and I coughed, trying to pull away as it dribbled out both sides of my mouth, but Mr. Ewell let go of my nose to hold me tight by the back of my neck. He said I had to drink the whole thing, and so I did. 

Finally, I finished it, and he let me go. My nose burned and my eyes watered as I staggered a few feet away, coughing. I wanted to gag.

He opened his own bottle and I found myself envious of how gracefully he was able to take a gulp of it. Was he even drinking the same stuff as me?

“It always burns the first time, don’t it,” Mr. Ewell chuckled to himself, but I didn’t get what was funny, or how on earth he could possibly enjoy the vile drink. He then simply sat back in his spot and watched, waiting. I hoped he wouldn’t make a habit of forcing it down my throat like that, I didn’t want to get addicted to the stuff. I wondered if it would make me angry and red, like him. He hadn’t dismissed me yet so I stayed standing, wiping my runny nose with the back of my hand, and watching him in return.

What was he waiting for? He wasn’t drinking any more of the remaining bottle, and I almost wished that he would just finish it. If he forced me to have that one too I would surely be sick. I was considering acting a different way to make him think I was sufficiently drunk, when I found I didn’t have to pretend.

Standing soon became difficult. The room swayed and I swayed with it, trying to keep my balance. My eyelids felt heavy and a warmth spread through my body, which was a nice contrast to the chilly temperature of the room. My hands went to my cheeks and the heat there surprised me. Without warning my head dipped and my knees buckled a bit, and I found myself stumbling forward. I fell right onto Mr. Ewell, who caught me and sat me in his lap. 

I wondered how alcohol made him angry, I just felt so sleepy... he was running his hands through my hair, and it felt so nice... he said I should keep it long, and I said, “Mm-Hmm.” I could barely keep my eyes open. A hand slowly stroked the length of my arm, up and down, up and down, and then up and down my back, up and down, and it was so lovely to have human contact, and I felt so light and heavy at the same time, and I was happy...

•••

The next thing I knew, I was alone, nauseous, and had a pounding headache. My mouth had the foul aftertaste of bile, so I went to get some water. My lips tingled a little, feeling a bit sensitive, or sore. That was odd, I didn’t know alcohol had that side effect. Thinking back on what happened before, I remembered drinking, but not much after that. I probably made a fool out of myself. The thought of not knowing what exactly happened made me feel sick. Or that was just the alcohol not agreeing with my stomach.

Atticus never drank. He said he didn’t like it. I remembered Jem asking him if we could try it, and he said not until we were done growing. Aunty huffed and agreed with him, which was a rare occurrence. She said it would rot our brains. I was annoyed to find that Aunty was right, because it certainly felt like my brain was rotting now.

They both would be disgusted by me.

Atticus didn’t drink or smoke, he just sat in the living room and read. I used to think he was a bit dull because of this, but now... God, what I would do to have some books down here. And a light to read them. Maybe if I behaved well enough Mr. Ewell would bring me something to entertain myself with. I didn’t mind if it came from the dump. My subconscious reared its ugly head, asking me, Have you really sunk so low as asking for favors from him? And I thought back in response, Well, yes. If I was going to be down here for a long time, I might as well make the most of it. I didn’t have any more use for pride.

I was unaware that at the moment, Atticus was in the company of my Uncle Jack at Finches Landing, and when offered drink, he accepted for the first time in years. His Christmas present this year would be to forget a little.

In Scout’s absence, Jem was left to endure the entity that was their cousin Francis Hancock alone. In past years at Finches Landing Jem tended to gravitate towards the adults, but now it felt like he couldn’t shake the boy. It was after a rather quiet Christmas dinner when Jem donned his coat and went out into the backyard to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the room. There was a catwalk connecting the house with a separate kitchen, and Jem had about thirty seconds to himself sitting on it in the cold before Francis was on his heels again. 

At first Jem was cordial, engaging in boring but polite conversation. But as Francis droned on about unimportant nonsense, Jem was finding it more and more difficult to pretend that he cared about what kind of pants his cousin got for Christmas. Eventually Jem’s repeated clipped responses of “Mmhm” and “That’s nice” annoyed Francis, who went on to ask something that he was sure would grab Jem’s attention.

“When’s the funeral for Jean Louise gonna be?”

Jem’s hackles raised, taken aback. “What?”

“I said, when’s the funeral for Jean Louise gonna be?”

Jem dug his toe into a patch of dirt next to the catwalk. “She ain’t dead, Francis.”

“Grandma says she is. She says that everyone who says otherwise is kiddin’ themselves.” 

“Well Atticus said-“

“Well of course Atticus says she’ll be alright, he’s in denial. He’s jus’ guilty ‘cause he’s the one who let y’all run wild in the first place.”

Jem’s ears burned but he kept his mouth shut and stood to leave, not wanting his anger to get the best of him. Atticus already had enough to worry about lately without him strangling his cousin. 

But Francis rose too.

“One of you was bound to get hurt or killed doin’ that sooner or later, but it ain’t your fault, with your father bein’ the way he is.”

As Francis talked, Jem turned scarlet. He had a long fuse, but it was burning up quickly. He didn’t know where exactly Francis had heard all this talk from, or why he thought it was appropriate to relay it all to him, but he had his suspicions. It seemed like the kid was a tactless translator of all the rotten comments of the town and perhaps even Aunt Alexandra, though Jem felt a twinge of betrayal at the thought. Did she really still think Atticus was ‘ruining the family,’ despite everything they had been through?

“Quit talking about my family, or I’ll make you. Scout’s still out there, they just haven’t found her yet.”

“If she really was taken, and not just buried or at the bottom of a river somewhere, you really think whoever had her would still want her around by now? I mean, she isn’t that pretty. And everyone knows she’s a hellcat. At this point she’d be more of a nuisance than anything.”

“Francis, what the hell are you sayin’?”

“Nothin’ you don’t already know.” 

Jem turned and grabbed Francis by the collar.

“Spit it out.”

“You really don’t know? Or haven’t even thought about it? I find that hard to believe.” 

Jem eyes flashed in recognition but he didn’t say a word, only continuing to glare at Francis’s face in front of him. His fists were beginning to shake from their ever-tightening grip on the boy’s collar. 

Francis’ grin turned into a grimace and he lowered his voice. “Oh, you do know, don’t you? If you’re smart, you should hope that she’s dead. If she’s not, then she prolly wishes she was. Everyone knows there’s only one thing that kidnapped girls are kept alive for.”

Seeing red, Jem went to punch Francis, who flinched pathetically before Jem’s fist stopped an inch away from his eye. Jem swore he could feel steam pour from his ears.

“I outta make you wish you were dead.”

“Woah there, easy, Jem.” Francis conceded, breaking away from Jem’s grip and holding up his hands in surrender. He crooned, “You really wanna split this family apart more than it already has? 

Jem took pause.

Scout wouldn’t have wanted that, and Atticus would be disappointed.

But as Jem’s shoulders drooped and he began to walk away in resignation, he thought about wiping Francis’s shit-eating grin off of his face and realized…

…No. Scout would have most definitely wanted that.

In a fraction of a second Jem swung back around and broke Francis’s nose.

The cellar was getting colder. I tried moving about to warm myself up but I was so weak that when I couldn’t move anymore it just left me cold and exhausted. I switched back and forth between wearing my flannel normally and sitting with it wrapped around my bare legs, but it wasn’t enough. I could feel the chill seeping all the way down to my bones.

So when Mr. Ewell returned to his usual spot on the wall, I felt a terrible, terrible thing. 

I wanted to go to him. 

I wanted him to hug me like he did before. He was wearing a thick jacket, and I could almost feel his warmth pulling me from the other side of the room.

He eyed me as I shivered, trying to warm up my own spot on the floor. I would never dare ask him for a blanket or new clothes, but maybe, just maybe... This wouldn’t make him mad, right? He didn’t seem drunk today. He sometimes would just hold me of his own free will, would he be so opposed to me initiating it? 

After a long internal debate, I stood and awkwardly walked over to him, stopping a few feet away. My feet froze on the stone floor, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself any further by approaching on my tiptoes. When Mr. Ewell growled, “What d’you want?”, I almost retreated back to my corner, but my feet remained planted. I said nothing. 

Mr. Ewell was scanning me, looking for signs of any funny business. My head stayed down, eyes glued to the floor beneath me. How on earth was I supposed to phrase it? ‘Can you please hug me, sir?’ God, I would sound insane. I was insane. I remembered the late vitriolic Mrs.Dubose once spewing that half the Finches were in the asylum, and I wondered if I would follow in their stead.

I shivered again and swallowed hard. “May I stay by you, sir?” 

I held my breath for a moment, awaiting laughter or anger.

But none came. I looked up to see a blink of confusion, then a wide smile cross Mr. Ewell’s face. “Of course, my pretty lil’ girl. C’mere.” I went to sit by his side, barely touching him, and felt an odd sense of relief as he pulled me closer. An arm came around my shoulders, crossed over me, and settled in place, and I wrapped both of my arms around it.

“Yer a pathetic lil’ thing, aren’t ya?”

I didn’t respond, simply letting my head rest on the jacketed arm I was holding.

“You were quite a brat when we first met, but you’re much better now. Jus’ look at you, cuddlin’ up to me like a puppy.”

I wished he would stop talking, but the comfort of his warmth overrode my embarrassment. For some reason I was glad that he thought I was “better now,” confusing myself. Why did I care if he thought I was a brat or not? I guess it maybe felt good to be doing something right, to not be a complete nuisance or failure to someone.

“You know why I can’t let you out, right?”

“Yessir.” I thought about the many reasons he gave, from the possibility of me ratting him out to the fact that I should be grateful he’s keeping me alive at all.

“Well there’s a lil’ bit more to it than me jus’ wantin’ you all to myself. Have you met any of my other children, Scout?”

“Yessir,” I said again, thinking about the lice-riddled Burris Ewell who showed up to class once every year. “Burris was a classmate of mine.”

“I do the best I can with ‘em, I really do.” I recalled a similar phrase coming out of my father’s mouth once when referring to me and Jem, and it was odd to hear from this man who would spend his government checks on liquor. “When I’m not spendin’ time down here with you, I’m out huntin’ for game to feed ‘em.” Illegally, I added in my mind. The landowners around here only let him so his children wouldn’t starve.

“Do you know what would happen to ‘em if I went to jail?”

I took pause at this. After a moment of thought, I shook my head.

“Me neither,” he admitted. “But I don’t like to think about it.” He almost sounded mournful, like he actually cared for their well-being. I thought about how Mayella said he’d hurt them if she let me go, and I felt terribly puzzled.

“They may just be left to fend for themselves, if this town keeps on showin’ as much care for my family as it has in the past. Or they’d be split up, sprinkled about across the county, hopefully landin’ with people who’d care for them.”

He then was looking down and directly addressing me. “There’s a whole lotta evil in this world, Scout. You may think you have it bad, but the world is full of folks much worse than me. An’ my children ain’t half as strong as you are.”

He paused for a moment, letting me take in the information. “I doubt Mayella would let that happen, though. Wouldn’t let them be split up, I mean. She’d prolly declare herself legal guardian and work herself to death takin’ care of ‘em.”

The world was silent for a minute until Mr. Ewell sighed, shaking his head. I felt him give me a squeeze and pull his arm away. Suddenly the warmth was gone, immediately flooding from my body like water in a colander. He was up and heading for the stairs, and before I could stop myself, I called after him.

“Wait!”

He paused, turning with a curious look on his face, and I immediately felt foolish.

“I- where are you going?”

Mr. Ewell let out a small laugh. “I’ve gotta go hunt, pretty girl. My kids ain’t gonna feed themselves.”

And then he was gone, leaving me cold, lonely, and confused.

•••

The next day, I woke up shivering to find a pair of small worn flannel pajama pants sloppily folded up next to me. I debated if this was a trick of some sort, then put them on. They fit alright other than the legs being a tad bit too long, bunching up around my ankles. They were soft, and I was grateful for the bit of added warmth. I had never been so grateful for a gift in my life. 

The only thing I disliked about them is that something told me they weren't set here by Mayella.

Chapter Text

One night (or day, who knew how strange Mr. Ewell’s drinking schedule could be) Mr. Ewell drunkenly staggered down to the basement and I obediently stayed against the wall that was visible from the door. I mentally prepared myself for the pain of his usual drunken “stress relief”, but it never came.

I curled myself into a protective ball for a while without any sign of Mr. Ewell approaching, so I dared to peek up to check if he was still there. He was still standing at the base of the stairs, and there was strange look in his eyes that I had only seen a few times before. He looked really hungry. Maybe he had finally fed his children instead of himself, for a change.

Noticing my movement, he slowly lumbered forward and I ducked my head once again. I expected to be acquainted with a knife or foot or belt but instead he grabbed my wrists with one large hand and lifted me high against the wall. 

“I got me here a purty girlie…” he slurred, and I turned my head in disgust as my nose was filled with the burning stench of alcohol. He moved like a zombie from one of Jem’s books, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Everything was asleep except for his eyes- when I had seen them before they were alive with a fire that reaped a new terror in me, and I had no idea why.

“Don't yooou disssrespect me lil’ missus… you look’a me in the eye when I'm talkin’… I do wha’ I wanna do… lemme see those baby blues…” 

I reluctantly turned my head back and shuddered at seeing his flaming eyes again as they bore into mine. I flinched when his free hand touched my face. My sore skin protested his large fingers- there must have been a bruise there. His fingers trailed down my neck slowly. It didn't hurt, but I despised it. It felt weird in a way I didn't understand. It tickled, a little. I would have asked him what the sam hill he was doing, but I had learned by now that questions were answered with pain, so I kept quiet.

Though Mr. Ewell’s actions were soft and gentle, they were so different from those of Miss Maudie, Cal, or Atticus. Their caresses, whether stroking my hair or giving me a hug, brought me comfort; whatever Mr. Ewell was doing felt just plain wrong. It made me feel dirty and disgusting, not just on the outside from the lack of hygiene over the past weeks, but on the inside, too.

Hating this foreign feeling, I closed my eyes, praying that he was too distracted to notice that I was disobeying his order to look at him and punish me or Jem for it. To both my relief and dismay his hand didn't hesitate, and his course didn't change.

All the while, my hands felt like they were going to pop off and my wrists were burning from the tight grip used on them to keep me suspended against the wall. My shoulders ached and my arms shook with the effort of holding up my own weight, as whenever I tried stopping tensing them I felt like my arms would pull clean from their sockets. 

Mr. Ewell’s free hand was now trailing down my side, feeling through my large shirt, and I involuntarily shuddered as he pressed the side of my stomach. Then the hand moved across to the other side, brushing the waistband of my pajama pants as he crossed, and back up, causing me to hiss and instinctually kick out my leg when he came across my stab wound. 

I didn’t think my bare foot could actually hurt Mr. Ewell, but he growled like an animal and I was dropped to the ground. Whatever I did, I was going to pay dearly for it.

Clambering away from him, I rubbed my wrists and heard him grumbling but the words were incomprehensible. The carving hidden under the gauze on my forearm throbbed as my circulation returned. Still facing the wall, Mr. Ewell took out a flask from his hip where the basement key hung and took a swig. I cowered as he turned towards my hiding spot in the corner of the room, but after one step he swayed like a weed in a windstorm and fell to the floor with a dull thud.

The time he was lying there felt agonizingly long, but I didn't dare to close my eyes. They remained fixed on his snoring figure, a slowly rising and falling mountain on the basement floor, waiting for him to stir. 

Eventually I started wishing that he'd just wake up and leave the room or give me my beating and be done with it; the waiting was worse. I felt like I was trapped in a cave with a sleeping bear. As my eyelids grew heavy I looked back at the loudly snoring form and finally remembered the dull and rusted key below his shining hip flask.

Escape. Freedom. They were so close I could taste it. But I wouldn't dare… what if he wakes up? He always is talkin’ bout how he'll kill me if I try to leave. Well, living like this isn't much better… but Jem...

I stood up and crept towards Mr. Ewell, tip-toeing in a way that brought back memories of my summers sneaking around at the Radley place with Dill and my brother. My survival instincts were screaming at me to turn around back to my corner, but they hadn't been doing me any good lately, so I ignored them. 

I don’t think I can keep Mr. Ewell sated for much longer, he’s going to go after Jem eventually no matter what I do. If I get out I can warn him, I can make sure he is protected and that Mr. Ewell can’t reach him...

Before I knew it, I was at his side. Seeing him like this was strange. Not because he appeared vulnerable like most do while sleeping, but because he didn't. Whenever Atticus fell asleep in his chair with a paper still in his lap and his glasses askew he looked like what I'd imagine a younger version of himself would look like. It's the same with Jem whenever I came into his room to borrow a book late enough at night. Perhaps it's because he was always trying to appear older then he really is, but asleep his face looked so much softer, like a baby’s. Telling Jem this would start a brawl, I'm sure.

The man on the floor was not peaceful, was not younger, was not less threatening. He was not vulnerable. At any moment he could wake up and decide that I wasn't worth the effort of keeping anymore. He could end my life just like that. But maybe, just maybe, if I could get out...

Holding my breath, I reached down to grab the rusted key off of Mr. Ewell’s belt. Mr. Ewell snorted and shifted, giving me a near heart attack as my hand shot back to my chest. I hardly breathed until I was sure he was still sleeping, and his loud snoring resumed.

Then a thought occurred to me.

Did he even lock the door behind him when he came down this time?

He was so drunk, I was almost sure that he hadn’t. If the door was open on its own, I wouldn’t even need to worry about jostling him for the key. And if it wasn’t open I could always come back down for the key. It couldn’t hurt to check. 

While tiptoeing to the stairs, the way my captor had pawed at my body crept back into my mind. Something told me that it was my fault; perhaps it was the guilt lingering from the way I had gone to him of my own free will the other day. And before that, when he was going to kill me, and I had put my hands on his face. I had touched him then, did that mean he was allowed to touch me now? I had no idea how that was supposed to work.

A few times I had overheard fragments of conversations mentioning some lady or another getting grabbed at, hissed at missionary teas or through idle church gossip. Was it just something that happened to ladies? I didn’t consider myself a proper lady by any means, much to my Aunty’s chagrin. But I never heard about men being grabbed at. Maybe it didn’t bother them as much, or they just didn’t make as much of a fuss. I had to get over it. Getting freaked out about it wouldn’t help me understand it any better.

I shook my thoughts away as I reached the top step and went to grab the doorknob. 

It turned with a small squeak, and the door gave, cracking open a sliver. It was nighttime, and the Ewell cabin was dark but for the light of the moon. 

I held my breath again, praying that this wasn’t a dream. The room was silent but for the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

Too silent.

Mr. Ewell’s snoring had stopped.

I turned around to see him looking up at me from at the bottom of the stairs with a lopsided grin on his face. Not charging up the stairs, not threatening me. Just standing quietly and patiently.

Why was he smiling? I could escape at any second, run straight out the door and make a ruckus. I had a lead on him, and he was still unsteady on his feet. Even if he caught me in ten seconds out the door, I could raise enough hell to alert everyone in the surrounding area of a hidden basement and the name Bob Ewell.

His smile twisted my gut with anxiety. Was there something he knew that I didn’t? I started thinking of all the ways my escape could go wrong, trying to find the one that would make him smile like that. Would anyone even be awake to hear me yelling in the street? Even if they were, there would be plenty of time for Mr. Ewell to kill me, hide my body, and find one of his children to blame for the yelling before anyone was even out of their bed. Was he smiling as he thought of how he would finally do it?

I was curious what he would do after I was gone. Would he miss me? I hated how quickly that thought came to me. I hated that I cared. He probably wouldn’t blink an eye when chopping me up and burying me. I was pretty sure there weren’t others before me, but I doubted he would ever stop doing this as long as he could get away with it. He would just find someone else to fill my place.

My heart sank.

Jem.

I looked in Mr. Ewell’s gleaming eyes, my hand still holding the doorknob. It was like he was daring me to do it, to leave and never come back.

Ten seconds passed. Then ten more.

Goddammit. 

He knew I wouldn’t.

“Will you promise to not hurt Jem if I stay?”

Mr. Ewell stayed silent, simply holding out his arms out towards me. I wished he would chase me up the stairs and send me tumbling down them like he had so many times before. Anything but walking back down to him on my own.

I stared at the faint silver moonlight bleeding from the door, and watched it disappear as I closed it behind me with a dull, quiet click. My hand lingered on the doorknob and I played with it for a moment, savoring the sensation of it turning at my command. Then I let my hand drop to my side.

As I slowly started down the stairs, the rustle of my flannel pajama pants sounded way too loud, and Mr. Ewell finally deigned to speak to me.

“Thats it, baby. C’mere...” I walked into Mr. Ewell’s waiting arms, and he ran his hands through my hair- well, the best he could with the state it was in.

‘My pretty lil’ girl’, ‘My lil’ bird’... those I had heard from him many times now. But ‘baby’? Only Atticus called me baby. Or Calpurnia.

“M’sorry,” I whispered, my face only coming up to Mr. Ewell’s large belly. The shirt my check was pressed against smelled sour. His hands moved from my hair, and I went stiff as a board as he held me tight. “I’m sorry, sir,” I added, just in case he didn’t hear me the first time. “I didn’t mean to kick you, it was an accident. Please don’t hurt Jem. It won’t happen again.”

Mr. Ewell’s hand trailed down to my lower back. Then, as if he was burned, his embrace loosened and he threw me to the floor. I stayed down, catching my breath I waited for whatever he would do next. I wondered how he still managed to always catch me by surprise, even after hurting me so many times.

“You’re right. It won’t.”

His foot came down on my leg, hard. I heard the sickening snap before I felt it. But then I did feel it, and I couldn't hold back my scream of agony. I twisted up to reach for my calf, and he was standing over me. 

"You won’t be going anywhere" he growled. His toe nudged my broken leg and I heard a piercing scream. With a shock, I realized it was mine.

My hands hovered over my leg, but I couldn’t think of anything I could possibly do to alleviate the pain. Defeated, I keened as I fell back down, pinching my hand to try to distract myself. I cried from the pain of the bone that was surely broken and of the thought that I had been so close. 

Goddamnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit.

There wouldn’t be another chance like that again; Mr. Ewell would surely be more vigilant from now on. I couldn’t believe that I had just thrown the opportunity away. The door was open, for Christ’s sake. Mr. Ewell pulled me back like a puppet on a string, and I couldn’t fathom how he did it- or why I obeyed. Once again, I disgusted myself.

I made eye contact with Mr. Ewell, who looked like he was ready to rough me up some more, but he simply gave my body a once over before turning and leaving the room. I cried even harder.

God fucking dammit, he just broke my fucking leg. Why did I want him to stay?

Chapter Text

Without the use of my leg, I was completely hopeless. I was pretty sure it was broken, or at least fractured in some way. Getting up to get water from the sink or use the toilet was a near impossible task, so much so that I briefly decided that not drinking water would solve both of my problems.

Recognizing that being unable to access any water would certainly kill me, Mr. Ewell allowed Mayella to make a me very rough splint with some sticks and tightly wound gauze. I could barely put any weight on it without my bone sending flames to my brain, but I managed to get up when necessary. My uninjured leg was now sore from all the extra work it had to do.

When the vastness of my boredom reached an all-time high, I took up the hobby of singing. 

I had sung to myself a couple of times before in the basement, but I had found running in circles to be a more entertaining and productive pastime. I supposed now, more than ever, that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

My voice was not good by any means, but I found that I didn’t care. I sang songs I knew and songs I didn’t know. I just hummed the words I couldn’t remember at first, but eventually I started making up new ones to fill the gaps. Foul language was fun to throw in there sometimes.

On a different note, the repetitive hymns from church had easy tunes that came to me easier than I thought they would. I made myself cry when singing some of the more sentimental ones.

Eventually my voice got a little better, I think. At least it sounded better to me. Clearer and less raspy. I also figured out how to whistle! Having endless hours to do nothing but sit and try different ways to do it was a successful method of learning.

I would always stop the moment the door opened, because it felt nice to have something for myself. If people upstairs couldn’t hear me scream like a banshee, then they surely wouldn’t be able to hear my singing. 

I couldn’t make my body stronger, but I could strengthen my voice, and I liked the challenge. I wondered if that was the last type of rebellion I had left in me.

The first time I was caught entertaining myself in this way, I had just completely forgotten that Mr. Ewell was in the room. I started whistling to myself when he barked, “Quit that racket.” I jumped out of my skin as my jaw clamped shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Nothing came of it though, much to my relief.

Until one day, Mr. Ewell was sitting in the basement and he said, “Whistle for me.”

“Huh?”

“Whistle a song for me. Anythin’ will do.”

At first nothing came out but air, which was embarrassing. Of course, now I couldn’t whistle for the life of me. I tried a couple more times, and Mr. Ewell seemed amused by my frustration. When I finally got it, it was shaky, but got stronger as I went on. I chose a jaunty tune from a song called “Riddle Me This”.

When I was done, Mr. Ewell asked for another. A bit annoyed, I chose “The Star Spangled Banner.” Though I didn’t make it purposefully bad, I wouldn’t say that I took much care to stay on pitch. To my relief, he didn’t ask for another after that. 

After that slip up, I was very careful to keep my singing to myself. If he got into the habit of asking me to sing for him, that would completely take the joy out of it, and I didn’t want him to take that from me. 

He took to calling me his “lil’ bird”. It was a nickname that I didn’t mind as much as the others. I supposed that partly was because I had earned it, in a way, by successfully whistling. I wondered if he could tell I was proud of it, despite my reluctance to perform for him.

One day Mr. Ewell was drunk again and proposed to let me see Mayella more often if I was a good little girl for him. I thought that I was already being good, but I agreed anyways. I missed Mayella a lot, and Mr. Ewell said we could talk about “whatever stupid shit” we wanted as long as I didn’t talk about what happened down here. When Mayella and I spent time together before we never talked about my current circumstances (despite Mr. Ewell insisting that we were conspiring against him) so that was an easy enough term to agree to. 

He put his fingers in my mouth again. He had done it a couple times before, but this time was a bit different because he told me to suck on them. It was gross, but I was good and obeyed and remembered that I wasn’t supposed to bite him. I gagged when he added a third finger and pushed back into my throat, and I tried to stay still but I couldn’t. To my surprise, when I pulled away and apologetically sputtered he was actually kind of nice about it. He seemed to understand that my reaction was an accident, and he didn’t try it again.

However, I messed everything up when he moved my hand to touch the bulge in the crotch of his pants and I flipped out. He asked so little of me, and he wasn’t hurting me, and I still managed to ruin it. It just freaked me out that there was something there, and it was warm even through the fabric and much firmer than I expected it to be.

Despite my stream of apologies, he still left me, and I knew that he wasn’t going to let me see Mayella anytime soon.

I laid on the fallen door and stared at the ceiling, quietly singing a song to myself. I had memorized every inch of this place. I knew how many steps there were on the stairs, how many holes were in the sink drain (which I had yelled into quite a bit, just in case the plumbing led anywhere audible), where there were particularly interesting perforations in the floor, the number and location of every scratch on the doorknob. There were eleven prominent scratches around the keyhole, some deeper than others, from Mr. Ewell fumbling while drunkenly locking and unlocking the door from the inside. I wondered how many scratches were on the outside lock. I had once heard of somebody who could pick locks with a hairpin. Mayella didn’t wear hairpins. 

It felt pointless to count up and memorize all of these random details, but my mind would always be searching for something to do. It, unlike the rest of my body, refused to give up. I didn’t miss school, but I missed knowing the answers to things. I felt dumb down here. But if somebody asked, I could tell them that the toilet had two screws in the front and four screws in the back bolting it to the floor. And each bolt had six sides and didn’t budge when you tried to twist them with your bare hands nor when you covered your hands with a flannel. Not that unbolting the toilet from the floor would have accomplished anything. Let’s just say I was familiarizing myself with the space.

After all, what was a bird without her cage?

“Are you sure there is no way you can let me out?”

Mayella jumped in surprise at my voice. I hadn’t posed that question in a long time. Mr. Ewell only had let Mayella down here to check on my leg because he thought I was unconscious. In reality I had just been too tired to react to and try to soften his earlier blows, simply glad he was leaving my leg alone. I wanted to sleep but I thought I might as well ask.

Mayella didn’t look at my face when she bowed her head and said, “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

That is what I had been anticipating. I looked at a bruise on Mayella’s chin, reminding myself that she was doing the best she could. It was no small chore to come down here every few days and try to keep me alive. 

“Its okay.”

“No, ’t's not okay,” Mayella said, sniffing and tilting back her head to stop tears. “I’m really sorry.”

I was gaining energy in my motivation to comfort her. I tried sitting up.

“Mayella-”

She interrupted and gently pushed me back down by my shoulders, but I felt a flash of frustration as I was too damn weak to resist.

“No, don’t do that. Stop bein’ all pityin’ and kind and forgivin’ when you don’ understand the half of it.”

I recognized frustration in her eyes too, and in that moment I saw the Mayella from the trial, the one who got upset with Atticus for calling her “ma’am” and “Miss Mayella.” So unfamiliar with being regarded with respect or dignity that she assumed that my father was mocking her. 

“I can’t get away long ‘nough to get the sheriff and plan somethin’ discretely so that he can’t catch wise and kill you while I’m away, or hurt my- my siblin's. And I don’t know how to get all of you out at once. He watches. They all tell ‘im things. They are so damn loyal to ‘im. He takes it out on you an’ me an’ all of ‘em real bad if he doesn’t know where I am for too long.” 

Mayella had been speaking fast, desperate, knowing that any moment Mr. Ewell would come knocking again and she’d have to go, but at this point she slowed down, trying to get some new point across to me. "Even if there is a way… I know my paw does bad things. He does bad things, and he hurts us. But…”

Mayella’s words were now am ashamed whisper.

“I don’t know what we would do if he was gone. I can’t let you out without ‘im going to jail, or worse. He’ll get the chair. If you tell, he’s gone.”

My mind reeled as I tried to process what Mayella was saying.

“This town won’ help us. I’ve tried before, I tell ‘em that we need help an’ they jus' look the other way. I begged the old sheriff for help a long, long time ago when I really needed it the most an’ he and the others said I was bein’ dramatic, a liar, a whore. Both an attention whore an’ a whore outright- Pardon my language, but I know Papa uses much worse.” I nodded, and she went on. “The one time Maycomb listened is when I really was lyin’, because Papa said I had to, and everyone knew it. They won’t help us ‘cause they think its ‘just the way things are. Maycomb gives us nothin’ but welfare checks nowhere near enough to feed a family, Christmas baskets, an’ the back o’ ’t’s hand. Papa is all we have.”

“Mayella, if he was gone you wouldn’t hafta worry ‘bout him hurting you anymore. He’s the cause of your bad reputation. Don’t you see he’s doin’ more harm than good? He drinks up your welfare checks. You wouldn’t need anyone to hunt if he didn’t do that. You could get a real education, so could your siblin’s. I’m sure folks would help y’all.”

Mayella took a deep breath and spoke directly to me, trying to clearly explain.

“You’re a Finch. The town speaks badly of your paw, but thas jus’ cause he scares ‘em. He shows ‘em a side of themselves they don’t like. But they still need him, respect him. Give ‘em a few years and they’ll forget all about this. Y’all have generations o’ respect on you. An’ in the meantime, the people that matter know that he’s good. They respect you, and your brother. They always will.”

Mayella’s fists were clenching in her lap. I felt my head throbbing, lulling me to close my eyes, but I needed to stay awake. As upsetting as it was, I needed to hear this, to look up and watch her face and eyes that were filling with tears of fury.

“Thats why you don’t understand. We are trash, lost causes, wild animals. Thats what they think. If Papa is gone, that won’t change. They won’t even try to change it. You think that they’ll suddenly treat us like normal because he’s gone? That they’ll take care of us? They won’t. I’ll have to take care of us. And that okay. But if they learn that I know that you’re here, or knew, I- I don’t know what’ll happen. I might go to jail too, I really don’t know. I jus’ know that I won’t see my family anymore. I won’t be able to protect ‘em. The fine folks with their fancy 'airs and all the power will scatter us to the wind, get rid of us like a stain on their perfect town.”

I placed my hand over one of Mayella’s fists. I saw Mr. Ewell’s words reflected in hers. My own tears came from a mix of pain, exhaustion, confusion, and mostly sadness for her and her family. Her words were swimming in my mind, but somehow also strikingly clear and disturbing. They hit even harder because I knew everything she said about the town’s perception of the Ewells was accurate. 

From the first time they had ever been introduced to me as a concept, I had known the Ewells as the uneducated disgraces of Maycomb. The town turned a blind eye to them in the assumption that they would be better off continuing on as they were, instead of trying to assimilate them into our society. Hell, I think that Atticus was the one to introduce them to me as such. I felt like Dill during the trial and Jem after the trial, both brought to tears by the injustice of the world.

I started getting choked up. I didn’t know what to say. I felt a guilt deep in my chest that I knew I wouldn’t be able to remedy. Mayella noticed that I had started crying and she turned her hand to hold mine, apologetic. I finally let myself close my eyes again.

“God, Scout, I’m sorry, please don’t cry. I shouldn’t have put this all on you.” I silently agreed and wished that she hadn't, but I knew that there was no one else she could talk about it with. She had no friends. And I was glad she was being honest, even if it was confusing. “I’ll let you sleep. I’m sorry for all of this. But I can’t lose 'em. I can’t lose my kids. They’re my kids. I love ‘em, and they need me. And I… I need him. I can’t lose Papa. We will always be the Ewells. There is no one else.”

I was drifting off. As Mr. Ewell rapped on the door, Mayella’s words rang over and over in my head, especially, “They’re my kids," “They’re my kids," “They’re my kids."

Mayella stood to leave. I wasn’t sure how much of this conversation I would remember. Before I was out I was only able to get out one thing, what I must have thought was the most important thing to say.

“I- I won’t tell…”

Chapter Text

Some days or weeks or whatever later, I was sitting on the floor when Mr. Ewell came down the stairs. His thundering but even steps showed that he wasn't intoxicated, only drunk with determination. In a drunken rage his actions were sloppy, but with all his wits about him he knows exactly what he's doing and how to make it more painful. I prepared myself for the worst.

He took a moment to collect himself, facing a wall. When he finally turned, he was calmer. I was almost relieved until I saw that the dark flames in his eyes from the night he broke my leg were back. Then I was terrified. I didn’t want him to touch me again.

He walked towards me and I squirmed backwards. My head and shoulders were the first to hit the farthest wall, causing my good foot to lose its traction.

“Careful now. I’m not gonna hurt you” 

He took two large steps towards me and knelt. He reached out, pushed up both my flannel and undershirt a little ways, and laid his left hand over my abdomen, stroking his thumb over the exposed flesh. I shuddered. The rest of his fingers curled around my waist. The air began leaving and entering my lungs in a feverish manner as all the awful feelings from when he did this before returned.

“Easy,” he spoke with an unexpected gentleness. “Be good.”

He slid his left hand downwards, gripping my skinny thigh, squeezing slightly. I tensed, but didn’t move much more. I wanted to kick him, but I didn’t want him to break my other leg too. 

“Good girl,” he purred. I moved slightly, pressing myself as far against the wall as I possibly could, despite already being in contact with the cold, hard surface. He shifted too and rested his hands on my shins. I whimpered as he put pressure on the injured one with the splint. To my surprise, he noticed this and removed that hand. 

Was he really not going to hurt me? He didn’t say he was sorry, but I didn’t expect him to. He never apologized.

He tugged on the flannel fabric of my pajama pants and asked,

“Do you like these?”

I tried to steady my breathing.

“Yes sir,” I replied, with complete honesty. “Thank you for gettin’ them for me.”

“You’re welcome. If you keep on bein’ so good I’ll bring you a blanket, would you like that?”

Alarm bells went off in my mind when I recalled the last time he offered me something in return for being good, but I nodded.

“Hm?” 

“Yes, sir.”

"Very good." He whispered, and let his hands slide up to my hips where he tugged at the lip of my pants. "These need to go, for now."

"They don't-" I tried, finding little success. Mr. Ewell laughed. 

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, sweetheart."

I knew that I had gone without these pajama pants for the majority of my time here, and that there was nothing that removing them would reveal that Mr. Ewell hadn’t seen already. But I remembered Calpurnia telling Jem and I that the only people we are allowed to take off our clothes around were her, family, and Dr. Reynolds. I already broke that rule whenever Mr. Ewell had me take off my shirts to use the belt on me, and I hated the idea of being exposed to him like that again, especially when his dark eyes were glistening the way they were now.

Inside, I knew there was no way I could refuse. The best way for me to deal with everything was to just comply and hope for it to be over soon.

Even so, I wasn't good at waiting around. My limbs, as battered and bruised as they were, still itched to do something. Mr. Ewell’s hands tugged more roughly at the waistband of my pants, which were low on my hips now, and I grabbed his wrists to try to make him stop. 

"I told you to behave, sweetheart."

Throwing caution to the wind, I slammed my head into his, knocking him back. Remembering how it debilitated him last time, I made to land a kick in the fork of his legs, but he now had enough sense to back up, dodging the potential impact.

"You chose the hard way,” he growled, and I knew I was in for it.

There was nowhere to run, and even if there was I would be in too much pain to get very far, but I tried to anyways and felt his hand grab me. I wrenched myself from his grip, side-stepped him, and bolted for the stairs despite the spikes of pain shooting up my leg.

I even made it up a few steps before he grabbed me by my hips, roared, "Git back 'ere, you filthy whore-house!” and threw me onto the ground on the other side of the room like one would discard dirty clothes. I had used the term “whore-lady” before, and I knew it was an insult, but I still didn’t know what it meant.

The impact of landing was agonizing, sending an exquisite shock through my already mangled body. The blow to the back of my head made the room tilt and stars swim before my eyes. I blindly turned onto my stomach and crawled on my hands and knees, my mind screaming, Get away, get away, but where?! Without warning a boot came from beneath me, collided with my stomach, and sent me back to the floor. 

Panting, I started to move again in an army crawl, and I heard Mr. Ewell say, “You really don’ know when to stop, do you?” before another sharp kick to my ribs flipped me onto my back and knocked the wind out of me. I wheezed, trying to curl up into a fetal position, but he kicked me again and again. I felt something snap. After a pause I thought he was done, only for me to cry out as he kicked me one more time for good measure, his toe meeting the exact spot of my slowly healing stab wound.

My vision was blurry, refocusing just in time for me to see Mr. Ewell’s face above mine, sweaty with a ravenous expression. His eyes were black with that fire, and I writhed in discomfort as his callused hands raked my skin. His face came closer to mine and I smelled and felt his sour breath again, panting like a dog against my neck and then my ear. I felt the prickly stubble of his unshaven chin as he started to croon foul words into my ear, murmuring on about how ugly I was, how awful and stupid and pathetic and all-around unworthy I was. I choked back a sob, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I believed his words to be true. 

He continued on, telling me how no one could ever love me... except for him.

Without warning I froze as his mouth crashed onto mine, and a gurgled whimper escaped my mouth.

Was Mr. Ewell kissing me?! This did not feel like a kiss. Grown-ups weren’t supposed to kiss children like this. Grown-ups only gave dry pecks, and even then it was usually on your cheek, or forehead. The only kisses on the mouth I ever had were from my fiancé Dill, when he would swiftly reach up and kiss me when Jem was not looking, but this did not feel like those either. Dill’s kisses filled my stomach with butterflies; Mr. Ewell’s was nauseating and suffocating- I couldn't breathe. When I tried to gasp for air he took advantage of my open mouth and put in something moving and slimy and gross. I gagged as I realized that it was his tongue.

I wrenched my face away from his and drew in a sputtering breath as I tried to put as much distance between us as possible, using my hands and feet to clamber backwards. He stopped me by grabbing my ankles and spreading my kicking legs, dragging me back across the floor towards him. Every breath and twisting motion of my body brought flaring pain to my ribs. The pressure on my injured leg was debilitating.

Suddenly Mr. Ewell was on top of me, pinning me to the ground, his dirty hands touching me again. I pushed with all my might against his chest in an attempt to get him off of me, but it felt like I was trying to move a wall. I tried to scratch his face but forgot that I had bitten my nails past the quick, and my fingers just harmlessly batted his cheek. Without missing a beat, he pinned both of my hands under one of his and continued as if nothing had happened, making me feel more insignificant and hopeless than ever. His lips went to my neck this time and I felt the same nasty kisses and sliminess now paired with weird pinches of pressure like he was some sort of bloodsucking leech.

As my scattered mind was deciding that this was the worst feeling in the world, he paused to bury his nose in my hair. He inhaled deeply and recognition flashed in my mind of him having done that before. It came with memories of sore lips and fuzziness and him watching me from the corner while he- I don’t know what. God, I didn’t understand anything, it was infuriating. And terrifying. Nothing made sense anymore, but I knew I shouldn’t have just let him do those things. I shouldn’t have just ignored them and pretended they were bad dreams like I was a stupid baby. 

But what could I have done?

He skipped over the collar of my flannel and I felt his nose graze along the fabric pressed against my protruding collarbone. It all tickled like hell so my chin folded in to my neck, in spite of my throbbing head and my reluctance to bring my face closer to his. I cried out in pain and surprise as his teeth sank into my shoulder through the fabric. The neck of the flannel was already overly large for me so he should have been able to pull it over my shoulder easily, but instead he scratched my skin with his nails as he roughly pushed it and I shuddered. Like a rabid dog he licked and bit the newly exposed skin again and again and again, ignoring my cries of pain and pleas for him to stop.

He hissed and spat into my ear, “You tell anyone ‘bout this, you’re dead. Your daddy’s dead. Jem’s dead. Your nigger maid is dead.”

When he kissed me again I tasted the iron tang of my own blood in my mouth.

Mr. Ewell began to pull off my pajama pants, and before I could even think to tense up to make it harder for him, they were gone. He then released my hands and started tickling my belly and my legs. Despite myself, my pain and confusion, and knowing that it was completely inappropriate for the situation, I couldn’t suppress my instinctual laughter in between my pleas for him to stop and my efforts to bat his hands away. It hurt my ribs. In my ears it sounded less like laughter and more like sobbing hiccups. 

Then one hand thrust in between my thighs, touching where no one had ever touched before. Out of confusion and terror my laughter was choked into erratic breathing, and my vision went even darker as I began to fall into hysterics. It feels so wrong! Why is he touching me? What is he doing?! I tried to squirm away from his fingers but he wouldn't let me and he prodded even harder and deeper against the fabric of my underwear and it hurt. 

In my blind panic I called out for Atticus, for Mayella, for anyone. Without thinking about my own words, I called out for my mama too. For my mama, even though I didn’t remember her. Even though she was dead. I just hoped that she loved me, and she would have helped me if she could. Maybe I’d see her soon.

Why won't he stop?! I had thought that I was all out of tears, but I was weeping and screaming for help that wouldn't come.

Mr. Ewell didn't try to silence me now; maybe he decided that he liked the sound.

I continued to struggle against him, but he had me trapped. He squeezed my neck with his large hands and I tried to use my own to pull them away, scratching and digging into my own skin to try to get purchase underneath, all to no avail. Never before in my life had I ever felt so helpless. He cut off my airflow until my hands fell slack to my sides and I stopped resisting completely, then he banged my head on the floor as a warning to keep me from trying anything else. More stars appeared.

Finally, I tried to turn off my mind. I would not be here when he hurt me anymore. I wouldn't be there as I begged for him to stop. No, I would keep what little dignity I had left and imagine something else, somewhere else. 

I'm watching Calpurnia work in the kitchen, and she lets me sample a bit of the cornbread she just made. I'm playing in the yard with Jem and Dill, acting out scenes of Dill’s own invention. Jem is being an insufferable know-it-all, but he allows me to join him on a trip to town. I'm reading in Atticus’s lap on his favorite chair, and he comments on how big I've grown. 

The only thing I was aware of were the hot tears streaming down my face.

I want to see them again. I want to go home. I want to be loved. I try to remember all of the sermons I didn't pay attention to. Not the ones with algebra, but with God and the Lord Jesus Christ and things like that- can I have all of that in Heaven, if go there? If I can then dying doesn't sound so bad. I want to escape this. Please get it over with and kill me already, Mr. Ewell.

I woke myself up with my own screaming, echoing off of the basement walls. That and the pain brought me back, as much as I willed them not to. I wanted him to stop, I knew he wouldn’t. It was too late for me anyways.

He was doing it. He was answering my unspoken prayer, finally ending my suffering. I could smell him, and feel his sweat and his movements, and hear the awful noises he was making, but I blocked it all out because it was almost over. In the haze, all I knew was that he was on top of me and it felt as if I was being stabbed, being torn apart from the inside out, and finally I lost consciousness.

In the early evening Mr. Ewell allowed Mayella to go back down to the basement with a few stale slices of bread and a blanket for her to bring to Scout. Mayella knew that he was trying to mentally break Scout, keeping her from company for over a month now.

Mayella didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. She was relieved that Scout was finally going to have some food, but was worried because ever since he caught her talking with the girl, Papa only let Mayella deliver food when the poor thing was unconscious from a beating. It was a terrible thing when Mayella would find herself wishing that Papa would knock the kid out just so that she could eat something. Mayella had dared to tell him that at this rate Scout was going to starve to death, and a fresh black eye was his succinct response.

Then there was the blanket. Papa had pushed it into Mayella’s hands and told her to give it to Scout without any explanation why. She paled to think of the reason for his sudden generosity. She doubted it was just because Scout was cold. If that was the case, he would have given it to her two months ago. No, his kind actions were few and far between and most often motivated by guilt, not sympathy.

Earlier that day Mr. Ewell had come back from town furious, but not drunk. He had pushed past her in the yard with a look in his eyes that she had seen before but could not place. 

When she came across the supine, nearly naked Scout in the basement, the plate and blanket that Mayella was holding fell and clattered to the floor. Upon seeing the blood between her legs, Mayella’s hand flew to cover her mouth. She began to sob.

He had molested her. 

This innocent girl, this poor, vulnerable child had to suffer what she had suffered herself at the hands of her Papa. Mayella was flooded with remorse. Scout probably didn't even understand what he had done to her. 

And she was so still… Oh God. Mind racing, Mayella hurried to Scout’s side. Did her Papa lose control and finally take her life? She didn’t think he was going to go this far- okay, okay, she was breathing. Just barely, but still. It was better than the alternative. She didn’t know what she would have done if the girl was dead. 

Mayella moved instinctually to brush back Scout’s hair, which was stuck to her clammy forehead, but she pulled back her shaking hand before she made contact. Mayella realized that she didn’t know what to do with the girl alive, either. 

She had to stop crying, she needed to think straight. She didn’t want to wake Scout up, not to this. Not to the same basement with nobody there but Mayella to comfort her. Then again, Mayella was probably the only person in the world who could even begin to understand how Scout felt right then. 

She couldn't just patch the girl up and leave her to wake up alone, like how she had been forced to before. God, she didn’t even know how to “patch this up” without causing more damage. If she went… prodding around down there, Scout would surely wake up, and she would feel like she was being violated again, and… Mayella couldn’t do that to her. 

Christ, was this the real reason why Papa hadn’t let Mayella see or talk to Scout when she was awake? Had he been touching her already? How long had this been going on?

With a lurch in her stomach Mayella remembered Scout's distraught words to her when she found her bloodied, scooping up shattered glass with her bare hands, the first time she had ever seen her cry,

"Jem, he’s gonna hurt Jem! I have to do what he says or else he will, but I don’t- I- I don’t know if I can do it-"

Sweet Jesus, Scout had been so scared. Mayella should have asked what else her Papa was making her do. That was so long ago.

She felt so stupid. How could she have been so Goddamn naive?

Looking at the subtly rising and falling chest of Scout’s helpless form brought back so many scarring memories from when Mayella was fourteen years old, when Papa’s abuse towards her started. But Scout was so many years younger. How old was she? Nine? Eight?

Guilt clawed at Mayella’s insides. Though they had been slowing down in their frequency over the past two years, Papa had completely stopped his advances towards her after the trial. She supposed that he didn’t want to risk being caught again, but a small part of her hoped that it was because he was proud of her. Indebted to her. She had performed well, saved his sorry ass, and inadvertently killed the only man she had ever felt anything for to do it. Leaving her alone was the closest thing to a reward she would ever get from her Papa. 

Now, a disgusting thought that had crossed her mind before became clear. 

She had grown too old for him, or his attentions had simply moved elsewhere.

She should have recognized the wrathful look in her father’s eyes as deranged lust and protected Scout, regardless of the consequences. She should have offered herself instead. She should have done something, because now it was too late, and this child's innocence had been torn from her.

Mayella vowed to get her out of here. She was done being a coward. She hadn't attempted to help Scout escape because of Papa’s threats and the possibility of him going to jail or worse, but Mayella knew that the girl couldn't hold on for much longer. She needed a doctor. A real doctor, not a moron with nothing but a needle and thread and shaky hands. If Papa tried to hurt her siblings, she would just have to take their beatings for them. She would take his beatings until they killed her. Tom Robinson was already dead because of her. She would not have even more innocent blood on her hands. 

She didn’t want Scout to be alone, but she forced herself to leave her side. Wiping her own wet face, Mayella reached down to pick up the plate she had dropped. She felt terrible doing so, but she took the bread and blanket as well. She saw Scout’s torn underwear discarded in a corner, so picked that up too. 

After a second thought, Mayella refolded the blanket and left it near the stairs.

Climbing upstairs, a plan began to form in Mayella’s head.

Chapter Text

I can't be dead, shouldn't death be peaceful? Maybe I didn't make it into Heaven, perhaps I did something wrong and I'm now in Hell instead… or maybe this is a dream, and I'll wake up at home, safe and warm…

I woke up with a throbbing head and an excruciating pain in between my limp legs. It wasn't a dream. It couldn't be. I laid there motionless, clenching my fists so tightly that my fists shook, trying to ease the pain away. The pain was deep down inside me, with a searing, biting ache starting at my navel and consuming everything down to my thighs. It felt like my insides had been ripped up like useless pieces of paper. 

I couldn’t help but scream, and what came out of my mouth didn’t sound human. It was long and hoarse and painful, the sound mercilessly bouncing off of the walls and back to me before being absorbed into nothingness. My vocal cords still felt the pressure of Mr. Ewell’s hands.

What did he do to me? Confused and wishing for someone other than the basement ceiling to look to for answers, I began sobbing, then hated myself for being a girl again.

I wanted my dad. I wanted my mom. But I had to stop thinking about them because if I didn’t my chest would explode.

I tried to take a deep breath to steady myself, but my sides flared up in pain as my ribcage expanded. “You really don’ know when to stop, do you?” Mr. Ewell’s voice rang in my ear. He really kicked the shit out of me. I brought my shaking hands to my old stab wound, feeling that it was stinging and raw again. The top layer of scabbed, healing skin had been scraped off by one of his kicks. The ribs on my opposite side smarted as I prodded at them, and I cursed under my breath. Trying to crawl away was one of the most stupid things I had done down here. No matter where I turned, I was just headed for another wall and another blow.

I hated feeling so hopeless and vulnerable. I needed a goal, something to do. Something to distract me.

I tried to sit up but the strain on my core made me keen through clenched teeth. The sound reminded me of a kettle about to be left on the stove for too long. Rather than using my stomach muscles I shifted to push myself up with just my elbows and my hands. Sitting up was harder than ever; there must have been wounds on my upper back and shoulders because I felt them unstick and sting as they separated from the floor.

The back of my skull felt as if it were on fire, and the way the world span made me feel like I was going to vomit. Realizing that I actually was going to, I turned to the side and heaved, letting out the little that my stomach contained onto the floor. The wretching tugged on my battered ribs, clenching my stomach and sending agonizing shockwaves down through my core, but I couldn’t stop it. I continued convulsing even after I was empty.

My body felt as if it was used as a tackling dummy in football. Ah, that's the word I was looking for. Used. Broken. Useless, crippled, pathetic… I wished that Mr. Ewell would have put me out of my misery, like the old dog Tim Johnson.

Recalling the very distant memory, I remembered the final moments of the mad dog. The noise splitting the air as the rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaping, flopping over and crumpling on the pavement in a brown-and-white heap. He never knew what hit him. I wished that I could have had that privilege.

I winced as I bit my lip, reopening a cut there. Suddenly, Mr. Ewell was pulling on my bottom lip with his teeth. I turned my head, causing him to bite my lip, making it bleed. I hissed at the sting as he licked away the small dribble of blood that came from the cut- NO. Block it out, block it out.

I was beginning to regret puking on the ground as the sour smell began to fill the room, not doing any favors for the metallic and musty air. My upper legs felt wet and sticky. I reached a hand down and brought it up to find it was covered in red. Looking down, I saw a puddle of blood on the floor beneath my legs and smeared on my inner thighs, and I couldn’t help but scream again at the gory sight.

I was dying, I had to be. 

Why did I wake up?

My blood-covered hand hovered awkwardly as I tried to find something to wipe it off on. Shivering and swallowing the acidic bile rising in my throat, I realized that I wasn't wearing my pants or underwear anymore. All that remained was the splint on my injured leg and my tattered undershirt, and I could see bite marks along my shoulder and trailing down below the shirt’s neckline. My oversized flannel shirt was gone, but I could sort of remember when that went away… I think Mr. Ewell tore it off of me. I could still feel his hands on my skin- my chest ached from his harsh gropes. And the flannel pajama pants…

I started to remember what had happened, and I screamed once more. More memories were starting to flood into my brain but I quickly built a wall, a mental barricade on my subconscious to keep the images and pain from overwhelming me. I focused instead on the cold I felt jabbing through my skin like needles. I wiped my bloody hand on the side of my undershirt.

Right as I looked around to locate my underwear, moving my throbbing head carefully, the door opened. 

No no no no, not again, please no more. I can't take anymore.  

It was opened slowly, as if whoever was opening it didn't want to make a sound, and no light shone through. I let out a shaky breath of relief, suspecting that it was Mayella, but she didn't descend the stairs. She tossed two cloth items to the bottom of the stairwell and I heard her light footsteps lead away from the doorway.

My small bubble of hope rose and shattered in an instant. I needed Mayella more than ever right now, to explain what the hell just happened or to tell me for certain that I was going to die or to just hold me, but she couldn’t be bothered to even come down the stairs. I almost began sobbing again, the betrayal hitting me like yet another kick in the ribs. I wanted this all to end, but I didn’t want to die alone. 

Then I froze.

Mayella hadn't closed the door behind her. 

Did she do that on purpose? Was Mr. Ewell waiting behind the door, ready to kill me if I dared to try to escape? 

I decided that I didn't care anymore. Either way, I was going to be with my family eventually, whether it was in this life or in Heaven.

But what about Jem? It always came back to that, didn't it. If I told anyone that Mr. Ewell was the one who hurt me, he would torture Jem. I couldn't let that happen. But to stay here.... Oh God. I couldn't make up my mind. But then I was reminded of the stabbing anguish throughout my body and I decided to try to move to see if I even could escape, if I tried. 

Trying to stand was so painful it took my breath away, and I fell to my knees. I tried again before my forearms and hands were back on the floor, my forehead plastered to the stone in between them as I panted. The world swam and I couldn't tell whether I was moving away from the door or towards it. I considered waiting to move again until the pain faded a little, but something told me it never would. And if I stopped moving for too long then the thoughts about what just happened would come back. I preferred the physical agony of moving my broken body and leg over those thoughts.

I’m dying anyways, I reminded myself. The pain will be over soon. 

I lifted my head to see that the things that had been tossed down were just a few feet away, and I gingerly crawled towards them. The first was a damp hand towel, the same that Mayella would often scrub my dried blood off with… Oh. She had seen me, then. I understood her meaning. 

I gingerly moved into a seated position and did my best to clean the blood off of my inner thighs and my bottom where it had made contact with the puddle on the floor. When I got to the junction of my legs, the main source of my pain, I steeled myself and was so gentle, but I still immediately gasped and drew back the towel upon contact. It took me a full minute to build up the courage to try again, and when I finally did it I had to wedge my free knuckles in my mouth to keep from making a noise that could reach the open door. Despite the towel being pretty bloody, I still didn’t feel as clean as I wanted to, but I couldn't bring myself to continue. I was just glad that it seemed like my bleeding had stopped, even though from the pain I was still pretty sure that I was dying.

The second item that had been tossed down was a pair of knitted high-waisted underwear that went a little ways down my thighs, almost like very short shorts. From my seated position I pulled them on as fast as I could manage, wincing but still trying not to make any noise.

Having the underwear on made me feel a bit more secure, though I still felt exposed and disgusting in every way. I grimaced when I felt a new trickle of warmth as if I had wet myself, but I looked and saw it was actually fresh blood already ruining the clean fabric. Stupidly, I tried to tense to make the blood flow stop the same way I would stop myself from peeing when I really had to go. Doing this brought such a strong wave of pain that I fell back to a laying position on the floor and had to clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from crying out too loud.

Blinking back my tears, I turned my head and noticed another item, this time folded by the stairs. It must have been placed there before I woke up.

It was a blanket.

“If you keep on bein’ so good I’ll bring you a blanket, would you like that?”

It was my reward. 

I couldn’t start crying again. But God, I wanted to so bad. My throat burned and the nape of my neck screamed for me to just let it all go, but I held it back, feeling my neck tense as I did so. I couldn’t risk it, not now.

I mustered up the courage to stand, the courage to try to leave. But I couldn’t just yet. I was stuck in my mind, only faintly aware of the stone floor beneath me and the uneven rising and falling of my chest. The pain and confusion was overwhelming me as I tried to navigate my thoughts. 

This felt different from all the other times he had hurt me.

I didn’t want to be good for him, but he made me. He forced me to. 

But something inside me still told me that I had done something wrong, and this was my fault. 

As much as I tried to deny it, I knew that I liked his attention. I needed it. I wanted him to leave me alone, but I didn’t want to be alone. I was so fucking lonely. I didn’t want him to hurt me. I wanted him to like me. But he hurt me so, so bad. I was dying. I didn’t want to die. But I wanted to be gone. 

"Be a good girl, Scout," he said. "Can you be a good girl for me?"

I hated the pain, I hated this room. I hated the rough floor. I hated myself. I hated the damned blanket that sat innocently by the stairs. 

“Be a good girl, Scout.”

I’ve found that when you are in pain it is much easier to snap at people, to be angry, to hate everyone around you even if they don’t deserve it.

So why didn’t I hate him?  

He hurt me so, so bad and I still couldn’t bring myself to. I felt like an idiot, or just seriously screwed up in the head.

This was my fault because I agreed to his terms. He gave me the blanket. That meant that I must have given him something.

“Be a good girl…"

“Good girl…”

“Good…”

"Scout, you need to leave."

I heard someone whisper my name and I felt them touch my shoulder. In rapid succession I wailed then immediately felt hands clamp over my mouth. I struggled and fell into a blind panic, feeling like all the air had left my body.  

"Shhhh, shhh- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry- Please be quiet."

With wide eyes I realized that the person above me was only Mayella but it didn't help. I now couldn't scream or talk even if I wanted to. Mayella noticed this and lifted her hands from my mouth but that didn't help much either. I was still trying to figure out how to breathe properly, recovering from the thought that it was him. 

Mayella raised my torso so that I was sitting upright, then she sat down behind me so that my back was to her chest, her legs were straight out on either side of me, and her arms held me around my stomach.

"Breathe with me, okay? It's just me," she whispered, and started to expand her chest with slow, exaggerated breaths. "Copy what I do. Just breathe, in, out, nice and slow. There you go..."

After a few minutes of Mayella guiding me I finally was able to catch my breath, then I went from gasping for air like a fish out of water to following her even pace. Each intake of air still hurt my ribs. So she didn't abandon me after all, I thought. I was relieved that she was here, even if she had scared me at first. I wanted to ask her about what Mr. Ewell did. Though not as many as Atticus, she did know a lot of things, and I thought maybe she could explain it to me. But as I started thinking about it, my breathing started picking up once more, and memories came flooding in that I tried to block out before I lost control again. If I told her about it, then I would have to really think about it, and thats exactly what I was trying not to do. 

And not only that, it was my fault that it even happened in the first place. I was scared of what she would think of me if I did tell her. She could be disappointed or disgusted by me, or worse, she might not believe me. It was her father, after all. Who would believe that their father would touch or kiss an ugly little girl? She would believe that he hurt me, as that was normal and the evidence was there, plain as day, but that wasn't the part that confused me. Hell, I could have just imagined the whole thing, aside from the pain.

And then I remembered that Mr. Ewell threatened to kill both me and all of my loved ones if I told anyone about it, and that was the final straw. I decided that I would keep it to myself.

Once she saw that I was calmer, Mayella started to pull away, but I felt the panic start to alight in me again.

"No," I begged, turning around onto my knees to face her, "Please don't go- Ah-" I whimpered and winced at the discomfort of the movement, bringing my hands to my ribs and lower belly rather than reaching for Mayella as I had intended. I was taken aback when I looked up and saw her devastated features and puffy eyes. My panic turned into sharp concern, and I asked, "Are you okay? What happened?" It hurt to speak. My gravelly voice didn't sound like my own, and my swollen split lip made my words sound dumb.

"Am I okay? Jesus Christ..." Mayella ran her hands up her face, took another deep breath of her own, and pressed her lips tightly together. I saw new tears forming, and her voice crackled when she spoke again. “I’m fine, I promise. I'm just so, so sorry.” Her tears slipped down her face, and I could tell she was hiding something. I liked it much better when she was honest with me. Not wanting our voices to reach the door, our conversation took place in quiet tones, but my voice sounded extremely rough passing through my sore throat.

“Why are you sorry? Why are you crying?” I was so confused and new tears started to form in my own burning eyes from seeing how distraught Mayella was. She ignored my questions.

“Scout, there isn't much time. You're hurt and you have to get out of here.”

“He's hurt me plenty of times before and you didn’t care, what’s different now? Why do I get to leave?”

Mayella looked hurt. “I did care, I- What he did to you- It ain't- God, I’m so sorry,” she started crying even harder. 

“Mayella, am I dying?”

“No,” she said vehemently and wiped her still flowing tears. “You’re not. You’re gonna live. You just need to go.”

"I can't, if I tell anyone it was him he'll hurt Jem. "

"Then just don't tell anyone it was him." 

Was it that simple?

"Do you really think that'll work?"

"I'll make sure it does."

Mayella looked determined, so I chose to believe her. 

“Can you stand?” 

“No,” I sniveled, "I tried."

“Okay,” Mayella sounded worried, and she was trying to think of what to do when a shuffling noise sounded from upstairs. Both of our heads whipped around to face the open door, but no one was there. We waited for a moment to see if we could hear anything else, then Mayella turned her attention back to me and spoke with even more urgency than before.

"I'm going to help you stand, but then you're gonna have to do the rest, okay?"

"What? No, I-" I tried to protest but Mayella was already hooking her arm around my waist. I clutched her side like a lifeline. When she tried to reposition me so that I was carrying more of my own weight my knees shook violently and I completely broke down.

“I can’t, I can’t do it,” I sobbed. “It hurts too bad.”

“Shhhh, I know it does but if you get out and get help you can go to the hospital and they can make it stop, I promise. I know you can do it. You are the strongest person I know.”

I shook my head in denial and her words drifted in my mind. 

“Scout listen to me. Are you listenin'?”

I nodded.

"Can you look me in the eyes?"

"You look’a me in the eye when I'm talkin’… I do wha’ I wanna do… lemme see those baby blues..."

With great effort I turned my eyes and my thoughts towards Mayella, instead of my wretched body. We were both crying now.

"Scout, if you stay, he's gonna hurt you like that again."

My heart stopped beating for a moment and I let out a wet sob.

She knows what he did.

"I can't let that happen. I don't know if you'll ever get another chance to leave. You have to leave now. And I can't come with you. He can’t know I helped you, thats the only way this can work. It's only way I can make sure he doesn't go after you."

"Please don't leave me," I cried stupidly, and I shifted myself over so that I was hugging her around her waist, refusing to let her go. I know it was idiotic, especially when time was so short, but the fear of being left to do this alone left me irrational, and I didn't know what was going to happen to Mayella if I left. I didn't know if I'd ever get to see her again. 

We heard another sound from above, a tiny scoot of wood on limestone.

"I have to go," Mayella whispered, kissed me on the top of my head, then said, "Stay standin', wait thirty seconds once I'm out the door then go. I know you know your way home. If you can't make it all the way that's okay. Just make sure you get past Main Street and if you can't go any further than that then find somewhere to hide off of the main road and stay there, just in case. You are so, so brave." Before I knew what was happening, she had peeled my arms away from her, made sure I was steady on my feet, and flew up the stairs.

I waited.

There was a faint tap... tap, tap sound and I looked down to see drops of blood dripping onto the floor between my feet. Despite what Mayella had said earlier, I was still convinced that I was dying.

The time spent standing up was almost unbearable, as was each lopsided step to and up the staircase. I didn’t touch the blanket, I didn’t even look at it. Adrenaline kept me going, as did the promise of an end to it all. 

Every time I internally sobbed to myself, I can't do it, I can't do it anymore, memories from this room consumed my mind, and to run from them I moved up another step, so then I was thinking about the agony of my movements instead, and that was better. I clamped down on my already split lip to keep from howling. 

Every wobbly step sent shock waves up my body, with What did he do to me? ringing over and over again through my head. The sound of my racing heart beat loud in my ears, and for a moment I worried that it's thundering would awaken the household and foil my escape attempt. 

Peeking out the basement door, I nearly had a heart attack when I saw two dirty Ewell children sleeping back to back in the corner, but there was no one else. Throwing caution to the wind, and despite my dishabille state, I ran from the room to the shotgun hall, through the cabin’s front door, and out into the cool night. 

It was so bright, everything illuminated in a blue hue, and the crisp air burned my nose and lungs. The night sky was much bigger than I had remembered, and so much taller. The lack of a roof over my head would cause me to be afraid of floating off into space if I didn’t feel like gravity was pulling me into the ground. Staring upwards like this while running, I quickly became disoriented and nausea forced me to focus on the road ahead of me. If I made it back to somewhere safe and didn’t die I could appreciate the sky as long for as I wished, but there was no time for that now. 

My injured leg screamed for me to stop, to slow, to have mercy and just hop on my good leg for a moment. I mentally screamed back for it to hold it together, in refusal to acknowledge the pain.

There was no time to look back at the Ewell place, and I didn't want to see it as it was now - a prison, a symbol of fear and torture. Within its walls a devil still slept.

From the corner of my eye, I could almost see all of the Ewell children running about the junkyard on a sunny afternoon. Or kneeling by the row of slop jars, Mayella watering her beautiful geraniums. Those memories were from a different time, and were better than any reality I had faced in that place. But I raced away from them, as fast as I could, leaving everything behind me.

I had imagined this moment over and over while down there, but there was no sense of elation and freedom that I felt in my fantasies. I still felt trapped.

The first streetlamp out of the Ewell’s street burned my eyes from afar, and as I passed under its beam I was spooked by my own shadow.

After who knows how long of seeing nothing but the same four walls, my eyes couldn’t process the new information they received fast enough. Buildings and trees and mailboxes blurred past me, so strange yet familiar, and the sense that nothing had changed since I went missing was unsettling. I kept my line of sight fixed on the road ahead, worried that if a comfortable enough stoop or bench caught my eye I would talk myself into taking a break, lay down on it, and never get back up.

My splint broke off and fell away, but the agonizing pain was a small price to pay for the extra mobility. Even so, I felt so slow, like I was running through mud or wet sand - I couldn't seem to get enough purchase from the road. I tripped several times, once falling, catching myself with my hands, scraping my palms and knees on the dirt and gravel, and then lurching up to plunge forward again. Every part of me felt like it was on fire, but at last I made it to the trees. I didn't risk continuing on the main road because that was where Mr. Ewell would look first if he already knew I was gone and was coming after me. I wanted to stop for a moment to catch my breath, but the thought of being taken back kept me moving forward.

I felt like I was trapped in one of those terrifying nightmares, the one where you have to run, run till your lungs burst, but you can't make your body move fast enough. My legs seemed to move slower and slower as I tripped and fought my way through the trees. Just a few more trees now, I thought; I ran, sweat pouring down my face, gasping. My breath created pale puffs in the air. It was a cool night, but the strain of forcing my damaged parts to still work was overwhelming. 

If I stop he'll find me, I'm so close, I need to keep going. Go. Go. Go.  

Then I was staggering, unable to walk in a straight line but dedicated to my one course that was inching me towards... somewhere. My feet seemed to know where I was going, but not my head, and my heart knew nothing at all.

What am I doing? Where am I going? 

Once more, I thought of the mad dog Tim Johnson.

"He's lookin' for a place to die," Jem once said. "And so are you."  That sounded correct. For once, I thanked him for his guidance. 

The world span again, and after I collapsed I saw the moon in the phase between being halfway and all the way full, and the winking stars through the branches and leaves above me. Over the blood rushing in my ears I heard the sounds of the night; buzzing insects, the katydids and crickets chirping and what might have been a car passing slowly somewhere in the distance. It’s colder now that I'm not running anymore… I’ve missed the stars…

What a lovely place to die.

Woken by the snapping sound of twigs under heavy footsteps, Scout opened her eyes to see the blurry silhouette of a man approaching. Believing him to be Mr. Ewell, she curled in on herself (despite her ribs shouting in protest), but then vaguely noticed he was wearing high boots. Everything from the waist down hurt so much she could hardly think straight. The man reached for her. Instinctively, she squirmed away, terrified of anyone touching her ever again.

She whimpered and cringed away from him, thinking he was yet another person who planned to harm her. But then he cautiously bent down and cooed softly to her, "Shhh, Scout, it's okay. You're okay. I'm here to help you. You're safe."

Why is he shushing me? Did I say something? Her vision was blurry and she couldn’t make out the face of her "attacker". Was that a glint of glasses? Confused, she wheezed out a barely audible, "Atticus?" and her eyes drifted back closed, reminding herself not to hope.

She felt herself be wrapped in a large coat, then felt strong arms lift her up and hold her like she was made of glass. At first she tensed up against this touch, but when she understood that he wouldn't hurt her or start touching her oddly she let her guard down a little bit. She leaned against his broad chest and felt his throat vibrate as he spoke "No, Scout. It's Mr. Heck Tate. You're okay- You're going to be okay now."

Scout tried to respond, but her throat was too hoarse from screaming. She settled for a nod small enough to not increase the pounding in her head. 

She felt herself being carried away and her mind was flooded with thoughts of Mr. Ewell. Was he going to come after her? She shivered (whether from fear or the cold air she couldn’t tell) and leaned closer to Mr.Tate, terrified. 

“Miss Scout, I’d like to blow a whistle to let folks know I’ve got you. It’s gonna be a bit loud and I’ll have to shift you to one arm for a second. Is that alright?” 

Scout gave another small nod in response and stayed very still as he readjusted, bracing herself for the shrill sound. Seconds after it rang through her ears, she heard another in the distance, and then another. Were people out looking for her? Mr. Ewell had told her they stopped doing that a while ago.

She suddenly registered the light behind her closed eyelids and realized with relief that she must have gotten outside, and it must be morning. She let out a shaky breath she didn't notice she had been holding. 

If she had thought the night sky when she first escaped was bright, the sky now was dazzling. And the sun hadn’t even risen yet. Squinting to see the brightening dawn for the first time since this whole nightmare began, she vowed to never stay in the dark again. She recognized some of the trees passing by as those she and Jem had climbed together- it was a time that felt so long ago… how long had she been gone?

Her eyes watered from both the unfamiliar light and the strange longing ache that she felt in her chest, but she blamed the light only, because why should she be sad? This was a good thing that was happening- an amazing thing, in fact. She was being carried to safety. Her torment was over. When good things happen you were supposed to smile, not cry. So she also vowed that when she saw her family, she would smile for them, even if she felt like doing anything but.

She closed her eyes again and began to hear voices, but they sounded as if they were underwater. She tried with all her might to stay awake, to keep her eyes open, to be in the light she had been so desperately missing… but the dark won, and she drifted back to the blackness.

Chapter Text

Sheriff Heck Tate looked down at the frail, beaten, and abused girl in his arms. She was shivering and he could tell that she couldn't keep her eyes open, undoubtedly exhausted from whatever she had endured.

Mr. Tate released a breath visible in the bitter cold air, thinking of the state he found Scout in on the forest floor- her cringing fear shocked him, and he wasn't sure how to handle such a weak child who he had known to be the fiercest of them all.

At an unholy hour of morning, Eula May had forwarded Mr. Tate an anonymous caller from one of the town pay-phones. The caller claimed that she had seen a small, pale, brown-haired girl running down the Main Street of town thirty minutes before, so Mr. Tate immediately started ringing different houses to put together a few search parties.

He prayed that the woman’s claim was accurate, and that Scout was somehow in town, but he doubted how likely it was. There had been quite a few false reported sightings in the first month of Scout’s absence, but they had slowed down recently, along with the enthusiasm to search in response to them. She sounded certain in her report, but Mr. Tate supposed the woman wanted to stay anonymous just in case her eyes had been deceiving her- if the search proved unsuccessful, he understood her preference to hide from the backlash of grouchy neighbors who would have been woken up too early for no reason. 

It was a bit of a hassle that the woman hadn’t called sooner. Since half an hour had passed since Scout’s presumed last known location, they had to spread out farther to adjust to the possibilities of where she could have gotten to in that time. 

The various search parties were sent out according to Mr. Tates direction, and he went off on his own. He thought about where he would have gone if he were in Scout’s shoes. If she had continued on the main residential street, she could have knocked on someone’s door to help her. He didn’t believe her to be the shy type, so something else must have prevented her from continuing on that route. Perhaps she feared her captor would intercept her before she got home, so she may have taken an alternate path that she was more comfortable with. 

It was this logic that led Mr. Tate to the trees, where in the blue light of early morning he was eventually met with the sight of bloodstains on the dirt and a very beaten child.

Mr. Tate quickly scanned around the area as a precaution. He couldn’t let his guard down in case her captor was still somewhere nearby, or in case she was placed there as bait for an ambush. If he took a brick to the back of his head while trying to help her it wouldn’t do either of them any good. He made sure the area was clear before he went to her.

Scout had always been just a little slip of a thing, but she now looked even smaller. The way she was curled in on herself made it difficult for Mr. Tate to see the full extent of her injuries- and he would make sure that she got a thorough examination later- but for now he just wanted to make sure that there was nothing currently life-threatening that he needed to take care of.

Scout’s face was hidden behind her arms, but when she flinched away from Mr. Tate the action shifted her face ever so slightly to reveal a cut lip and tear streaks that seemed to be stained into her skin. From what he could see, she had cuts, scrapes, and bruises of various intensity all over her face and body, including a small cut slanting across the bridge of her nose, a bigger fading cut slashed down across her cheekbone, a painful-looking bruise on her other cheek, and a fading black eye. Even the soles of her tiny feet were freshly scratched up and bloodied, with a coat of dirt stuck to them. It looked like a belt had been taken to her forearms a while ago, as scars were already forming, and her right forearm had a dirty bandage wrapped around a part of it. The most prominent bruises were the large finger-shaped ones circling her wrists and neck, and the scratches and fingernail indentations there were telltale signs of resistance to strangulation. 

Though not the darkest, the largest bruise was coupled with severe swelling in Scout’s right calf, which Mr. Tate surmised to be a fractured bone.

Her skin was deathly pale and muddled with grime and dried blood. Her once shiny short hair now reached past her chin, hanging thin and dull, and a few locks of it were missing, as if they were torn or cut off. Her closed eyes looked sunken in and her once child-round cheeks looked thinner. She had on only a tattered sleeveless undershirt and underpants, almost completely exposed to the chilled air.

A few brighter spots of blood and a red handprint on the side of Scout’s shirt hinted at a new injury on her torso, and Mr. Tate debated lifting her shirt to check how urgent it was- he wasn’t sure if the action would scare her even further. Her breathing was shallow, and that worried him. 

Not wanting to take any chances, when he went to pick her up he brushed up the fabric a little ways to find what appeared to be a mostly healed stab wound brutally cut between her ribs. Jesus. Mr. Tate was surprised to find a pattern of tiny scars that suggested that the wound had been sloppily stitched up at one point, but it was now bruised and freshly bloodied again. He looked over her other side to see more heavy bruising, purples and yellows along her stomach and prominent ribcage there. Somebody had kicked this child, repeatedly. He surmised that those bruises, combined with the attempted strangulation, were the main causes for her breathing trouble. He hoped no ribs were broken, for danger of pressing on or puncturing a lung.

With the greatest of care, the Sheriff wrapped the barely dressed and shivering girl in his coat and lifted her from the ground, making sure to be gentle with her delicate frame. His breath caught in his throat when she stiffened, afraid that he had accidentally hurt her, and that breath was released only when her small head leaned on his chest. She was shaking like a leaf, but he was thanking the heavens above for this small sign of trust.

Now, as he was swiftly carrying Scout towards her neighborhood, Mr. Tate wondered how she got to town in the first place. The scrapes on her feet that he had seen were new, the dirt mixed with the blood hadn't had a chance to be brushed off yet. Kids in Maycomb county had an affinity for running about barefoot; you rarely found their feet torn up like this, even after hours of play. Scout must have abandoned this care in her desperation to get away, and this lined up with what the anonymous caller had claimed to see. Scout certainly didn't seem to be in the condition to travel very far on foot, so either her captor came from far away to leave her somewhere near here for reasons unknown, or… Mr. Tate’s stomach dropped. 

Or she'd been nearby this whole time.

Pushing that thought away for now, the sheriff felt a wet spot of warmth on his arm carrying Scout’s lower half, and he figured that Scout had wet herself. However, when he checked he was alarmed to find that a small part of the sleeve of this arm had acquired a shade of crimson. Gently but quickly unwrapping the coat he could see there was a red spot on the lining of it beneath the juncture of Scout’s legs, seeping through the fabric.

He hadn’t looked at the area before since Scout’s curled up position had concealed it and he hadn’t wanted to invade her privacy, but Mr. Tate felt bile rise in his throat as he noticed the source of the blood, seeping through Scout’s underwear. And the bruising on her thighs… She had bruises everywhere, so it shouldn’t have been surprising, but he still feared the worst.

He prayed the cause for the blood was something simple, like an infection or a different injury, or something to do with the clear lack of nutrients this girl had while she was gone. 

But deep down he knew that wasn’t the case.

Committing such an act towards any woman was despicable in the Sheriff’s eyes, but only a monster would do such a thing to a child- Hell, Scout wasn't even nine years old yet.

And she was actively bleeding, which meant- God, it must have just happened. Whether it was for the first time or not he couldn’t be sure, but from the blood...

Mr. Tate’s eyes flicked up, scanning the rest of her injuries in a new light. He realized that many of the fresher bruises and odd cuts across her chest and shoulders were the result of bite marks.

What a Goddamned twisted bastard, the sheriff seethed. If he could, he would be on the man’s trail with a loaded shotgun in hand in an instant. Damn the right to a fair trial.

Mr. Tate saw another search party up ahead and quickly re-wrapped his coat around the girl. He would find the man who did this, but getting Scout home safe was the most important thing right now, and even this search party could be a possible barrier to that. From there Dr. Reynolds would determine if they would need to drive her to the hospital in Mobile. Mr. Tate pulled the coat up higher to cover Scout’s neck and held her closer to his chest, trying his best to conceal her face and maintain her privacy. 

The town would soon be abuzz with the news of her rescue, and the Finches would want to release a statement to quell the inevitable flood of rumors, but Mr. Tate was sure that they would prefer that such.... personal details about the abuse she endured were left out. 

He wondered how Mr. Finch would take all of this. Surely he would be thrilled to see his daughter alive, but how long and difficult would her road to recovery be? What exactly happened to her while she was gone? Mr. Tate had seen a lot of things in his time as Sheriff, but for one child to endure so much trauma... God. He needed a drink. He cursed himself for not finding her sooner, but vowed that once she told him who took, abused, and violated her, he'd ensure that justice would be served.

Calpurnia had stayed at the Finches’ overnight as she sometimes did in the winter, sleeping on the folding cot in the kitchen, and was nearest to the phone when it woke her up in the dead of morning. She answered it before the ringing disturbed the males of the household, and with Mr. Tate’s recommendation, she decided against waking them up for this latest supposed Scout sighting. Atticus and Jem had work and school that day, and Calpurnia knew they would insist on joining the search parties if she woke them, only to be exhausted and let down again. Besides, Atticus’s age was showing, and his health would continue to take a toll if he went on like this. 

She stayed up just in case there was any news, and when she heard the faint whistles sounding off in the distance, she immediately woke up Atticus. The search parties never disbanded so quickly, so someone, or something, must have been found.

Mr. Tate thanked the members of the search party that he had run into on his way back and sent them on their way. A few of them looked like they wanted to stay, to watch the upcoming reunion, but a stern look from the sheriff got them moving. He was sure they would soon be off spreading the word, and fueling the rumor mill. “She was as pale as a ghost, I tell you! Saw her with my own two eyes...” “We only got a glimpse her face, it was nothin’ but skin an’ bone an’ bruises...” “Of course she’s gone mad, bein’ strung up like that for God knows how long...”

Mr. Tate was not even to the Finches’ yard when he saw Atticus run out onto his porch, followed by Jem and Calpurnia. Seeing the still, bundled figure in Mr. Tate’s arms and the solemn look on his face, Jem assumed the worst. He ran ahead of them, asking, “Is she-“

“She’s alive, Jem. Just tired.” Jem could now see that it truly was Scout and that she was trembling, even in her sleep. He had thought about the moment he would see his sister again so many times, and it still didn’t feel real- she just looked so small. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. 

When she heard Mr. Tate’s words, Calpurnia held on to a post of the porch with one hand and brought the other to her heart. Atticus could hardly believe his eyes and ears. That was his baby, right there, alive. He didn’t want to take his eyes off of her for a second, but he still took a moment to look to the heavens and thank both God and his late wife for watching over and bringing back their little girl.

When Mr. Tate ascended the porch steps with Jem trailing behind, Atticus offered to carry Scout inside. She was so light that it wouldn’t be any trouble for Mr. Tate to continue holding her, but he gently handed her off nonetheless. It would be cruel to keep the father apart from his child for one more minute. He then folded his arms to conceal the bloody spot on his sleeve, aware of the prying eyes that could be seen at the windows both ways down the street. He didn’t notice Jem’s keen eyes go wide as he got a glimpse of the red spot before it was hidden. 

Atticus stood frozen as Scout began to stir in his arms. With great effort, she moved her head from hanging limply to the side to resting on his chest. He tried not to breathe too deeply so that the rise and fall of his chest wouldn’t disturb her. Her own breathing was very shallow, he noticed. He was wondering if she could feel his racing heartbeat when suddenly her eyebrows furrowed and she whimpered and twitched in her sleep. He didn’t want to wake her, but if she was having a bad dream he would intervene, and he hoped that would be the right thing to do. Scout let out another fearful whine, so softly Atticus said, “Hey, baby,” causing her to jolt a little before looking up at his face with bleary eyes. A broken blood vessel had turned a patch of the white of her left eye red, and the image startled Atticus. He wanted to apologize for scaring her when, to his surprise, she spoke first.

“Hey, Atticus,” she breathed, a small smile spreading across her lips despite the cut there and the tears filling her eyes which she blinked away. “How’re you doin’?” 

God, she is amazing, Atticus thought, relieved that she appeared to still have her usual spirit in her. This gave him hope that whatever she went through wasn’t as bad as he feared, but he couldn’t stop staring at the signs marring her face that suggested otherwise. So he focused on her eyes and her question instead. How was he doing? He didn’t know if he could put it in words.  

“I’m doing better now, thank you for asking.” Atticus tried to swallow the lump in his throat before continuing, but tears prickled his eyes and his voice broke anyways. “I missed you so much. We all did.” 

Scout looked a little confused, then whispered back, “I missed you too.” 

Before Jem could take his turn to talk to his sister, Mr. Tate suggested they all get inside to get some privacy and get out of the cold. Scout shuddered right on cue, and Atticus carried her across the threshold.

As Calpurnia got the fire going, Mr. Tate spoke quietly to Atticus, suggesting that he keep the coat closed around Scout until Dr. Reynolds arrived. He warned him that a small bit of blood might soak through but there wasn’t anything more they could do for her before then but make sure she was comfortable. 

The sheriff then went off with his heavy footsteps to phone the doctor with Jem following in his wake, leaving Atticus standing with Scout in his arms. He suppressed the fear that blossomed in his chest at the sheriff’s cryptic words. 

Mr. Tate didn’t seem to think that sleeping was dangerous for Scout at the moment, and she looked exhausted, so Atticus assured her, “You can rest if you’d like. You’re safe now, Scout.” 

He carefully sat down in the chair closest to the fire and laid Scout down on his lap in a way so that he could support her with one arm and leave the other arm free. Calpurnia tucked a blanket around Scout for added warmth. They would stay like this and try to relax until Dr. Reynolds came- Atticus hoped Scout couldn’t tell how anxious he was for the doctor to arrive. 

Whenever she spoke, her voice was so quiet, rasping and trembling before eventually fading away. It was like her breath couldn’t carry the sentences all the way through.

“Am I not too big to be up here now?” 

Her mind had gone back to a night sometime before her capture. She remembered a furious Jem grabbing her by the collar and shaking her, yelling in her face to not say another word to him about the courthouse. Too surprised to cry, she sought comfort from Atticus, but when she tried to get in his lap, he said that she was getting so big, he would just have to hold a part of her.

Atticus was thinking back on that too, and thought about how even with a heavy coat wrapped around her, she was so much lighter than she had been then. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to hold her now. He replied, “Of course not, forget what I said before.”

“Can we read, Atticus?”

“Sure. What do you want to read?”

Scout scrunched her eyebrows in thought. “Have you saved any newspapers?”

Atticus leaned to grab yesterday’s news from the small table by his chair, and Scout spoke again. From the hoarseness of her voice he could tell that speaking was painful, but she swallowed hard and went on anyways. 

“What day is it? How long have I been gone?”

Atticus resisted immediately telling her the exact number of days since her disappearance that had been consistently tallying up in his head (77), and instead showed her the date on the front page of the newspaper. “Yesterday was Tuesday, January 14th, so today is Wednesday, the 15th. You have been gone since October 31st, so that would be about two and a half months.”

Scout stayed silent. 

Atticus gave her a moment, wondering if he shouldn’t have been so blunt about it. Wherever she had been, she must have had no concept of the time gone by. She looked like she had a million thoughts flooding through her mind, but all she said was,

“I missed Christmas.”

The way she said it took Atticus aback. It was quiet and pensive, but not self pitying. It was simply a fact, one that she had never imagined the possibility of before. Missing Christmas. It was strange how the world keeps turning without you, and how something so special could pass by without you even knowing it.

“It wasn’t a very merry Christmas without you, I assure you.” 

This didn’t help. If anything, she now looked like she wanted to apologize. Wanting to cheer her up a little, Atticus added, “Jem punched your cousin Francis in the face. I guess we couldn’t let old traditions die, could we?”

At this, Scout broke from her pensive stupor and balked. “He didn’t!”

“Oh yes, he did.” Atticus tried to stifle a smile but couldn’t make it.

“I’m sure Francis deserved it,” she laughed, her disbelief ebbing away, and the wheezy sound was joyful for a split second until she winced and recoiled. “Agh, laughing hurts. Everything hurts...” she groaned, and Atticus wished he could do more to help her.

“Just try to take it easy for a little bit longer, honey. Dr. Reynolds will be here soon.” 

“Atticus,” Scout rasped with wide, sad eyes, “I think I’m dying.”

Atticus’s fear for his child was growing harder to manage. She looked so pale, and so small, and Mr. Tate had mentioned a bit of bleeding. Atticus wanted to move aside the blankets and open the coat to investigate, to help her in any way he could, but he had to trust the Sheriff’s judgement. If Scout was bleeding out he would have had her taken straight to the hospital in Mobile.

“You won’t die, Scout. You are home, you are safe. We are going to take care of you. Just hold on.”

He settled the newspaper where they both could comfortably see it and began to read aloud. He purposefully selected a boring column that would hopefully lull Scout to sleep. He kept his voice steady and calming and hoped she didn’t notice the tremor in his hand as he held the paper.

•••

Meanwhile, Jem found Mr. Tate on the phone with Dr. Reynolds. He missed the beginning of the call but he lurked in the corner while the older men spoke, alarmed by the urgency in the Sheriff’s voice. The moment the he thanked the doctor and went to hang up, Jem pounced.

“Is Scout bleeding?”

“Hm?”

“There’s blood on your sleeve. Where is she bleeding?”

The sheriff hadn’t even gotten the chance to move his hand from the receiver, and he sighed as he lowered his arm, eyeing the red stain.

“Don’t worry about it, Jem. Dr. Reynolds will be here soon to take care of it.”

Jem huffed at the obvious evasion, and turned to leave. “I’m gonna go see what’s wrong-“

“No, Jem,” Mr. Tate said, fixing his hand on Jem’s retreating shoulder. The boy was thirteen now, and had grown another head taller in the past year. He could break away if he wanted to, but he wanted to hear what the Sheriff had to say. 

“If you open that coat and go pokin’ and proddin’ right now it’s only bound to upset everyone, not just Scout. She has gone through a lot but she’s made it this far, there’s nothin’ we can do but help her relax ‘til the Doctor comes.” Jem was turned by his shoulder to face the sheriff eye to eye.

“I know y’all care a whole lot about her, so I’m just gonna warn you now. She don’t look good under there. Not at all. And it won’t do her any good for you and your father to get all riled up ‘bout it, so I need you to promise to keep a clear head. At least when you are around her.” 

Jem nodded slowly and Mr. Tate released him, pulling off his horn-rimmed glasses to pinch and rub the bridge of his long nose. Jem slumped against the wall, trying to itch a spot under his cast. 

“Where did you find her?”

“”She was layin’ under the trees over yonder. I think she ran a bit to get there, though. I need to head back over to see if I can find anythin’ of note.” He went to leave, but the familiar heavy step of his boots punishing the wooden floor came to a stop as he turned back over his shoulder. 

“You’re a good kid, Jem. You’ll be alright. You all will be alright.”

Jem gave a nod in acknowledgement, hoping that Mr. Tate was right. As he watched the sheriff walk off into the morning air, Jem tried to settle his nerves. He hadn’t gotten an opportunity to talk to or even say hello to his sister yet, and he thought of what he would say to her as he crept back towards the living room.

When he got there Scout was already asleep in Atticus’s lap. His free hand was limply holding a newspaper, but he wasn’t reading it, aloud or otherwise. His eyes were stuck on Scout’s face. 

Atticus’s own face, which almost always held a mask of polite indifference, was swirling with emotion. He was staring at Scout as if he couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t disappear the moment he looked away, and Jem thought he could see a glistening behind his glasses. It made Jem feel like he was intruding, since he was quiet enough upon entering that Atticus hadn’t yet noticed his presence.

Not wanting to disturb either of them, Jem slid back out of the room. His words to his sister could wait. She was back home, safe in her father’s arms, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

I felt lighter than air, then heavier than lead. I thought I might be in a car, but in the next moment I saw flashes of white walls, I heard the rolling of wheels on a hard floor and the swish and light clinking of a curtain on metal rings being pushed aside. I heard voices, unfamiliar ones giving orders and familiar ones telling me I’d be alright. I smelled pine, then the sharpness of antiseptic, and then pine again. All I could really think about was the pain, hyper-fixated on it as ebbed then grew then faded completely, often coordinated with my awareness of my surroundings.

When I woke up, my head felt heavy and I couldn't move any of my limbs. Fear filled me and I felt my heart go crazy in my chest. I tried my to open my eyes to figure out where I was. I needed to know where I was. I wasn’t lying on the stone floor of the basement, I was... half submerged in water? All my thoughts felt slow, like a heavy fog was pushing down on me. 

Did Mr. Ewell decide to end things and throw me in Barker’s Eddy? The water was warmer than usual, pleasant even. It would be just like him to not finish me off completely, to let me experience the joy of drowning. I felt my arm pulled above the water, and I almost sobbed- Mr. Ewell must have changed his mind. He wanted to play with me a little while longer. Why couldn’t he just let me go...

I tried with all of my might to open my eyes, and nothing. God, why couldn't I open my eyes? I never realized how much effort it was to do something so simple. I tried to focus on listening instead, but my hearing was muffled as well.

It was so cold above the water, with my chest, shoulders, and head exposed to the chilly air. I just wanted to sink down all the way, and was about to when I felt hands massaging my scalp. It felt nice, so I leaned into the touch. Wait, no, no, no. I didn’t want to be touched by him anymore. And if I was in Barker’s Eddy, then I was outside, I could get away! A finger got caught on a lock of my hair and pulled, a threat to not try anything, but I wouldn’t be manipulated by him again. I began to weakly thrash about, trying to swim away. Hands gripped my shoulders, trying to keep me in place, but I refused to obey. As my pulse raced, I felt my mobility slowly returning, along with my hearing.

“Stay still for me, baby.”

No, no, no! I continued moving, I needed to escape. But I was eventually locked in an iron grip, and my attempts to wriggle out of it were proven to be pointless. 

I had failed. Again. I began to cry, heedless of my shame for doing so. At least this time I gave it my best shot, but it still wasn’t good enough.

“Scout, can you hear me?”

Between my sobs, I registered that Mr. Ewell’s voice was higher than I remembered. There was light behind my eyelids- it was bold of him to be doing this during the day. But then there were two voices, and I couldn’t pick out which was his. Who was he talking to? I picked up hushed words that I couldn’t piece together, 

“...tugged on her hair and she started...sedative...not due for anotha thirty minutes...” 

Then another voice joined the mix.

“Scout?”

“Go back to your room Jem, you don’t need to see this.”

“I ain’t going.”

Jem.

I finally managed to pull open my eyes, rapidly blinking while adjusting to the light. At first, I saw nothing but blurs and vague forms, but things started to take shape. The arms that were holding me were slender and dark, with sleeves that were rolled up past the bicep but still soaked.

“Please fetch Dr. Reynolds. Go ahead and wake him if he’s napping.”

With a slight turn of my head I saw Atticus- Atticus!- addressing the fleeing form of Jem. I didn’t have enough mobility to look up, but I was sure Calpurnia was the one holding me. Her arms loosened, seeing that the fight had left me.

It all clicked. I was in the tub, in the bathroom. Home.

Memories of the events that led me home came flooding back to me in bits and pieces, with a blank gap between Atticus reading me the news and now.

My head turned back over to see the distorted image of my pale body beneath the bathwater, which was when I processed that I was as naked as the day I was born. Mayella’s crude cloth and gauze wrappings were gone. The scars, the bruises, the bite marks... they were all out for anyone to see. With no remaining grime to conceal them. The bath must have been run more than once for the water to be so clear. My ears burned with complete humiliation; 

I really, really, really didn’t want them to see me this way.

I tried to curl in on myself, but this strained my ribs and stomach, so I opted for crossing my arms over my chest and lowering myself so that the water line reached my chin. When Calpurnia lifted me back up and moved my arms away, gently scrubbing my bruised sides and dabbing at the mostly healed cigarette burn on my chest with a soft washcloth, I felt completely exposed. And damn it, I started crying again. 

It was overwhelming, the fact that I was home. I should’ve been happy, especially since my body’s various pains seemed to be dulled, but at the moment, I just felt so awful and embarrassed. If I had thought that my family was going to see me again, I would have taken better care of myself.

Though my senses had mostly returned, I still felt a beat behind everything that was going on, and I felt the prick of the needle in my arm before I saw it. Dr. Reynolds was putting me back to sleep, but I didn’t want to go. I wanted to cover up, or make everyone stop staring at me, or tell them that I was fine. Anything to get that look off of Atticus’s face as he knelt by the tub. 

He looked older than I had ever seen him, with a deeper crease in his brow and the grey patches spreading further through his dark hair than before. His hand was gripping the side of the tub so hard his knuckles turned white, so I reached out my own hand and he turned his to receive it. My lids felt heavy again as I clutched his hand, reminding both him and myself that I was home, and I was going to be alright.

When I woke up, it quickly became clear that whatever heavy sedative they had put me under before that took away the pain had mostly worn off. Atticus sat asleep in the chair at my bedside. I breathed deeply, trying to relax, but was cut short by a twinge as my ribcage expanded. My body burned and ached all over, especially my newly bandaged arm and torso which seemed to throb with each heartbeat. My right calf was in a cast. The worst of the pain came from between my legs, and I registered that the underwear I wore had some sort of pad in it. Jesus, they put me in a diaper. 

I was wearing a loose nightgown that wasn’t mine, and I didn’t recognize it to be one of Aunt Alexandra’s. I wondered where she was, and who the gown belonged to. I didn’t mind if it was a bit girly since it was soft, the fabric didn’t press any of my injuries, and it wasn’t flannel pajama pants. It also was the first truly clean thing I had worn for a while, and I smelled clean as well! Remembering my pain, I resisted the urge to take another deep breath of the gloriously not-musty air of the room.

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that didn't hurt, but the movement made me feel worse. I gasped quietly and closed my eyes tight, pushing my head hard into the pillow. I didn't want to wake Atticus up and make him worry needlessly. He looked much younger while asleep, his head resting at an angle that probably wouldn't feel too good for his neck once he woke up. I concentrated on the soft rumble of his snores and how they followed the rise and fall of his chest, letting the methodical pattern soothe me…

But suddenly the memory of watching the rising and falling form of a loudly snoring figure filled my vision. The fear of waking him up, the pain that came once I did…

"Scout?" came a soft voice, and I opened my bleary eyes to see Calpurnia set down a tray on the nightstand next to the bed. "Are you alright, baby? Are you in pain?" She whispered, looking concerned as she reached over and placed her hand on my forehead and cheek.

I simply nodded to the latter question, knowing that I couldn't hide it. I had learned throughout the years not to hide things from Cal, she was too observant. God, I missed her so much, and I told her so. She said she missed me too, and reached over to turn on my reading light. The room around me was dimly lit in a warm glow, and I recognized my room, just as I had left it. It was as if no time had passed at all... maybe I could pretend this had all been one long nightmare.

That is, until I saw the many flowers and “Get Well Soon” cards, and my face colored with humiliation. It would be hard to pretend nothing happened when the town already knew how pathetic I was- how the hell did word get around so fast?

Calpurnia raised my back and piled pillows behind me. I was too weak to help. When laid back on them I found I was propped up rather comfortably. The bed was so soft, almost too soft after having nothing but a stone floor and a wooden door to sleep on for so long. I felt like if I was heavy enough I would sink down into it and it would swallow me whole.

At my inquiry, Calpurnia told me that Sheriff Tate had brought me home early in the morning two days ago, and Dr. Reynolds came to examine and take care of me. I had been kicking and fighting him in my sleep, so he sedated me to prevent me from hurting myself. However, upon my examination the doctor informed them that some of my injuries were "beyond what he was capable of fixing," so Atticus drove Cal and I all the way to the hospital in Mobile for surgery. Miss Maudie Atkinson came over to watch over Jem, and boy had he put up a fight wanting to come with us.

"I went to the hospital two days ago?"

"Yes."

My mind was reeling. I couldn't remember any of it, and I really hated that feeling. It reminded me of the night Mr. Ewell gave me alcohol.

I told Calpurnia I didn’t like the idea of everyone examining me and such without my say so, and she assured me that it was only Dr. Reynolds and trusted doctors, so I had plenty of privacy. I said even so, and she asked me if I was wearing clothes when Dr. Reynolds brought me into this world. I said I supposed not, and dropped the matter.

That was until I remembered everyone ogling me in the bath, and I got Cal there. She must have thought I wouldn’t have remembered. She went on to explain that after coming back home from the hospital I had woken up from the sedative earlier than expected and made a bit of a fuss in the bath, so the doctor had to put me under again (I apologized about that, and she told me not to worry a thing about it). She spoke lowly through all this to keep from waking Atticus, but it may have also been a gesture to encourage me to not strain my own voice. Now, she told me, it was late at night, and this time I woke up right when I was supposed to.

“Let’s get some food in you, you must be starvin’.”

I was. And the idea of food, real food, was so enticing. Calpurnia’s fine cooking was something I had longed for over the past few months. But when she moved the tray of rolls and soup from the nightstand to the bed beside me, I heard a distant voice echo through my head...

You don't deserve to eat, lil’ girl. What you done that makes you think you deserve food?

Then Mr. Ewell’s hand trailed down my side and pressed the side of my stomach and I couldn't eat a thing. My appetite had vanished like the morning frost.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You may not feel hungry, but your body needs it, hon. Here, this should be easy on the stomach.” She offered me a roll and I turned my head away.

“I can’t, Cal.” She tried again with the soup, but looking at the steaming bowl made me want to gag. Calpurnia sighed, and I could see the creases of worry and contained frustration on her brow. She looked to where Atticus was still sleeping, and then back at me. 

“Scout, you are as thin as a twig right now. You can’t expect your body to get betta if you ain’t puttin’ in anythin’ for it to fix itself with. It took me ages to convince Mr.Finch to let himself rest, so I’m not gonna wake him, but if he were up he’d say the same thing. You’ve gotta eat.”

My skin was still crawling from Mr. Ewell’s phantom hands, but Calpurnia’s voice overpowered his whispers. I looked at my sleeping father. Maybe I could make him worry less.

I held out my hands for the bowl, but then I couldn’t hold it. Cal hadn’t let go, so nothing spilled, but I was taken aback by my lack of strength.

I wasn’t able to get in much, but I ate, with Cal’s assistance. She looked relieved. Though it hurt to swallow and didn’t feel pleasant going down, I couldn’t deny how good the food tasted on my tongue, long since accustomed to meager portions of stale bread and the precious scraps that Mayella had briefly been able to sneak for me. 

Everything now seemed like a luxury. Calpurnia’s fresh-baked rolls were soft and fluffy and the soup was comfortingly warm- the flavor was familiar but not overwhelming, and it was the perfect meal to say “welcome home.” I felt guilty seeing how much I had left untouched by the time she took the tray away.

“You go on back to sleep, baby. Sheriff Tate and Dr. Reynolds will be back to check on you in the morning.”

I tried to argue, not knowing how I could possibly sleep after sleeping all day, but I was out fast. I felt a little bit nauseous as Cal rearranged my pillows into a resting position again, and the unfamiliar fullness in my stomach dulled my will to move. I drowsily thanked Calpurnia as she reached to dim the lights again.

Chapter Text

In the morning, I was in my bed getting down a bit of breakfast when I noticed my voice returning with the bit of nourishment from then and the night before. My throat was still raw but I was now able to get through the end of sentences without them falling away. It still took a bit of energy, though- who knew talking could be so hard. I figured I was out of practice.

I was also out of practice in regards to eating, and last night’s nausea returned before I could finish even a quarter of the plate in front of me. Not wanting to worry Atticus, I forced myself to get down at least a third of it, eyes flicking over to him to every so often to check if he was judging my progress. I thought he was adequately distracted with his paper until he stopped me after what I had thought was a subtlety suppressed gag, saying I was looking a little green around the edges. Much to my relief, he said that he was surprised I could handle so much already and advised that I should pace myself with it.

Sometime earlier, the wooden chair that Atticus had fallen asleep in by my bedside had been replaced by one of his comfortable arm chairs. I took that as a sign that he was planning on spending some time with me, and I was thankful. I really didn’t want to be left alone. 

Atticus informed me that Jem had stopped by while I was sleeping, and he had put up quite the fuss when Atticus told him he still had to go to school. Atticus chuckled when he recalled the almost comical way the argument commenced in whispers. Jem wanted to stay with me, and was only convinced to go when Atticus entrusted him with the duty of quelling any rumors that would pop up across the school yard. I thought that was very noble of him.

I felt like I was forgetting something. Looking around my room to try to jog my memory, I saw the flowers, cards, and- oh! The small jewelry box on my dresser reminded me to ask where Aunt Alexandra had gone off to. Atticus told me that she had left for Finches Landing a while ago, and I simply responded with, “Oh.” 

I couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be disappointed by the news. I was mostly relieved that every step of my recovery process wouldn’t be scrutinized under her judgmental eye. If I had to learn how to eat again while being chastised for my table manners I would have rioted. 

We were continuing our slow conversation (with Atticus doing most of the talking) when the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch sent a wave of ice down my spine. I looked to Atticus with wide eyes. Could he protect me if Mr. Ewell was here? Would Mr. Ewell hurt him? My spoon fell from my trembling hand with a clatter and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Are you alright?” Atticus asked, trying to follow my gaze which was fixed on the door of the bedroom. I didn’t answer, listening carefully for Calpurnia to open the front door. The throbbing in my head magnified every sound. “That should be Heck arriving now, honey.” Sure enough, I heard Mr. Tate’s familiar voice, and his figure soon filled the doorway. He and Atticus exchanged greetings, then he turned to me.

“You’re lookin’ much better today, Miss Scout.” We made eye contact as he removed his hat. “I'm steppin’ a little closer now, alright? You were so brave, you made it through everythin’ all by yourself.”

I had Mayella, I thought. Why was Mr. Tate talking to me like I was a baby? When did I start breathing so fast?

Atticus stood and silently offered his seat to Mr. Tate, who accepted it without looking away from me. Sitting down, he continued.

“And Wednesday morning, you got yourself where we could find you. That took a lot of strength.” 

I averted my eyes from his penetrating gaze, framed by his horn-rimmed glasses. I wanted him to stop staring at me like he was analyzing my every move- which he probably was doing.

“I need some answers to catch the man who put you through this. I apologize if this feels too fast after everythin’ that has happened, but it's very important that we can find your captor before he gets too far, or before he can cover up his tracks.” 

Shoot. I was going to have to cover up a whole lot if I was going to hide Mr. Ewell. I knew that they would eventually ask me about everything that happened, I just didn’t know it would be so soon. I could have prepared myself more. 

Mr. Tate pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket, and his eyes flicked to Atticus and back to me. “If you prefer privacy for any of these questions just let me know.” A flash of something crossed Atticus’s face before he replaced it with his usual indifference, nodding in understanding.

My stomach turned as he flipped the notebook pages. 

“Did you know the identity of the man who took you before the attack?”

I swallowed hard.

“No.”

That would be my first lie of many. The sheriff‘s eyebrows raised for a quarter of a second. Had he suspected Mr. Ewell already?

“Did he tell you his name?”

“No. He just had me call him ‘sir’.” 

“Did he know your name?”

I tilted my head in thought. That was an odd question. “I don’t think so. He called me by my name once, but he may have seen it in the news at that point. Other than that he called me a lot of... things.”

“What did he call you?”

Whore-house, bitch, nigger-lovin’ bitch, lil’ missus, purty girlie, sweetheart, my lil’ girl, my lil’ bird... Baby...

My cheeks reddened. “Um... I don’t think I’m allowed to...”

“That’s alright, I get the idea. When he addressed you by name, did he call you Scout or Jean Louise?” 

I remembered the first time he called me by my name. Scout, he said, securing my attention before threatening Jem’s life. That’s why I needed to lie. Only locals would know I was called Scout.

“Jean Louise.”

My voice was terribly raspy, and I wondered if he would ask me less questions because of that. I hoped so.

“Do you remember where he took you?”

I shook my head, and found myself unable to look at him once again. I may have not been a perfect kid before, but at least I was honest, for the most part. Now I was lying through my teeth. 

“I was out cold when he first took me, an’ same goes for when he brought me to the trees, I guess.”

At that, Atticus looked at Mr. Tate in confusion. Mr. Tate wrote something in his notebook, and turned it away when I leaned forward to look.

“There was an anonymous call from a woman who reported seeing you runnin’ down Main Street.”

Shoot, shoot, shoot. Was that Mayella?

“I meant the trees by Barker’s Eddy.”

“You ran all the way from there?” He eyed my broken leg in disbelief.

“Dr. Reynolds said the shock kept her from registering the pain,” Atticus intervened, and I was grateful. I stayed quiet.

“Okay.” The sheriff still looked slightly skeptical, but he moved on. I heard a new set of footsteps on the porch, but I recognized them. I knew Dr. Reynolds’ step almost as well as my father’s. It was young and brisk, much unlike Mr. Tate’s and Mr. Ewell’s, and I heard Calpurnia inviting him to sit somewhere.  

“How did you escape?”

“I... I didn’t. He just... let me go. Knocked me out and dropped me off near Barker’s Eddy, I reckon.”

Atticus’s face twisted a little at that, and a new ripple of doubt went through me. Could he tell I was lying? Was I fooling anyone at all? 

“Wherever you were kept, did you have a sense of your surroundings? Were you able to move around?”

I nodded to both. Hopefully if I sprinkled in some truth I would be more believable. If they knew about the Ewell’s basement, they would have looked for me there. Still, I wasn’t going to give them the smaller details I had memorized. Not yet.

“I think it was a basement, about as big as this room. There was a staircase and the door out was always locked. There was a small bathroom with a toilet and sink where I did my business and got water and tried to get cleaned up. Before my leg got broke I could move around for the most part, except when I was hurtin’ real bad.” Or tied up, my subconscious sneered, and I pushed the humiliating memory away.

“Did you ever see anything outside of the door when the man came in or out?”

“Um, no, he was quick to shut it behind him. And he told me to stand against the back wall whenever he entered.”

The curious look on Mr. Tates face at this detail made me think that he was going to ask more about that, but he seemed to move on and held onto that thought for later.

“Any windows, perhaps near the ceiling?”

“No.”

“How tall was the ceiling?”

“Uh, average? Not high, but not short either.”

“You mentioned there was a bathroom. Was it separate with a door to it or was it just a part of the room itself?”

He was being awfully nit-picky.

“No, it was separate. It did have a door at first.”

“At first?”

I flushed, oddly embarrassed by the memory.

“Yeah, there was a door. Another door I mean, to the bathroom. Only for a little while, though. I tried to hide in there so he… he got mad. Kicked it in and tore it right off its hinges. The door is still in the room, though, as far as I know. On the floor.”

“The man must have been very strong.”

I tried not to think about Mr. Ewell’s strong hands that could deliver a fisted blow, a strangling chokehold, and a sickening caress. Then I realized that Mr. Tate was waiting for a response, so I simply nodded.

I didn’t like talking about the things Mr. Ewell did. Even just hinting at the beatings made my heart start to race. Would Mr. Tate ask what happened next, make me recount it all in front of Atticus? I really didn’t want to talk about it. 

“What materials was the floor made up of? As well as the door, the walls, and the stairs, if you can describe them? I know these may seem like unnecessary specifics, but it will help us narrow places down.”

Thank God. I realized that I much preferred the small, nit-picky details.

“Oh, sure, um. The floor was some kind of stone. It was rough. The walls were stone too I think, but different? Smoother, maybe. The doors were wood, and so were the stairs.”

“Good to know, good to know. You’re doing great, Miss Scout. Can you tell me what the man looked like?”

“I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“You can’t?”

This would be a tough one to avoid. 

“I...I don’t know.”

“How’s that?”

“It was pitch dark down there. He was real strong, with big arms I think. I only saw his silhouette a few times when the door opened and it was light outside, but the light burned my eyes so I couldn’t look long. He was tall.” Hopefully that would throw them off. Mr. Ewell was a stout man. 

“Do you have an estimate of how tall? Maybe compared to myself?”

“Um... I think he was a little taller than Atticus.”

“Perfect.” He wrote in his notebook again. “Could you tell his race, or skin color?”

“White,” I said, without any hesitation. Mr. Ewell’s actions would not be pinned on another innocent black man again. On that note, I’d have to be careful to make sure my lies wouldn’t incriminate anyone else.

“Could you try to describe his face for me?”

“I told you, I can’t. It was dark, and- and-“ Think! Think, dammit. What could I say? That the man would get mad when I dared to look at him? That he wore a mask?

“- and I didn’t want to look at him. I know I should’ve, it woulda made things so much easier now, but… He was- I was-“

“He frightened you,” the sheriff suggested.

I nodded, trying my best to look embarrassed instead of ecstatically relieved. Let him think that our mystery man scared me so much I couldn’t even face him. 

“And he told me to keep my head down. He said it was disrespectful if I didn’t.”

Perfect, that lined up with the whole “calling him 'sir'” thing nicely. 

“That is totally understandable. There’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, Miss Scout. Fear is what keeps us alive, and if avoiding your captor’s eyes kept you from extra harm, then I’m glad for it.”

Bullseye. 

“Any other features you can recall?”

“He had big hands. And a scratchy beard, I felt it when he... when he...” 

My head throbbed as painful memories rushed in. I tried to block them out but they consumed my vision without mercy. I felt his prickly chin against my neck, and heard his deep breaths... my stomach churned and I felt my voice hitch in my throat. My hand flew up to touch my neck and it burned... He squeezed my neck with his large hands and cut off my airflow until I stopped resisting completely... 

“Ah-ah, don’t touch there, Scout.”

“Deep breaths, there you go.”

Atticus had walked over and sat on the bed, gently holding my hand to keep me from trying to touch my neck again. I buried my face in his vest and tried to slow my breathing. I remembered how Mayella taught me to do it and imagined her chest behind mine, guiding me In, out, nice and slow.

“Heck, I think that’s enough for today,” Atticus said. Below the rumble of his voice I heard the ticking of his pocket watch and the sounds of his stomach.

“That’s alright,” I was sure that Mr. Tate had more that he wanted to ask, but he hid it well. “It’s about time that Dr. Reynolds got to you anyways.“

Suddenly another wave of nausea came over me and I frantically pushed myself away from Atticus, trying to warn him, “I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“

Mr. Tate reacted quickly and grabbed a basin from the nightstand, holding it out in front of me just in time for me to lose my breakfast. When I was done, Atticus wiped my mouth with a napkin and Mr. Tate took the basin to the bathroom to dispose of its contents. If either of them were mad or disgusted they didn’t show it, but I was too woozy to be sure. “I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean to.” 

My mind went back to an instance in the basement when I threw up before I could reach the toilet. I frantically tried to clean it, at least trying to hide it before Mr. Ewell came. But he found it, beat me, and stuck my face in it like a dog.

“It’s alright, Miss Scout. No need for you to apologize. That was a lot to go over, but you did real well. I’ll come back another time to talk when you are ready. Does that sound good?”

I really didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but I nodded.

“Great.” Mr. Tate pushed back his hair and put his hat on. “Thank you for your time, Miss Scout. You take care, both of you.”

“Thank you, Heck.”

I added quietly, “Thank you for findin’ me, sir.” The last word made my stomach drop, and I wondered if I would ever be able to say it without thinking about Mr. Ewell. Mr. Tate seemed to notice my discomfort.

“Of course. And you don’t have to call me ‘sir’. Mr. Tate or even Heck will do.” With that, he tipped his hat and was out the door.

Chapter Text

Atticus watched as Scout nodded and smiled softly at Mr. Tate, who tipped his hat and turned to leave. Atticus was grateful that Maycomb had Heck as their Sheriff; he wasn’t sure how many men could have handled the situation with such delicacy. Heck had children of his own, and it showed.

When Scout had revealed that she woke up by Barker’s Eddy, Atticus was reminded again of what a miracle it was for her to be alive. There was a high possibility that her captor had brought her there to drown her, or end her life in some other way and dispose of her body there. By the grace of God something must have intervened, whether it was her captor’s own remorse for his actions or the appearance of a passerby causing him to flee the scene. He would never know for sure, but he would forever be grateful for the small bit of mercy his daughter was offered.

Dr. Reynolds came in for the first time since Scout was fully conscious and aware, and she looked nervous. The Finch children never had any problems with the doctor, but Atticus knew this time was different. He moved his seat further from the bed to give the doctor enough space, but stayed in the room. The desperate way Scout fought in her sleep the first time the doctor came broke his heart, and he wasn’t sure how she would take it now that she was awake.

Atticus remembered Calpurnia's request from earlier that morning.

"Please don’t let him sedate her any more, Mister Finch. It’s not right. When I was washin' the bottom of her feet in the bath, it scared me how easy it was. When you try to clean Scout’s feet she’s supposed to laugh and give you hell. Instead, she was still. Still as a doll, not even given a chance to react, to behave nor misbehave. It wasn't right, sir. It just wasn’t right. She should be able to fight, even if it makes it harder for us. She told me herself that she doesn't want to be examined without her say-so. And if we don't teach her how to trust a doctor now, she never will.” Atticus took Calpurnia's advice to heart.

The first thing Dr. Reynolds did after telling Scout how glad he was to see her was talk through a list of the injuries he'd identified to make sure that they were all on the same page. He would name an injury, ask something along the lines of “Does that sound correct?”, and Scout would nod to the floor. This went on for a while before he gradually got more specific, or asked clarifying questions, and Scout’s answers started off brief. 

“Did he use a belt to hit you?” 

A nod. 

“Is the burn on your chest from a cigarette?”

A nod.

“There are quite a few cuts along your scalp. How did those occur?”

“He, um, broke a bottle against the wall above me. The glass got everywhere.”

“How’d your leg get broken?” 

“He stomped on it one time when I tried to get out. Before then I think he broke a few toes on the other foot but it doesn’t really matter.“ 

Dr. Reynolds immediately went to examine her foot, and sure enough, a few toes were slightly swollen. “Of course it matters,” he said, grabbing some tape from his bag to wrap them together, “Thank you for letting me know. I’m sorry I missed them. If you were wondering, your leg got what’s called a ‘Greenstick’ fracture. Stay still for me, just for a second.” Scout stopped trying to scoot her foot away. “The bone is cracked, but not all the way through. It’s ‘bent’, in a way, but bones aren’t the bendiest things. This type typically occurs in children, and you’ll be healed up soon enough.”

“Atticus said you said that I was in shock, and the shock kept me from feelin’ the pain. If that’s possible, why can’t I just be shocked all the time then?”

Dr. Reynolds said that was a good point. He mentioned adrenaline, and said something about a baby being stuck under a car, and the father suddenly being able to lift the whole car. A person wouldn’t be able to deadlift a car all the time, so their extra strength is saved for special occasions when they really need it. Scout didn’t really get what his tangent had to do with shock, or her broken leg. 

“Are there any other injuries you think I may have missed?”

“Umm... My head hit the ground a lot.”

“I assumed that was the case. There’s a nice bump on the back of your head to prove it,” Dr. Reynolds lightly fingered the back of her head and sure enough, there it was. “You’ve most likely got what is called a concussion. Look that way-no, don’t turn your head, roll your eyes. Nothing that plenty of rest won’t fix. Now look over yonder. Now look at me. Did you ever feel dizzy?”

“Yeah. I thought it was because of the hunger. I also got real sick at one point.”

At this, Dr. Reynolds perked up a little, and asked carefully, “What kind of sickness?”

Scout noticed his change of tone as well and looked uncomfortable. “Uhh.. fever. I think.”

“Were you given any medicine?”

Scout paused before answering again.

“No.”

Dr. Reynolds looked a little disappointed, but continued on. “Well, you are a very strong little girl for more than one reason, then. Untreated fevers can be deadly things.” He retrieved his bag from the floor, pulling out various bottles and gauze and tape.

Atticus had followed along Dr. Reynolds’s thought process, and was disappointed as well. If Scout had been given medicine, not only would her ordeal have been a bit less unpleasant, but the doctor may have been able to look back through who he gave or sold medicine to over the past few months. He could have even asked his fellow doctors around the county to help the sheriff narrow down the list of suspects. How were their questions leading to so many dead ends?

•••

Dr. Reynolds finished up asking Scout about the details she could remember about what she had been given to eat, and how often she was fed. Given how thin she was, the answers didn’t surprise the doctor, but they did surprise Atticus. His poor child. She deserved so much better than this.

“Those are all of the questions I have for now, I think it’s time to check on how your injuries are doing. Let’s just get you re-situated a bit,” Dr. Reynolds guided Scout’s legs so that she sat with her feet dangling over the side of the bed, rather than laying against the pillows. Her cast lightly knocked against the bed frame. He knew that remaining upright would be tiring but assured her that she wouldn’t be in that position for too long. 

“There we go. Raise your arms above your head, little one." Scout obeyed despite her soreness, but when the doctor gathered up the hem of her nightgown and started to lift it off her, she clamped her arms back down and let out a strangled “No!” Her eyes became glassy and Atticus was by her side right away, reminding her where she was.

“It’s alright, Scout. You’re alright. Dr. Reynolds isn’t going to hurt you. He just wants to help you get better, I promise.”

After about a minute she calmed down enough to speak again.

“I’m sorry, I- do you have to take it off?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tend to you properly without doing so,” Dr. Reynolds answered softly.

Atticus offered that Scout could sit on his lap if she wanted, but she declined. After more reassurances and the promise that Atticus would stay by her, Scout took off her nightgown herself – she didn't want either of them to do it – and immediately moved her arms to cover herself. Once her arms were coaxed away, she sat as stiff as a board while the doctor pressed one ear against her bare chest, then her back, to listen to her heart and lungs. She looked away from him, staring at the wall. He then listened again with the stethoscope, and she shivered at the contact of the cold chestpiece on her skin. 

Atticus felt the weight of this part of the checkup, and the importance of making sure that Scout's heart in particular was still strong. A heart condition was hereditary in his late wife's family, and it was a sudden heart attack that took her away from him. He prayed that his children weren't susceptible to the same fate.

He could see the outline of a belt buckle and slashing welts in what had once been the soft, white, unblemished skin of Scout’s back. Most had healed over, but the fresh scars were there, bright pink and shiny like a burn. There were ones to match on her forearms. Her side was dark with the mass of the biggest bruises he had ever seen. 

The angry red patches on the back of her arms, the top of her spine, and her shoulder blades reminded Atticus of the look of a bad scraped knee, but repeatedly scratched raw on a rough surface. Due to their peculiar locations, he found himself pondering how she acquired them, but when he figured it out he wished he hadn’t.

He forced himself to look away, instead watching the doctor's face closely for any sign that something might be wrong. 

Dr. Reynolds informed Scout that one of her ribs was broken, pointed out which one, and reminded Atticus to continue having it iced regularly in the next few days to bring down swelling. He said that the rest were thankfully not broken, just bruised quite a bit, and that the pain should decrease with time. After a few days, applying heat with tub soaks or warm wet washcloths would help the bruises heal more quickly.

"Same goes for that red spot on your eye, there. Keep up with cold compresses for today and tomorrow, and after that you can apply the warm instead, several times a day."

"What red spot?" Scout asked. She moved her eyes around to see if she could see it in her peripheral vision and immediately felt foolish. 

"Ah, right, I reckon that without a look in the mirror you wouldn't know. You've got a broken blood vessel in the white of your left eye." Dr. Reynolds pointed at his own eye to indicate where it was on Scout. "It might look a bit scary but it's harmless, and should disappear within two weeks or so."

Atticus had to agree that it did look 'scary', with the bright red contrasting with the blue of Scout's iris, but he was glad it was harmless and wasn't supposed to affect her vision in any way. It had given him a shock when she first opened her eyes two days before, and then again this morning when he had already forgotten about it.

Dr. Reynolds continued on and explained the process to Scout as he went along, applying ointments, changing wrappings, taping new pads over the raw red patches that Atticus had been eyeing before, and cleaning wounds. Atticus worried that Scout would feel betrayal as this process did, in fact, hurt, but she seemed to understand that the pain wasn’t ill-intended.

“Along with the wrappings you arrived in I saw other signs of aid in your healing process. I’m sorry to say that the pesky stab wound in your side there will leave a bit of a scar, just due to the severity of the wound and the fact that the stitches that were used remained in for a little too long. Was it your captor who would fix you up or did you have to do it yourself?” 

Atticus thought that doing it on herself would be worse for Scout, so he was relieved when she admitted it was her captor who did it, until he thought about the implications. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for the same man who stabbed her to be the one to wield a needle and thread to stitch her up afterwards. It was horrific, and the fact that she was letting Dr. Reynolds help her now became even more impressive.

The process went much faster than it had the day she arrived and went to the hospital, with all the major cleaning, mending, and broken bone setting being done already, but the added challenge of Scout being conscious for it today was hard to watch.

Tears sprung to her eyes as Dr. Reynolds cleaned a particularly deep carving in her forearm. She bit her lip in an attempt to suppress her cries, and what came out was a high-pitched whimper that got stuck in her throat. Atticus held her other hand and rubbed slow circles with his thumb in what he hoped was a comforting manner. He could tell when the doctor reached a particularly painful spot by how hard Scout squeezed his hand. Her hand was too thin. Fragile, like the wing of a bird.

How could somebody sink so low to do something like this? 

While the doctor unwrapped fresh gauze, Atticus took a closer look at the shape of the forearm wound; two intersecting lines surrounded by a circle. With horror, he realized that it could possibly be a crude carving of a Ku Klux Klan symbol. He would never make Scout aware of this, but he feared she would eventually recognize it too. If Dr. Reynolds noticed, he didn’t show it. He simply assured them that though the scar hadn’t been healing in ideal conditions, it should eventually fade. As would the rest of the welts on her forearms, and her back…

Eventually. What a fickle, vague word. Eventually they would find Scout, he had told himself. Eventually the physical reminders of her trauma would heal, leaving only the shattered memories behind. Eventually she would carry on with her life. But when? “Eventually” wasn’t “soon”. Eventually could be in ten years. It was a word for those holding on to hope that something would happen, with no logical explanation for how or when. 

Atticus’s mind was swimming. If the wound symbolized what he thought it did, it confirmed that Scout’s kidnapping wasn’t just due to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her abuser wasn’t just a drunken bastard who wanted to cover up his tracks. This was a hate crime, fueled by racist anger towards the trial. Towards him, and his actions. 

It really was all his fault.

He always knew that he would never be able to keep all the ugly things in the world away from his children. No matter how much he tried, over time their innocence was bound to wane in the light of reality. But for it to be torn from his daughter so soon, and so brutally, by an abhorrent, racist, pedophile-

He needed to calm down. Scout needed him to calm down. As the doctor finished up tending to all of the surface-level wounds and she was redressed in her nightgown, Atticus knew that the most painful part had yet to come. He would need to be in a clear headspace to help her through it.

When the sheriff’s coat was first unwrapped from Scout’s supine form on the bed, Calpurnia had to hold on to Atticus to keep him on his feet. He was glad that Jem wasn’t in the room, and he knew the Sheriff had been right to warn him against opening the coat earlier. He surely would have collapsed with his daughter in his arms. 

The image he saw in the second he spent looking over Scout before Calpurnia escorted him to sit down would be carved in Atticus’s mind forever. His stomach twisted into knots. His daughter was severely battered and practically naked, with her tattered sleeveless shirt and underwear doing little to maintain her privacy. The bruises, the blood between her legs, then the desperate way she fought Dr. Reynolds before being sedated... Dear God, she was just a child. She was his baby. What the devil had been done to her? How could he let this happen?

On the way to the hospital, Calpurnia held Scout in the back seat of the car while Atticus drove. Cal pet the unconscious girl's hair and whispered sweet assurances just in case she could hear her. Every so often she assured Atticus that Scout was “still doing well,” which he took to mean “still sedated and breathing”. He didn’t let himself fall apart until Scout was wheeled out of sight to the operating room and the hospital personnel wouldn’t let him follow. He wanted to break something, but instead he sat down in a waiting room chair, set his glasses to the side, held his face in his hands, and let his shoulders shake in that silent way that men cry.

By the time they had returned from the hospital, Atticus had gained more control of his emotions, especially since his daughter was now awake to read them. Still, when he thought of the pain and loss of innocence that she had endured, he found himself filled with sorrow and rage, at both the world and himself.

Dr. Reynolds had just switched out Scout’s sanitary pad, and she asked him why he put her in a diaper, insisting that she was too old for that. She hadn’t seen the blood on it, and Atticus realized that they were going to need to address the subject of her sexual assault much sooner than he was ready for.

He and the doctor had discussed the subject before. Dr. Reynolds assured Atticus that he was willing to give Scout an age-appropriate version of “The Talk” if it was requested of him, but also said that it might not be necessary. He suggested a vague explanation of the assault, saying that if the girl didn’t remember how it exactly went, he didn’t want to clarify any blurred, fading memories with anatomical explanations.

Though this option might be easier for everyone, Atticus opted against it. He knew Scout was smarter than most gave her credit for, and she had a good memory. If bits and pieces started coming back to her, she would be worse off not understanding what happened. She didn’t like to be confused. 

Atticus had made it clear through the raising of his children that he would try not to hide anything from them. Though it was hard, it became especially important now, to Scout’s understanding of her own body and what she endured.

Then there was the concern of Scout having this knowledge and spreading it to her peers prematurely, which would certainly cause some discontent. Atticus didn’t think she would, but he would make sure to talk with her and make it clear that sharing what she knows with her classmates wouldn’t be appropriate.

Before the doctor’s suggestion, Atticus's  instinct was to have a woman explain to Scout what had happened to her. He did not feel equipped to do so, and it did not seem like a proper conversation to have between father and daughter. However, he had started to believe that the whole system of propriety could be damned the moment his child was attacked, and he would have to break down his own notions of the way things should be (or how they should have been), lest Scout be hurt even more by his coldness around the matter. She needed warmth and support and answers, not hints at Atticus’s ongoing horror that this had happened in the first place.

Calpurnia was already having a hard enough time dealing with Scout’s state, so he didn’t want to ask her. Atticus also couldn’t bring himself to ask it of their trustworthy neighbor Maudie Atkinson, and a telephone call with Aunt Alexandra would be too impersonal. He couldn’t ask for her to come down from the Landing either. Besides, Scout’s dislike of Aunt Alexandra and her lofty ideals would be a sure recipe for disaster. Atticus knew that she wouldn’t shame Scout for what had happened, (despite Scout’s impression of her, the woman wasn’t heartless) but she might dance around important details for the sake of propriety.

Dr. Reynolds was the ideal choice. But he was a man, and a man had hurt her.

Scout might not even realize yet that her captor had done something to her that a woman could not, but she would learn soon. How could Atticus expect Scout to be put at ease with the doctor as such sensitive things were being discussed, when he could hardly expect her to trust him, as her father?

Calpurnia’s words came to mind again, “If we don't teach her how to trust a doctor now, she never will.” Perhaps the same sentiment applied where her trust in men was concerned.

And as for Atticus’s role in the conversation, why should he shirk his responsibilities as a parent, just because another of his gender had done this? For fear that she might associate him with her captor? If anything, it gave him an even greater responsibility to right this wrong, to explain and condemn that man’s monstrous actions.

Dr. Reynolds looked to Atticus, who nodded solemnly. 

“It isn’t a diaper,” the doctor assured her, “You were injured between your legs so we put a pad to let it heal and staunch the little bit of remaining blood flow, just like any other bandages or the padding over the cuts on your arm.”

Scout nodded, her face a blank slate. Dr. Reynolds continued, gentle as ever.

“Some of the things that happened to you may have been… confusing, or hard to understand. It is important for us to know what you remember so that we can help you.” 

Atticus got up from the chair by the bed and sat on the edge of the bed by Scout’s covered feet. Dr. Reynolds thanked him and took his place. His face was now on the same level as Scout's or even a little below, and his hands were clasped in his lap. Scout’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two men and when they finally settled on Dr. Reynolds she leaned back away from him a little, perhaps subconsciously.

“Do you remember how that injury happened?”

Scout eyes widened in recognition but she froze, staring at the doctor warily. They waited for her to give any kind of response, but she didn’t. Dr. Reynolds let out a small sigh and instantly Scout’s eyebrows furrowed, in that same way that they did when she was worried that she disappointed Atticus. 

“The injury between your legs. Were you awake when it happened?”

Again, Scout kept her mouth closed. Atticus wanted to make Dr. Reynolds stop asking, but he saw in Scout's far-off gaze that she was seeing, thinking, remembering. He could tell that she wanted to say no- that she wasn’t awake, that she didn’t remember- but she couldn’t. It wouldn’t be true if she did, and she knew Atticus would be able to tell. It was the way that he had raised her that was keeping her from lying, but something else was keeping her from telling the truth. 

Dr. Reynolds looked to Atticus for permission to continue, and he nodded again.

“There is sufficient evidence enough to believe that your captor touched you between your legs in a way that brought injury to you.”

Scout’s face scrunched and she shook her head in denial.

Dr. Reynolds went to speak again but Atticus held up a hand indicating for him to wait. Scout faced Atticus with that wide-eyed look and her chin lowered.

“Scout, why can’t you acknowledge that it happened? You aren’t in trouble, I just would like to know,” said Atticus. Scout hesitated before answering, and Atticus let her take all the time she needed. 

“He said…” Scout took in a shaky breath, glanced at the window, and leaned over to whisper to Atticus, as if the man could be listening at that very moment. “He said I can’t tell anyone.”

“You don’t have to do any of the things that man told you to do. He can’t hurt you anymore. And you didn’t have to tell anyone, baby. We already know.”

At the last bit, Scout flushed pink and looked flustered.

“What? How- how do you know? How much do you know?”

Seeing Scout’s panic, Atticus tried to settle her.

“We don’t know much, honey. We just know that you are hurt. This… this particular kind of harm, it takes a terrible person to put another person through it. It is one of the lowest things a person can do. But it’s common enough that we have a general idea of what you might have endured. And it's nothing to be embarrassed about. We want to help you understand it.”

Scout nodded, still looking apprehensive, but calmer. 

“Like Dr. Reynolds said earlier, some of the things that happened to you might have been confusing. We know that you have been asked a lot of questions today. Do you have any questions that we can answer for you?”

Atticus was trying to appeal to Scout's inquisitive side, the one that constantly tried to understand people and the ways of the world. She never ran out of questions to ask him, often surprising him with her observations, and he always tried to answer her the best he could. He hoped giving her this opportunity would help to give her some control over this situation.

Scout intently studied the floor for a minute, unable to get the words out of her mouth.

“Um... I don’t understand what he did to me. It happened the last night, before... before he let me go. He hurt me with his hands, but there was more. He was on top of me and he- I don’t- I don’t understand it.” Her voice was tiny and breathless, and even though her eyes were cast downwards Atticus could tell that they were filled with fear that she had said something wrong, that she would be in trouble. Her hands had gravitated towards her abdomen while speaking. She opened her mouth to elaborate, only to shudder and close it again, wrapping her arms around herself. 

It was all too much. Atticus stood up from the bed and walked to the window, looking out of it. He took off his glasses, bowed his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose while his other hand rested on his hip.

Atticus wanted to be right by his daughter’s side, but he didn’t want her to see and misinterpret the thundering rage and sorrow on his face as he tried to process what she had practically just confirmed. He knew, they all knew, but it was different to hear her talk about it. The man who kept her as his prisoner had used and violated her in the most despicable way, and here she was. An incredible survivor, a miracle, so smart and strong that she was able to get herself through it, but so young that she lacked the vocabulary to express what happened to her. She was left disheveled, confused, and utterly failed by everyone around her. And now she was probably staring at the back of Atticus’s silhouetted figure, wondering what she did wrong.  

Dr. Reynolds began to speak again. Atticus put his glasses back on and returned to his spot at the foot of the bed. He put his hand out beside him and Scout took it.

The doctor’s explanation was gentle, cool, and professional. Simple anatomical facts. How the parts related to each other. It happened between a man and a woman. It most often occurred between a married couple, but sometimes it did not. It was often done to produce a child. At the absolute horror on Scout’s face, he was quick to clarify that this would not be the case with her. She looked relieved but still clutched Atticus’s hand tightly.

Dr. Reynolds continued to explain that sometimes, a man would take advantage of a woman, or a girl even, and do that to her without her permission. And that is what Scout’s captor did to her. The natural process he described before was sexual reproduction, but what Scout had endured was sexual assault, which was when someone forcibly used the actions of reproduction to bring harm to another. 

Atticus admired how smoothly Dr. Reynolds explained it all. He wondered if he had to give a similar talk to other young children in the past, and the thought disturbed him greatly.

Through all of this, Scout was silent. Her head was turned slightly in the doctor’s direction but her gaze fell somewhere around the foot of the bed. From her unfocused expression Atticus wasn’t sure if she was listening, but he didn’t want to force her to pay attention. It may have just been the haze of the painkillers, or her expression of taking it all in, or her way of blocking it all out completely. Either way, she had asked for the explanation, but was her choice if she wanted to listen or not. He would let her have that. And if she needed him to explain it again later, he would.

When Dr. Reynolds was done, Atticus thought that maybe Scout had been listening after all, because she raised her head, and in addition to looking disturbed by what she just learned, she had a look on her face that he could recognize as saying, “Thats it?”

Scout hesitated before shaking her head when asked if she had any questions so far, so they gave her a minute to process the information. Atticus could tell that something confused or worried her, but she wasn’t asking for clarification on it. Maybe she would confide in him once Dr. Reynolds was gone.

Her expression changed as her brows were furrowed in thought, and she looked to be doubting her own perception of the situation. Atticus recognized the look from when he would point out that some slight towards her from Jem or a classmate wasn’t as high a crime as she thought it to be.

The only problem with Dr. Reynolds’ explanation is that it may have been too cold and detached. Scout looked like she was struggling to find the line between his vague description and the horror of what she went through. Dr. Reynolds didn’t invalidate the gravity of her assault, but his description didn’t give it the weight it was owed either.

Atticus took a deep breath through his nose, prepping himself for the conversation he had been dreading. 

Rape. The word itself was cruel and sharp, and would only further jab at the wounds of his daughter’s memory. His first instinct was to scan through his mental thesaurus, trying to think of a suitable synonym that could lessen the impact. He could continue to say it was a kind of harm, like how he did before. He could call it sexual assault, as Dr. Reynolds did. 

Then he caught himself. But he didn’t want to evade it, make it a form of taboo. That would only muddle her if she ever heard it used again. He didn’t want her to be ashamed.

“I know I always do better when I have the exact word for what it is I’m dealing with, and I think you do too. So if it's alright with you, I am going to tell you what it is, beyond euphemism.” Scout nodded, looking relieved that there was something more to this mental puzzle she was trying to solve. “Scout, the word for what happened to you is rape. The man responsible for this assaulted and raped you. Do you remember that word?”

“Sorta... it had to do with the trial. Ain’t that what they said happened to Mayella?”

“It was. It is another word for sexual assault, what Dr. Reynolds just described for you. I’m afraid that I didn’t explain it very well, I just... I didn’t think I would have to until you were older.”

He saw that Scout’s eyes watered at his confirmation. He could see wheels turning in her head and wondered what she was thinking about. Something about the trial? He recognized this expression too, it was a different kind of sadness, not directed towards herself. Perhaps for Mayella, although it hadn’t been officially proven that Bob Ewell had done anything more than beat her.

“I don’t want to make a fuss, I don’t want a trial. I just… if they find him- if they find the man- will people believe me?”

“Yes. People will believe you, I promise. This isn’t like Tom Robinson’s trial. You have lots of correctly documented, concrete medical evidence on your side. And don’t worry about a trial, you don’t need to worry about that.”

Scout shifted in her seat and winced. “It still hurts. More than anything else. Is it- is it like he stabbed me again? But down there? Why does it hurt so bad?” she trailed off, her voice barely a whisper. It took all of Atticus’s willpower to resist taking off and hunting down the man who hurt his baby girl right then and there. He turned to Dr. Reynolds to answer this.

“It hurts because the man was violent, and you're so young, and small, that serious damage was done; your body isn’t developed for that sort of contact yet.” Dr. Reynolds explained. “You are not of the child-bearing age where sexual reproduction can be carried out properly, and you won’t be for a long while yet. A good amount of the damage was amended at the hospital, but since it is such a delicate and complex area of your body, it will need time to heal on its own, and there may be parts that don't heal perfectly. The man who hurt you broke through the barrier that your body had to protect that area. You are much too young for that to be okay, and at any age it still wouldn’t be okay without your consent.”

“Why did it happen then? What did I do wrong?” Scout’s voice broke on the last syllable and she began to cry. Atticus moved from his spot on the edge of the bed to kneel in front of her. He needed her to see him and understand that what he was going to say was true.

“Nothing, you did nothing wrong. There’s no reason so be ashamed of what happened to you. It wasn’t your fault.”

Scout shook her head and tears streamed down her cheeks. “But I... I went to him near the end... I hugged him, and I let him- I let him hug me, and touch me, and when I convinced him to not kill me I said I’d do anythin' he wanted and I- I-" Scout let out a sob and placed her hands over her eyes. "I touched him. Is that why he did it? He'd ask me to do things and I- I would, but I didn't- I didn't want him to- I can’t remember a lot of it, but he… Oh God, he probably thought I wanted it.“

Atticus’s heart broke for his child further with every new word and confession, and he struggled to find the words that would help her understand. Gently holding both of her hands now, he tried to catch her eye.

“Honey, please listen. You could have hugged him and kissed him, you could have even asked for him to do what he did, and it still wouldn’t have been your fault. It still would not have been fair to you, or legal, for him to do it.“

“But-“

“By my understanding, that man put you in a position where you had no one else, then took advantage of you, both physically and emotionally. That was not okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed, pulling a hand away to wipe her face.

“No no, don’t apologize. What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t feel any guilt for his actions, they were all on him. Nothing you did or didn’t do made you deserve them in any way,” Atticus took a shuddering breath before saying, “I am so sorry for letting this happen to you.”

Before she could respond, Scout groaned and sagged forward until her head met Atticus’s shoulder, and Atticus caught her in his arms. Dr. Reynolds intervened, helping her return to her original laying position and apologizing for letting her stay sitting up on her own too long. He guessed Scout must have been too caught up in her emotions to voice any discomfort until it became too much.

Atticus had never felt so inadequate. He wished his wife was here. His beautiful Jean would know what to say, how to comfort their daughter who had been found but was still so lost. Scout needed a woman’s touch, she needed a mother- not an old, worn down father who didn’t know how to protect his own kids.

Now that Scout's tears were wiped away and she was nestled back in the pillows, it was obvious how tired she was, so the men briefly left the room to let her rest.

From her words earlier it sounded like the first time Scout's captor raped her was the last night before he let her go, but given what she revealed near the end of the conversation, Atticus's mind was thundering at the possibility that the man had been molesting her for much longer than that and she just didn't know it. Was it better that way? Was it better for her to not know?

Outside the door, Dr. Reynolds warned Atticus that he didn’t want to overwhelm Scout, but an internal exam would soon be in order. Atticus walked him out to the front porch to continue talking out of earshot, and the doctor still kept his voice low. 

“As I briefly mentioned after Scout’s initial examination, her abuser’s violence caused genital trauma. Though the bruising, inflammation, and tenderness could not be helped, Dr. Cotter and the surgeons in Mobile attended to the major abrasions and lacerations the best they could. Dr. Cotter mailed me details about the surgery with instructions to examine Scout to make sure she is still healing properly once the initial inflammation is down.” 

The doctor sighed and shifted on his feet, clearly not enjoying being the bearer of so much bad news. “It’s natural for wounds down there to bleed a lot due to the rich blood supply, but we want to make sure it’s not continuing to be excessive. With the lack of nutrition and severe blood loss over the past few months there is a high possibility of Scout being anemic. It shouldn’t be life-threatening by any means, but it’s just something we should be aware of.”

Atticus nodded, and asked, “She said she couldn’t remember a lot of... it. Would that be because of the concussion?”

“Perhaps,” the doctor replied. He told Atticus that memory loss was sometimes a way for the brain to protect survivors from the pain of their trauma, so it would be normal for Scout to have vague memories and to remember more as time passed. 

“And for some of the things that she endured, because she lacks a clear memory, she’ll just have to rely on a gut feeling that she knows something happened to her that wasn’t okay,” Dr. Reynolds said as Atticus walked him to his car. “So just be patient if certain things don’t add up. It’s like the memory is shattered glass, and over time, a few little pieces of that glass come back together, but it isn’t a whole and complete memory,”

Atticus pondered this, unable to decide if he thought this memory loss was a good thing or a bad thing. He also doubted if having Dr. Reynolds give the anatomical explanation of the assault was the right thing to do. Even if it wasn’t, there wasn’t anything he could do to take it back. Now Scout knew.

They had reached Dr. Reynolds’ car, and Atticus had one last thing to ask him as he put his medical bag in the passenger seat.

“Do you think... did I say the right things? I’m afraid that I went too far, and I just upset her further.”

It was unusual for the typically well-spoken and steady lawyer so unsure of himself. Dr. Reynolds clasped a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“You said all the right things. But even if you didn’t, that would be alright. We can’t have all the answers, and if you doubt yourself around every corner, that’s going to do no one any good. No matter what you say, or how you say it, this is still going to be a long road for her. So if she gets upset, don’t take it personally. All that matters is that she knows that you are on her side, and that you believe her.” 

Atticus nodded, and Dr. Reynolds could see his age showing through more than ever. They shook hands before parting again, and Atticus thanked him thoroughly and sincerely.

“Next time I visit I insist that I’ll be checking up on you too, Mr.Finch.”

Atticus lowered his head in surrender and gave him a wry smile. On his way back inside he picked up two new cards that had been left on the porch. When he returned to Scout’s room she was dozing despite the sun streaming through her window. Seeing her now, she looked so very much at peace, despite the cuts and bruises. The blankets tucked protectively around her body, her little chest rose and fell at a steady slow pace, and her hair splayed out over the pillow.

Though thin and choppy in places, Scouts hair now looked soft and clean, since Calpurnia had removed all traces of grime and grease it had gathered over the past couple of months. Even so, Scout hadn’t let it grow out this long in a long time, preferring it short in addition to her tomboyish clothes.

As far as he knew, the town rumor mill just believed that she had been beaten, fueled by the descriptions from the members of the search party who had joined Mr. Tate on his way back and saw Scout’s bruised face. Whatever whispers circulating about the possibility of her being molested were just assumed and baseless, despite being true. Atticus guessed that there would have been more talk on that matter if Scout had been more of a... “girly-girl”, despite the turning in his stomach when he thought about it in that way. 

He shook his head clear and placed the two cards from the porch by the rest that had been dropped off already. He looked fondly at a quaint bundle of wildflowers that Calpurnia had said was brought over by the Cunninghams. One of the bigger vases of flowers had a brief written note, and Atticus saw that it was from one of his detractors in town. Perhaps they intended for it to double as an apology for being so dismissive of his insistence that Scout was still out there. Atticus found no sense of victory in the fact that he had been right. If he was being honest with himself, he was as surprised as everyone else. Thankful, so incredibly thankful, but still surprised nonetheless. Her return was a miracle.

As he sat down in the chair by the bed, Atticus planned out the statement he would release regarding Scout’s ordeal and recovery. Finding the balance between maintaining Scout’s privacy and giving enough information to keep the rumor mill from spiraling out of control was going to be difficult. He would ask for her council when she awoke.

Chapter Text

Scout awoke in the early afternoon and gave Atticus a sleepy smile that warmed his heart. His questions about the statement could wait. “Was that a nice nap, sweetheart?” A long yawn was her initial response and she slowly nodded before her mouth closed with a hum. She was unpleasantly brought back to reality when she tried to sit up and stretch, groaning as the movement strained her injuries. Her eyes blinked open wider and she was looking around, trying to get her bearings when Jem suddenly burst through the door, home from school.

"Scout! You're awake!" Jem ran over and embraced Scout in a hug. She whimpered fearfully, moving to the side slightly. Jem didn't seem to notice her flinch, and her breathing picked up as he was rambling about how he was so worried about her, never releasing her from the hug. She looked at Atticus desperately, her eyes filling with tears, and he immediately moved forward to help.

"Jem, let go of her… Jem now!" Atticus told him, resorting to pulling him away from her when he didn’t let go on his own. Jem turned to Atticus with a look of confusion and hurt while Scout stared down at her lap, trying to calm herself down. “What's wrong? I was just givin’ her a hug!"

"Calm down, son. You did nothing wrong, she is just not ready for that kind of physical contact yet, okay?"

Jem looked back at Scout and was stricken to see her growing distress. “Scout, I didn’t- I’m so sorry,” he said, wanting to reach for her again to comfort her but knowing that wasn’t the right thing to do. Calpurnia called his name from the kitchen and he retreated from the room, stopping at the doorway to look back at his sister and apologize once more before scurrying off. 

Scout was struggling to breathe, ringing her hands together, trying to calm herself down as tears started going down her face. Atticus touched her shoulder and she looked up with a gasp, flinching away.

"Sweetie, it’s okay. You are safe, no one is going to hurt you." She nodded, looking down again and trying to calm her rapid breathing. “Take a deep breath, slow, slow. Like this, easy, now.” Atticus demonstrated breathing at a slow pace, careful to keep his distance. He kept on taking deep breaths in and out until Scout tried to match his pace, hitching periodically but staying in time for the most part. “Good, you’ve got it. Keep on going, nice and slow.”

After a few minutes her breathing normalized and she leaned back, rubbing her nose and eyes. She looked annoyed with herself.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ve been ‘talkin’ about it’ all morning,” She rasped, and her attempt at spite was dampened by the exhaustion in her eyes. She stiffened as she realized that her retort was rude and she quickly backtracked. “I’m sorry. It’s just- I didn’t mean to sound-”

“It’s been a long day, Scout. Don’t worry about it. Just know that I’m here if you need anything, or if you ever want to talk about how you’re feeling.”

Scout relaxed a bit, and Atticus thought about how tense she had gotten, both right then and earlier that morning when she threw up. Did she think that I was going to be mad at her? 

“Can I... have some water please?”

Atticus fetched a cup of water, handed it to Scout, and caught it before it fell from her shaky grip. 

“S-sorry Atticus, I-“

“No, no, that was foolish of me. Here,” he said, holding it up to Scout’s lips for her. The water felt good on her parched throat- it had felt like cotton. She sighed, laying back down again.

"Thank you,” she started when she felt a twinge in her back. “God, I'm so pathetic! I can't even hold a darn cup by myself!”

“Honey, you aren’t pathetic in any sense of the word. You’re just healing, and it’s not going to be a very straightforward process. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You were doing fine with your silverware earlier, remember? Just got a little startled, that’s all.”

Scout inspected her shaking hands, using one to hold the other still temporarily before letting go. It continued to shake.

“What the hell is wrong with me? It was just Jem, I’m not scared of Jem.”

“Don’t say hell, Scout. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your mind just may be having trouble adjusting to the fact that you are safe now, after being in captivity for so long. You know that we wouldn’t hurt you, but you have been taught to expect pain when somebody comes close, so your body and mind instinctually react in a negative way. I know you as Scout aren’t scared of Jem, but your mind as a person still on the defensive may still register him as a threat. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so. I don’t react that way with you, though.”

“Are you sure? I thought I spooked you a bit back there when I touched your shoulder.”

“Oh, I just didn’t know it was you then.”

“Who did you think it was?”

“Well... him, obviously. I felt like he was right there.” Scout’s tone switched from one of annoyance at what she thought was a silly question to one of self-consciousness. “I know it’s stupid, it’s not like he could just appear here. But... he’s still out there, you know? It ain’t that unlikely that he'd... I don't know.”

Scout trailed off, and Atticus gently stopped her as she started to itch the gauze on her forearm. Before he could reassure her that she was safe and he wouldn’t let the man hurt her, she spoke up again.

“I want to see Jem.”

“Now? Are you sure?”

“Yes, please. I haven’t been able to see him yet, not really. I need to know that he is okay. And I don’t want him to think he did somethin’ wrong.”

“It’s completely up to you, but I’m not sure if that’s the best idea. It’s not your responsibility to make him feel better about the situation, I can take care of that. Do you want to wait a little bit before seeing him again?”

“I want to see him now, please. I miss him.”

Atticus nodded. “Alright. I do need to talk with him first, though. Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?”

Scouts eyes went wide at the suggestion.

“Um... do you think Cal would mind stayin’ with me?”

“Not at all, honey. I’ll send her over.”

•••

While Calpurnia kept Scout’s company, Atticus found Jem sitting alone at the kitchen table. He looked like a kicked puppy.

“Scout wants to see you.”

Jem perked up, then deflated and shook his head. 

“I can’t go back in there. I’m just gonna scare her again.”

“I don’t think you will. She misses you, don’t you want to at least say hello?”

“I do, but I can’t. Didn’t you see how much I upset her? I just ran in there like a complete idiot- I don’t even know what I did! How do you know I won’t do it again?”

Atticus pulled out a chair at the table for himself and sat across from Jem as he spoke.

“You were just happy to see her awake and got a little carried away. That’s okay. Even if you do accidentally scare her again, it’s forgivable as long as you don’t mean to. And I trust you enough to know that you wouldn’t do that on purpose. I scared her earlier too, and I have to forgive myself for it. I reckon her emotions are going to be unpredictable for a while, so you can’t take them personally, or let them bring you down. Right now Scout is in there worried about how you are feeling, because she doesn’t want you to think you did anything wrong. We have to stay strong for her, alright?” 

Jem nodded and sat up a little straighter. Atticus felt pride swell in his chest at his son’s determination, and went on to advise him further.

“When you see Scout, try not to be too sudden in your movements. I would just give her physical space for a while. I’m not sure if it’s being touched or closeness in general that she is wary of, or if certain gestures, like hugs, are upsetting, but either way I just want to be careful. She thought that what she endured in the end was her fault partly because she hugged her captor, so she may associate that gesture with her trauma.”

Jem paled at this. He placed his good elbow on the table and dug his palm into one of his eye-sockets.

“God, I’m so stupid.”

“No, you aren’t. You just didn’t know. And there’s no way you possibly could have, the doctor and I only found out that information earlier today while you were at school. There’s even a chance that on a different day it wouldn’t have bothered her at all. She had just woken up from a nap so things were a bit hazy and she might have forgotten where she was. It was just unlucky timing.”

Jem nodded, processing the information but not quite letting go of his anger at himself. As if reading his mind, in that way he always did, Atticus said,

“She forgives you, and I forgive you. You just have to forgive yourself.”

•••

Jem was walking on eggshells as he came in, but he relaxed a little when Scout looked relieved to see him. He had a better understanding of her boundaries now but was overly cautious in his efforts not to break them. Scout, on the other hand, thought he was being ridiculous as he stood halfway across the room, and told him to sit in the armchair. He started to apologize about their initial reunion, only for her to apologize first about “freaking out on him.”

Before Jem could reply, Scout asked,

“Did you really punch Francis or is Atticus pulling my leg?” 

Jem’s face told her all she needed to know.

“Ha! Why’d you do it? I’m mean, it’s Francis, so I’m sure he deserved it-”

“He sure did.” Jem’s expression darkened. “I’m pretty sure I broke his nose. Would’ve knocked out some teeth too if he hadn’t been hollerin’ so much.”

“Oh? What did he do?” Scout looked both parts curious and wary of Jem’s answer, so Jem tried to relax his face and push away the memory of Francis’s words that angered him so. Scout didn’t need to know the details.

“He... just talked, I guess. He’s managed to get worse in a year, if you can believe it.”

“I sure can,” Scout quipped. Jem could tell she knew he wasn’t telling the whole story, but she uncharacteristically let it be.

“‘Has a way with words, that one...”

The sibling’s shared hatred towards their cousin flowed naturally into easy conversation. Scout’s raspy voice made Jem worry that talking hurt her throat, but she insisted that she was fine. While Atticus held his tongue about a lot of things, Scout found that Jem was comparatively open about how things had been going at home. He helped her catch up on everything she missed, which apparently wasn’t much. 

Jem told her about how people had been awfully nice to him lately, and how it was driving him nuts. He told her about how Boo Radley, or Arthur Radley, as he now called him, was the one to carry him out of the woods. Jem wasn’t able to give Scout any description of Boo’s appearance since he was out cold until the man left, but she still found it fascinating. She wished that their childhood phantom-turned-hero could have carried her to safety as well.

Remembering what Mayella had told her way back at the beginning of her imprisonment, Scout asked about Jem's arm that had been broken, and asked which one it was, since both looked normal to her. With a flash of confusion she realized that nobody in household had told her about his injury, but Jem didn't know that. He proudly informed her that it was his left arm but that it healed up and as good as new... mostly. After moving it around a bit to prove his point, he stood up and showed her that it was somewhat shorter than his right, and that when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. Scout felt a fresh rush of anger that Mr. Ewell had maimed her brother in this way, but it didn't seem to bother him as long as he could still play football, and she admired that. She decided that she would try to avoid wallowing in self-pity about her own injuries.

She wondered when her family had been planning on telling her about his arm, if they were keeping it from her on purpose, or if it had just slipped their minds.

The conversation eventually led to Jem talking about the measures that the community went through to try to find Scout. He didn't feel like they put nearly enough effort in, and he expressed his frustration on that front. On the other hand, Scout was just relieved to hear that they had tried. From what Mr. Ewell had told her, it sounded like there had been barely any efforts to find her at all. She felt stupid for believing him. 

However, it seemed like Mr. Ewell actually had been telling the truth in that Jem wasn't being protected at all. Jem told her that Atticus had stopped driving him to school a few weeks before because they'd made an agreement that he'd be able to walk himself once his arm had healed completely. So even now, even today, he had walked to and from school alone. Scout asked why he wouldn't want to be driven, and Jem's only defense was that he was embarrassed by the precaution when the school was so close by and the other kids had to walk ten times as far. He admitted that he knew it made Atticus nervous. The combined forces of the self-control that had been recently beaten into her and her current reluctance to get into an argument both held Scout's tongue on her opinion that Jem was being a reckless idiot. She would have to talk to Atticus about this.

It was great to have each other to talk to again, and Jem could tell that Scout was trying to be her usual peppy self, but a few new behaviors made her ordeal over the past few months impossible to forget. She was jumpy and seemed unable to maintain eye contact with Jem for more than a couple of seconds. And though he tried not to, Jem found his eyes wandering across her thin face, stuck on the bruises and cuts marring it. She caught him staring.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“What? No, I mean, it’s not bad.”

Scout made her signature “I don’t believe you” face, and Jem conceded.

“It’s... sorta bad. The one on your cheek is pretty cool though. Makes you look brave, or like a pirate or soldier.”

The cut he was referring to was given to her the night Mr. Ewell first coerced her into complacency by threatening to hurt Jem. 

There was nothing brave about it, Scout thought. I didn’t even put up a fight.

But then she remembered that actually, right before she got that cut was one of the last times she had put up a fight. It had been an idiotic plan, but she missed that side of her- impulsive and unwilling to go down without getting a few punches in. For a second, for one, brilliant second, they were fighting as equals.

“Yeah, I got him pretty good then. I hid against the wall and waited until he came down and smashed a bottle against his head. I thought it would knock him out but it just made him mad. Managed to cut up his hand a bit with the broken bottle and landed one on his mouth before he got the edge on me. It obviously didn’t go my way in the end, but it was worth a try.”

As she finished speaking, she was worried that her brother would think her actions were disturbing and animalistic. But Jem just looked proud, and that made her feel good. She wished she could tell more stories of her fighting back, but there weren’t many to tell that weren’t just pathetic.

“How’d you get that one?” Jem pointed to his own nose, and Scout looked confused.

“Huh?”

“The scratch on your nose.” Scout’s hand flew up to feel the small cut that slanted across the bridge of her nose. She let out a humorless laugh and gave a half-hearted shrug. 

“I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

“Dang. Is there anywhere he didn’t hurt you?”

Jem didn’t mean to say that last thought out loud, and he immediately wished he could take it back when Scout tilted her head and looked contemplative, seriously considering the question. 

“You don’t have to answer that-“

“No, no, it’s fine. Just give me a second.”

Scout thought for a moment, overly aware of the aches and pains she felt all over her person. She was about to say “my ears” until she remembered being pulled across the room by an ear instead of her hair at some point, and how in that moment she had thought that Mr. Ewell was going to pull it off completely. Then she remembered the feel of Mr. Ewell’s prickly stubble against it. The distress she felt when she thought about that was a whole different kind of hurt, but a hurt nonetheless.

She shrugged off the memory.

“He didn’t scratch my eyes, thank God.” Jem nodded in agreement while Scout shuddered, wondering what she would have done if Mr. Ewell had blinded her. Jem wasn't going to be the one to tell her that it looked like her eyes were hurt, bloodshot with a portion of the left white turned red. 

The conversation switched to a more lighthearted topic until Atticus came in and asked Scout what she’d be comfortable with him including in his statement. Jem took his leave. 

Scout didn’t want any details about what she went through released into the public eye, so Atticus had to explain to her that if they didn’t give the town something they would just jump to worse conclusions. She was going to be absent from school for a while (Scout’s smile at this was the highlight of Atticus’s day) so everyone would already know that she was recovering from injuries of some sort. 

Atticus and Scout ended up compromising with a simple statement that recounted the events of her capture and release. They also shared that her captor initially stabbed her, beat her periodically, and broke her leg. Though it was a point of contention, they eventually agreed to reveal that Scout received very little food. Anyone who saw her would be able to tell, and Atticus wasn’t going to let her be a complete recluse while she regained her strength. It was then Scout who suggested they include her concussion with the other injuries.

“That way they can’t be mad if I do somethin’ clumsy or stupid.”

 And they left it at that.The public didn’t need to know the details.

Even Atticus couldn’t glean more information from Scout aside from what Dr. Reynolds’s examinations gathered. Over the next few days when he tried to ask her, she would just say that she didn’t want to “go over it all again.” He didn’t want to pry, so he was left to piece together a rough outline of what happened down there simply based on the answers she gave Dr. Reynolds and Mr. Tate, her injuries, and the degree to which they had healed by now. It was hard for Atticus to being in the dark about so much of what Scout had endured, but he knew it was even harder for her to talk about it. He also knew that it wasn't good for her to be bottling everything up inside, but perhaps she needed time to process it on her own. He hoped she would confide in him when she was ready.

The next couple of weeks passed in a blur.

•••

When Scout was still sedated and recovering from surgery at the hospital in Mobile, Calpurnia had eventually forced Atticus to leave his daughter's side to phone his family and let them know, from his own mouth, what had happened. It wasn’t fair to them to learn of her rescue through gossip or a newspaper. Uncle Jack was both parts furious and relieved as he pried details from his brother pertaining to Scout’s injuries and the care she was receiving for them, and he promised that he would visit soon. He asked Atticus, if Uncle Jack himself wasn't present once they finally caught the man responsible, if he could kindly take a shotgun and send a bullet through the bastard's genitals. 

Jem had a better understanding of Scout’s boundaries now, and if she was up for it he would join her in her room to talk or play games with her. Scout spent a lot of time sleeping as her body sapped her energy in its effort to heal. Oftentimes when she was awake, her mind wandered somewhere unpleasant, but Atticus tried to bring her back whenever possible. They read together every night like they always had, and it was a nice return to normalcy. Atticus could tell that Scout was trying really hard to act like everything was fine, but a few new behaviors she had picked up reminded him that that wasn’t the case. 

Atticus always gently stopped Scout when she went to bite her nails, which had already been bitten past the quick. She would bite the skin around the nails too, butchering her cuticles, and it looked painful. Sometimes her fingers would bump against something and she would wince and hiss as the sore parts smarted in retaliation. Even though Scout knew it did no good and even hurt her, she said she couldn’t stop herself, and Atticus's continued attempts to try to stop her habit were often met with Scout's frustration.

She flinched away at fast movements, or when people spoke loudly or abruptly. Direct eye contact made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she would let her overgrown bangs fall in front of her eyes, while other times she would obsessively brush them away, not wanting any barrier in her view of the windows and doors. One day Calpurnia offered to give her a haircut, and though Scouts face instinctually lit up at the proposition, it fell as another thought came to her and caused her to decline the offer.

She apologized about everything now, from not being able to eat much to asking for help to go to the bathroom. And when she was told she didn’t have to say sorry, she’d say sorry for saying sorry too many times. 

She wouldn’t ask for anything or complain about things hurting other than with the involuntary noises she couldn’t contain, and it worried Atticus. Even with the painkillers that they had received from Doctor Reynolds, he knew that she was in a lot of pain. 

•••

The pelvic examination was as overwhelming for Scout as expected, but it was necessary, since she was still bleeding more than anticipated. From the moment Dr. Reynolds started to carefully explain what was about to happen, she protested with an escalating stream of “No, no, no”s and pushed everyone away until Calpurnia was called in to help. 

The woman’s presence calmed her down until the hem of her nightgown was lifted, and the screaming started again. All attempted reassurances went unheeded. Cal tried to gently hold Scout’s arms as she twisted and turned, only pausing in her fussing with a pained gasp as something surely pulled. All the adults paused at this but it only roused Scout further. 

At this point Dr. Reynolds was afraid of Scout accidentally harming herself further, so he obtained Atticus’s permission to sedate her again. She was stuck in her mind, fighting for her life like she had done in the bathtub days before, all the way until the sedative kicked in. "Don't touch me," she pleaded, "Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me…" Her mantra continued, growing weaker by the second and Atticus knelt there, helpless. Again.

She ended up needing a number of stitches, which Dr. Reynolds took care of while she was still under.

Atticus knew he needed to go back to work, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his children, not again. Not only did he want to take care of Scout, but Jem needed his guidance on how to handle the situation, too. Jem’s lack of grace in his initial reunion with Scout and her resulting panic really shook the boy up. 

Scout received a letter from Dill. From his brief communication with Dill’s mother while Scout was away, Atticus knew that Dill had been distraught over Scout’s disappearance. Now, Atticus didn’t know what Dill’s letter included, but Scout’s face switched back and forth between a troubled expression and a small smile as she read it. She wanted to write one back immediately, but her hands were shaking too much. Atticus offered to be her scribe, but she became embarrassed and decided to push it off until she could write it herself.

I remembered Dill climbing into my bed one night when he was staying over. It felt like a lifetime ago. We talked about how we thought babies were made. Something about cabbages, and an island. It sounded magical.

We were so wrong.

I recalled that we were going to be married, that he was my fiancé. He still was, I guess. Even though he had forgotten about this arrangement and had shut me out to spend time with Jem. He said he loved me and I think I had loved him, or at least I thought I did.

I couldn’t imagine letting him, or anyone into my bed now. It was supposed to happen in a bed. And especially since I was Dill’s fiancée, he might think that it was his right to-

No, God, no. Dill would never. How could I even think that?

That night was completely innocent. I wish I could go back to the way things were then, when I could trust him so much.

But Dill did kiss me. Not that night, but he did. And Mr. Ewell had kissed me, before he… I hated thinking about it. 

Someday Dill might want that from me. It could never happen. Even kisses, however innocent they were, would only make me think of the man who hurt me. 

It was cruel irony that I was only now sure that I loved Dill. I was now sure because I could feel my heart breaking as I realized that I couldn’t love him anymore. I couldn’t imagine ever being close to him again. 

Atticus noticed that Scout was afraid of most people, but she also didn’t want to be alone for too long. The isolation she endured must have been maddening. Townsfolk and neighbors alike stopped by to visit, but Atticus turned them away, at her request. She didn’t want them to see her in her current state.

There were a few exceptions, though. Miss Maudie was allowed to visit and Atticus was happy to see how comfortable Scout was in her presence. The Finches trusted the woman to not gossip about Scout’s state to anyone, and it gradually drove Stephanie Crawford up the wall to watch Miss Maudie repeatedly enter and exit the Finch residence without sharing any information with her. 

Miss Maudie sewed a quilt with beautiful white, red, and green designs for Scout, calling it a late Christmas present, and the little girl treasured it. She baked a Lane cake just for Scout which she nibbled at happily, and Scout didn’t seem to be bothered when Miss Maudie’s voice became a bit boisterous in volume. Atticus surmised that his daughter’s apprehension was reserved for men. Even the sheriff, who had been the one to initially rescue her, was regarded with weariness when he came to report his findings (or lack there of) to Atticus, or to ask Scout more questions.

Scout was acutely aware of the sun’s rise and fall in the sky, the constant changing of the angles and shades of light in her room. After disappearing in the void in darkness that was the basement, the passage of time was now back to its linear path. When Scout found herself lamenting how slowly the time seemed to pass by, she reminded herself to be grateful that she could tell it was passing by at all.

To keep Scout’s wounds from getting infected, Cal washed her often. Her muffled cries from the bathroom became harder and harder for Atticus to listen to as she was gradually weaned off of the painkillers. When the dosage was higher, a subtle haze went through everything, softening the pains of both the day and night by causing a deep, dreamless sleep.

When the dosage was lowered, the nightmares came.

Chapter Text

I remembered how the mirror had been shattered. 

I was washing my hair in the sink when Mr. Ewell opened the door to the basement. I frantically turned off the water and obediently ran to the opposite wall where I was supposed to wait for him to enter. He stumbled down the stairs and blinked a few times in the darkness before coming closer. Definitely drunk. I shivered as droplets of water dripped onto my shoulders and sleeveless shirt, and I quickly threw my flannel back on, having planned to use it in the place of a towel.

“Wha’s this?” He drawled. He took a lock of my wet hair between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the strands of her hair together to create friction, and squeezing a bit of water out.

“I was washin’ my hair, sir.”

Mr. Ewell looked outraged. What did I do wrong? Was there something wrong with washing myself? He hadn’t said anything about that, neither for nor against it. I had washed myself this way plenty of times before, he just had never come in while I was doing it. I would have guessed he’d be thankful to not have to deal with the stink of me on top of everything else.

Without a word he fisted my hair and pulled me through the bathroom doorway. In my rush I hadn’t turned the faucet completely off and it was still running with a slow, “drip…drip drip…drip…drip drip…” He turned the faucet all the way on and splashed the water in my face repeatedly, his slurred speech newly energized. “You like that? You like that, huh?”

It wasn’t too hard to breathe or anything, it was just cold. I wished he would loosen his grip on my hair.

I was glad that there wasn’t a stopper in the sink, because he would have a harder time if he wanted to drown me in it. Then again, there was always the toilet… I hoped he couldn’t read my mind.

When he got bored of splashing me Mr. Ewell noticed the cleaned mirror and let out a bark of a laugh.

“So you’re a vain lil’ bitch too, hm? Can’t say I’m surprised...”

He lifted me up so that I was kneeling on the sink, forcing me to face the mirror. I had been avoiding looking at myself in it since I first cleaned it.

“You wanna look all spick an’ span? You wanna look pretty, lil’ girl? Well I’ll tell you somethin’. Wastin’ my water ain’t gonna change that ugly lil’ face of yours.”

He turned me back around, picked up my forehead in one large palm, and slammed the back of my head into the mirror, instantly shattering it. 

This was when it was supposed to fade to black. Instead, the memory continued. I felt the metal faucet hit the small of my back, something I hadn’t noticed before.

“No matter how many times you act like a dog, you’re still a hoity-toity Finch underneath.”

And then he grabbed me by the waist and pulled me away from the sink. I couldn’t move or struggle, simply hanging limp like a doll. My body was unconscious but I could still see. Terror gripped my heart.

He threw me back and let me smash head-first into the floor below. I let out a weak gurgle before finally going unconscious, left with the image of Mr. Ewell staring down at my body.

Then it became a different night. I could move and was running and made it up a few of the stairs. Then Mr. Ewell called me a filthy whorehouse, throwing me to the floor again, and I remembered what was about to happen. I started to just beg instead of fighting, since fighting didn’t work last time. Maybe he would listen this time, if I made it clear I didn’t want it.

“No! No, no, no! Please! I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”

He didn’t listen.

Atticus spent a couple of minutes simply studying Scouts's face. Her skin was a ghostly white and stood out against the natural sprinkling of freckles she had gathered from spending her summer days playing in the sun. Despite Atticus’s protests, Scout had kept on scratching off the scabs over some of her cuts, but they eventually managed to heal. The harshest bruises around her wrists and neck were still quite dark, but the bruises by her eye and cheek had turned from purple to a greenish hue, and her face was regaining a bit of its softness back. In sleep her eyebrows were knitted together and behind her eyelids he could see her eyes moving around quickly. She must be dreaming, Atticus thought.

The past three weeks hadn’t been easy for her, by any means, but Atticus was still blown away by her determination to recover. She was certainly still a fighter, even if it was in a different sense than before.

Atticus fell asleep at one point but was woken suddenly by his daughter's small cry. The room was dark as the lamps had burnt out but Atticus’s tired eyes could see her face illuminated by a small sliver of moonlight shining through the curtains. 

“No, no…” Scout was whimpering and muttering under her breath, her face was scrunched up as if in pain and her head was thrashing from one side to the other.

"I’m sorry, please stop, PLEASE!" Scout was yelling now, so Atticus (now very awake) acted quickly and placed a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her.

"Scout, sweetie, wake up. It's just a bad dream."

The frail girl's eyes shot open and she struggled against the covers that were tightly tucked around her. Once she escaped she instantly backed away from Atticus, crushing her body into the headboard behind her. Her shaking hands were flattened against the wall and her chest heaved with her loud, panicked breathing. Pure fear was in her blue eyes.

“Why is it so dark? I-I thought I got out… M’ back, I don't wanna be back…” Scout’s voice was barely audible even in the silence of the room.

Atticus realized that the darkness of the room was scaring her, so he leaped up, opened the curtains, and relit the lamps. While he did so he made a mental note to always keep the room illuminated.

Kneeling back at the bedside, he leaned over and lifted his hand to brush a stray lock of hair from her shining forehead in a hopefully soothing way, but she flinched away from him. He felt a pang in his chest.

"Hey it's okay, it's only me. I'm not going to hurt you." Atticus chose his words delicately. He backed away from her, understanding that space was what she needed most right now.

Scout blinked several times and looked around, as if seeing the room for the first time. She then pushed herself away from the wall, and the pain throbbing through her body reminded her of how her nightmare brought her back to a dark basement and a wicked man... 

…NO. You are home, safe and sound. You ain't ever gonna ever go back to that place. Jem wouldn't be acting like this, now you are just being a girl. A pathetic, dirty, stupid, scared chicken of a girl…

"I… I'm sorry Atticus,” She stuttered, “I thought you were...I thought you were someone else. Did I wake you?" She quickly changed the subject, hoping Atticus hadn't noticed her almost mentioning the name of her captor.

“Yes, but it’s alright. It sounded like you were having a pretty bad dream. Do you want to talk about it?”’

Scout shook her head, avoiding his eyes.

“That’s alright. I do know a thing or two about bad dreams, though. They’re nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve been dealing with quite a lot of them myself, lately.”

Scout’s head perked up and her brow knitted in concern. “You have?”

Atticus nodded his head in affirmation. Scout tried not to look so surprised. She never imagined her stoic father to be the type to have nightmares.

“What do you dream about? Do you want to talk about it?” Scout asked, turning the tables. Atticus didn’t really want to, but perhaps if he talked about his, Scout would be more open about her own troubles.

“Well... even before Halloween I would sometimes have nightmares about losing you or Jem. When you were taken they became much more prominent. I expected them to stop once you came home, but they still happen now and then. Certainly not as bad as before, though.”

“How come I don’t notice when you have yours?”

“I reckon I don’t cry out or get very loud. And even if I do, I’ve only been falling asleep after you’ve drifted off already. You’ve always slept like a rock, even before your medicine lately, so I don't think I would wake you.”

Scout nodded, considering this.

“How do you, um, deal with it? Make them go away?”

“I don’t think you can make them go away completely. Talking about it helps, though, and knowing that the dreams aren’t real.”

“It was real, though. It did happen. I just forgot about parts of it.” Scout held her head in her hands, as if trying to will the memories away. “I just... I wish I could forget it again.”

“I know, honey, I know. That is completely understandable. I wish I could wipe it all away for you.”

Scout let one of her hands drop from her head to trace the patterns on Miss Maudie’s quilt.

“I’m sorry you had more nightmares ‘cause of me.”

“No, Scout,” Atticus gently reached out to take her hands, giving her plenty of freedom to pull away if she wanted. “Please don’t apologize for what happened to you anymore. It wasn’t your fault, I promise.”

Scout’s hands felt so small within Atticus’s and she said nothing, simply looking at the spot where they joined together. Atticus gave her hands a small squeeze and said,

“Let’s try to get you back to sleep, hm?” Scout nodded, looking a bit apprehensive but letting him tuck her back in anyways.

•••

Scout didn’t have anymore trouble that night, but her bad dreams soon became nightly occurrences. Keeping the lamps in her room on at all times helped her come back to reality faster when she awoke, but they didn’t save her from the horrors of sleep.

Sometimes, the entire household was awoken by screams. They varied every time they occurred, screams for help, screams for mercy, screams for Cal and her brother and father and most upsettingly, her late mother. Sometimes they were just endless, wordless screams of pain. 

It was also unpredictable how Scout would respond when Atticus shook her awake. Sometimes she'd calm down quickly, teary but grateful to be free from the confines of her mind. Other times she would hyperventilate, sometimes scaring Atticus with how long it took her to breathe properly as he guided her.

The worst were the rare instances when she wouldn't leave her mind at all, eyes open but unseeing as she either cowered or fought. She would kick and thrash about. She would scratch around her neck, digging her nails into her skin, trying to get purchase under an invisible force that wasn’t there. Atticus didn't mind taking a few punches; the most difficult thing was protecting her from herself, and figuring out how to restrict her movement without making her more afraid. 

When Scout's nightmares first started and woke Jem, he would get out of bed and stand nearby while Atticus helped her. But Atticus never needed his assistance, asking him to stay back when she fought, and Jem's presence only seemed to make Scout more embarrassed when she came to. Eventually Jem resigned himself to staying in bed, hearing the muffled sounds of Atticus's words and Scout's hiccuping distress through the door that connected their rooms. It seemed like she did let herself cry louder when he wasn't right there. 

The hardest part about it for her family was that she refused to describe what she saw, so they didn’t know how to properly help her or comfort her beyond generic support. They wished they could guarantee that she would never see the man who hurt her again, but they were no closer to finding out his identity than they were upon her first arrival. It left a terrible sense of unknown in the air.

Scout continued trying to be chipper during the day, but the lack of peaceful sleep was clearly weighing on her. As her wounds healed, her dark circles grew more prominent, and she couldn’t conceal the haunted look in her eyes.

Every sound in the night I heard from my bedroom was magnified three-fold; every scratch of feet on gravel was Bob Ewell seeking revenge, every passing man laughing in the night was him loose and after us; insects splashing against the screen were his fingers picking the wire to pieces; the chinaberry trees were malignant, hovering, alive.

He was always watching, always making sure I was telling no one that he was the man they were searching for. I would see his face in my windows at night, in the shadowy corners of my room, above me on my bed when I awoke. I’d blink, and he’d be gone.

I knew he wasn’t really there, but the most terrifying thing of all was the knowledge that he could be. 

And while the weary waking hours were exhausting, sleep was no escape for me.

I had nightmares a few times before, but never like this. My dreams were warped, sickening things, ripping real memories apart and sewing them back together in a twisted, disorienting mess. 

One night I dreamt that Dill kissed me gently then turned into Mr. Ewell, disgusting and slobbery and suffocating. It was such a freaky, awful thing that when Atticus tried to wake me up I panicked and hit him, thinking for a moment that he was going to change into Mr. Ewell as well. I hated how Mr. Ewell had managed to take something as innocent as Dill’s affection for me and turned it into something that made my stomach turn.

I hadn’t realized how lucky I was for Mr. Ewell to be the only person in my dreams when I was in the basement. Now, Atticus would come down to rescue me and get his head smashed in. Calpurnia would get strung up and strangled. In some dreams, they would hurt me too. Or they would just stand by and laugh, watching, ignoring my pleas for help as I was beaten.

Mr. Ewell grew to twice his height and broke my spine with the squeeze of his fist. I became a disembodied head waiting for Atticus on the front porch. I was kept like a dog on a chain in the junkyard, digging for scraps to eat. Mr. Ewell pinned me to the wall, and before I could catch my breath he stabbed me with the switchblade knife clean through my stomach, again and again and again and again...

All I saw was him. I would feel the stone floor scraping against my back, and the stubble of his chin against my neck. I would hear his deep breaths, and smell his ever lingering stench of stale whiskey and something rotting. I would feel him enter me.

I always woke up screaming from those dreams, and I wondered if the neighbors could hear. I already felt terrible for disturbing my family. They were being so endlessly patient with me. If I woke them up they didn't say a word about it the next day. They kept the lights on for me. Atticus slept in the armchair next to my bed every night, ready to help me and calm me down whenever my cries woke him. It couldn't be good for him.

So in the rare occurrences when I sat up gasping from a nightmare and he remained asleep, I did my best to cry quietly and deal with it on my own, even if it took me longer than it would've with his help. I refused to wake him if I could help it.

I was healing, I knew I was, but every time my stupid mind took me back to the basement I felt like I was backtracking. 

Whenever I began to feel safe I remembered that Mr. Ewell could come back whenever he wanted. He was still out there. He could do it again, if he really wanted to. 

At the moment we were at an odd sort of stalemate, and I wondered which one of us would make the first move. I sure didn’t plan to antagonize him anytime soon. If he continued to leave me and my family alone, maybe I could leave it in the past and simply forget any of this ever happened.

•••

I came to resent Mr. Tate and his endless questions. I had to be vigilant to keep my answers consistent, to make sure that my lies lined up. A couple of other sheriffs and policemen from surrounding areas began coming to question me as well, and they all put me on edge. I was moved to the sofa in the living room whenever they came. I felt vulnerable in my nightgowns with Miss Maudie’s quilt in my lap and my feet not even touching the floor as they sat one by one in the chair facing the adjacent side of the coffee table, big and imposing and writing who-knows-what in their little notebooks.

Mr. Tate and Atticus didn’t pry much about details of what I endured, but others did. They brought back awful memories. Thankfully, when either he noticed my hesitation and discomfort, or I looked over to him in question of if I really had to answer certain questions, Atticus would say something along the lines of, “That information isn’t necessary” or “relevant” if he deemed it as such, and they would move on. With whatever legal connections he had, Atticus made sure that the people who were coming to speak with me were each cleared to do so by their superiors and were being sent for the sole purpose of legally mandated private investigations. Still, I worried that one of them may be a blabbermouth, and that soon all of the county would know more than I wanted them to know.

A lot of their questions were repetitive, but I eventually found that I preferred that over them being creative. One seemed convinced I had run away. Two others tried to connect my case to other missing children cases- ones where the kids were either never found, or their dead bodies were. It was a very rare thing for someone in my position to have made it out alive. I felt terrible that my detail about being brought to Barker’s Eddy- which was a lie - had sparked false hope in a long-closed investigation for a kid who really had been killed there. 

Another officer asked some questions that confused and upset me, but they also troubled Atticus, so they must have really been bad. Atticus politely but briskly sent the officer out of the house before calling his department to report the incident. Apparently a female nurse would be sent in a month or so to go about that line of questioning in a more delicate way.

Once, one investigator had only just finished introducing himself when he asked if Atticus could leave the room. I didn’t want Atticus to leave, and I felt scared and betrayed when he obliged. He had never done this before, so something must have been different this time that I wasn’t privy to. Why hadn’t he warned me?

Calpurnia took Atticus’s place in the room, so at least I wasn’t completely alone with the intimidating man. He didn’t seem entirely pleased about this, but he held his tongue. Cal was unusually cold towards him. The two appeared to have met before. Then he introduced himself and was surprisingly gentler than most of the others.

It soon became evident why Atticus had been asked to leave. This man’s line of questioning had to do with the possibility that Atticus was responsible for my disappearance. 

The notion that Atticus could be blamed for this upset me greatly, which was not good, because my teariness could be mistaken for evidence of his guilt. Atticus had never hurt a soul in his life. He was slow to anger. He took blow after blow with grace and humility. He was an amazing shot, but had stopped shooting when he figured that he had an unfair advantage over most living creatures.

When the investigator asked if Atticus had ever hit Jem or I, he found it hard to believe my reply that he never had, not even once. It probably would have been less suspicious if I had lied and said that he had, because that was typically the way things were in a normal household. That was how most parents raised their children. But Atticus was not a normal parent. Cal was more often than not the enforcing hand of the household, while Atticus got by on (what I now knew to be) empty threats.

The case against him made no sense to me. Apparently while I was gone Atticus would often go off alone to search for me, and whoever sent the investigator thought that in this time Atticus could have been checking on me in my captivity, or hurting me. Atticus’s emotional distress during that time could have been the result of guilt or hidden rage. Either he did this alone and I was lying to protect him, or he or was working with another man who he let hurt me, and that’s the one I had described. I was uneasy about the idea that they might be able to tell that I was lying about not knowing what the man looked like, and that they could sense that I was hiding someone. 

But it wasn’t him. Atticus would never. Anyone who knew him or had even just met him could tell the investigator that.

The whole thing was ridiculous. 

Other than the fact that he left Jem and I to our own devices on Halloween night, and the sporadic periods of time where he would be looking for me and had no strong alibi for where he was, there was no evidence of- or logical reasoning for- his guilt. I wondered if this illogical targeting of Atticus had to do with the trial, and the people he had angered because of it. It would please them for it to be revealed that he was some sort of monster who did this to his own daughter. All they needed was my 'confession', my finger pointed in his direction, and they could build a case on that. It was evil.

For all of the investigator’s kind words and gentle assurances that he was “on my side”, he was no better than the others. I did my best to defend Atticus.

Once that interview was done, I was furious with Atticus for leaving me, and for not warning me about the investigator’s intentions, but I was also scared for him. As always, he comforted me and explained the whole thing with his lawyer’s expertise; that he couldn’t warn me because I would have planned out how I’d defend him, and it would have looked like he had told me what to say, proving his guilt further; that he couldn’t be in the room because of the subject at hand; that I had nothing to be afraid of in terms of him being found guilty for this. 

Atticus was apparently aware of the investigator’s theory that he was working with my captor and had let him hurt me, and as soon as Atticus brought it up to assure me that it wasn’t true, I was quick to affirm that I believed him. He looked oddly relieved. I wondered if he had worried that I would believe the investigators words and become suspicious of him. If so, his fear was unfounded. Through all the uncertainty of these past few months, I knew one thing for sure; Atticus would never hurt me.

He stayed with me every time after that, but I now didn’t trust any of the sheriffs, officers, or investigators.

The only one I trusted was Mr. Tate, so I felt bad being frustrated with him. He didn’t seem suspicious of the information I gave him (or lack thereof), but he remained relentless in his effort to find my captor. I should have been grateful. The strain he was putting himself under to find a way around the dead ends I left him with made me want to confess everything I knew. But then I’d remember Jem, and how caring he had been towards me, and I knew I couldn’t do anything to put him at risk.

Chapter Text

“Jem.” 

Jem heard Scout’s muffled voice coming from her room.

“Yeah, Scout?” He said back, groggily.

“Jem.” 

Scout had fallen asleep early so Atticus was working in his office, and Jem suspected she had woken up and wanted company. She was doing better about it lately, but she still didn’t like to be alone for very long.

“Do you want me to come in there?”

A few seconds passed before Scout spoke again.

“Jem?” She sounded like she was growing worried. It wasn’t exactly a reply to his question, though. Could she not hear him?

“I’m right here, Scout. Go back to sleep.”

A quiet moment passed, and Jem assumed Scout had fallen asleep until again she said “Jem,” and her voice was louder than before. Concerned, Jem got out of bed and walked to the door between their adjoining rooms. 

He opened the door just in time to see Scout standing with a bandaged hand gripping a bedpost. The sight of her being out of bed without aid caught him off guard, and her upright pale figure and light-colored nightgown unnerved him for a second, as if he was seeing a ghost. 

He was checked back to reality when she took a step towards him that was too wide and fast for her healing body, and she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. Her cast made a knocking sound against the floor. Jem had no clue how she had gotten so far out of bed on her own. Time seemed to slow as he ran to her.

“Scout!”

She was curled in on herself, gasping. Jem fell to his knees in front of her, eyes wide and afraid. He mentally kicked himself for not catching her before she fell. He put his hands on either side of her face, gently lifting her face up so her eyes would meet his, only to find that hers were closed. A breathless “Jem,” escaped her mouth again, and a few tears escaped from beneath her lashes.

“Scout, are you awake?” He didn’t want to shake her so he prodded what he remembered to be an unbruised part of her shoulder. “You’re scarin’ me, Scout.”

On the fourth poke Scout’s eyes flew open and flicked from Jem’s eyes to around the room then back to him, blinking in confusion. Dazedly she said, “I thought- I thought you were- are you okay?”

Jem balked. “Im fine. What were you doin’ standin’ up on your own?”

“I- What? I wasn’t-“

“Yes, you were. You think you were sleepwalkin’?”

“I don’t know, but you called out for me and I thought you were hurt or-or bein’ taken or somethin’.”

“I didn’t call out, Scout. At least not until after you called for me. I think it was a dream.”

Jem nearly jumped out of his skin when Atticus knocked and cracked the door open, asking, “Is everything alright in here?” 

“I think Scout sleepwalked out of bed.”

“Im so sorry,” Scout sniffed, “I didn’t mean to...”

“We know you didn’t, honey.” As Atticus entered, the light from the hallway shone into the room only dimly illuminated by the bedside lamp. Scout shuddered and shifted, trying to get back up. Once she lifted herself up to her hands and knees, however, her body convulsed and she retched over the ground.

While Jem recoiled, Atticus acted quickly. He reached forward, pulled Scout’s hair out of the way, and slid his other arm under her stomach to support her. She dry heaved several times, with nothing more coming out but a glob of spit. She was trembling like a leaf. When she was finished, she collapsed against Atticus and moaned, curling up around her stomach.

Jem fetched Calpurnia and helped her gather things to clean the small spot on the floor while Atticus scooped Scout up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and as she was shifted she whimpered and clung tighter. A breathless “hurts,” was breathed out against his neck.

Atticus was extra careful when laying her back in bed and tucking her in. “What hurts, Scout?” He asked softly. She still seemed sleepy and slightly disoriented but now sounded less winded as she groaned, “Everything."

“Can you be more specific? Where does it hurt the most?”

“I don’ know... um, my bad leg, ‘nd between my legs, and my side...”

Atticus was growing more worried. “Should I call Dr. Reynolds?”

Scout looked alarmed, and much more awake. “No, no no. I’m fine, really. It’s all the normal stuff, I jus’ hadn’t stood up in a while. I wasn’t… ready.” She furrowed her brow in thought, looking down at her covered toes before timidly looking back up to Atticus. “Can I have more medicine?”

Atticus took out his pocket-watch and sighed. “I’m sorry honey, you aren’t due for another two hours.”

Scout nodded and tried not to look disappointed as she returned her eyes to her lap. Atticus wished he could take her pain onto himself. Of course now, when his daughter had finally built up the confidence to ask for something, he couldn’t give it to her. He asked if there was anything else he could do for her and she politely declined, so he let her be.

•••

Calpurnia came in and made small talk while cleaning up Scout’s mess. The girl crinkled her nose and seemed to look anywhere but the spot on the floor. Squinting, Calpurnia’s nearsighted eyes noticed Scout's ears go pink in the lamplight.

“It’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, miss. Ain’t anythin’ I haven’t seen before, between raisin’ you, Mister Jem, and my own children.” 

Scout looked less embarrassed but still side-eyed the place where Calpurnia now scrubbed. 

“How can you stand to do that?”

“I wouldn’t make a very good housekeeper if I couldn’t, would I?”

“‘Suppose not.”

“Besides, that bit of sick is good an’ solid evidence that you’re finally puttin’ somethin’ in your stomach. We outta be glad for that.” 

Scout groaned. “Remind me never to eat again.”

Calpurnia frowned. “Don’t talk like that, hon.”

“Sorry, it’s not anythin’ wrong with your cookin’, it’s just-”

“I know. It's hard to imagine puttin’ anything down after the unpleasantness of havin’ it come back up, but it’ll wear off, I promise. I don’t want you to get it stuck in your mind that not eatin’ is the solution to prevent that from happenin’ again.” Calpurnia finished cleaning the floor and left a towel with some sort of cleaning agent on top of the spot. “You’re already eatin’ so little...”

If Scout’s eyes weren’t deceiving her, it looked like Calpurnia was getting teary-eyed.

“Cal, are you crying?” said Scout, as tactful as ever.

“No baby, its just-“ Calpurnia took a collecting breath and sat back on her knees.

“You and Mister Jem are so precious to me. My kids are all grown up now, and have had to face plenty of challenges themselves, but none of them have had to go through an ordeal like yours. It pains me to see you so hurt.”

Scout looked down at her lap. For such a strong, fierce woman, Calpurnia looked so small in that moment, kneeling on the rug. Scout wasn’t used to seeing Calpurnia upset and hated that she was the one making her feel that way.

“I loved havin’ you there with me in the kitchen. It wasn’t the same without you, it still isn’t. And now when I see you so thin... I know you were hungry for so long, and it feels unfair that you can’t simply eat to your heart’s content now. I wish I could do more for you.”

“You’ve already done so much. I’ll try harder Cal, I swear. I’m sure I could force myself to eat more if I just-”

“No, no, I don’t want you 'forcing' anything. It would do you some good to eat a little more, but I don't want you to push yourself if it hurts you or makes you sick. Take your time, and do what you feel comfortable doing. Don’t just do it just 'cause you think it will make me feel better. Just know that I’m here if you need anythin’ at all, and am willin’ to cook anything that you think will strike your fancy.”

“Thank you, Cal,” said Scout, and she found herself overwhelmed with appreciation for the older woman. What did I do to deserve her?  “I want to get up again to give you a hug.”

“Don’t you dare, Miss Finch.”

Before Scout could do anything stupid Cal got up from the floor and tenderly wrapped her arms around her. Though Scout still felt woozy and sore from the night’s events, being in Cal’s arms brought her a specific kind of comfort she hadn’t felt in a while. She thought of Mayella. 

“I’ll make you somethin’ gentle in the mornin’. Try to get some sleep, baby.” 

•••

Not long after, Jem heard his name called again.

“Hey, Jem?”

This time he responded in an instant, scrambling out of bed and swinging the door open. 

“You alright?”

Scout was still in bed with wide, surprised eyes. “I’m fine! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. No need to break down the door,” She reached to grab an empty cup from her nightstand then held it out in Jem’s direction. “Can you get me some water?”

“Oh,” Jem’s shoulders visibly lowered in relief as he walked forward to grab the cup. “Yea. Of course.”

Jem fetched her water, Scout thanked him, and he was turning to head back to bed when she spoke up again.

“Wait!”

Jem stopped and tilted his head in question.

“Can you stay? Please.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything is fine. I just... it'd be nice to know for sure that you’re here for a while. Sorry, that sounds stupid.”

“No, I totally get it. You want me to read?”

“No, it’s fine. Can you just stay until I fall back asleep?”

“Sure,” Jem said and settled himself into the chair beside the bed.

“Thanks.” Scout leaned back and twiddled her hands for a moment before asking, “How long was I standin’ up for?”

“You were already up when I opened the door, so I would say at least four seconds, maybe. Did you really not make yourself do it? I won’t tell if you did.”

“No, I really didn’t! I mean, I can’t say I haven’t been thinkin’ about tryin’ to get up one of these days, but Dr. Reynolds won’t let me, and Atticus follows what he says.”

Jem nodded. Though Atticus himself was an intellectually capable man, he always seemed to unwaveringly follow the doctor’s orders. Atticus once told Jem that just as Dr. Reynolds would never pretend to be a better lawyer than him, Atticus should never pretend to be a better doctor.

“I wish I could remember it,” Scout sighed. “I was hopin’ that I’d be able to take it easy when I first tried to stand again. I’m annoyed that my body just went on ahead and did it before I was ready. It's unfair that it hurt like hell, but I can’t even remember what it was like. Atticus prolly won’t let me try again for a while now, after this.”

“All depends on Dr. Reynolds. Atticus doesn’t spook very easily, I’m sure he’ll let you if the doc gives the go-ahead and you think you are up for it.”

Scout considered this. “Maybe. Hopefully. Gah, I’m still annoyed at myself! Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t think about gettin’ up so much.” 

“That isn’t your fault either, though. You can’t help what you think.”

“I guess.” Scout huffed and blew her hair out of her eyes. “I sure am glad I didn’t try standin’ up on my own before, though. I have no idea how I managed to run here.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Scout tried to sleep. Jem was nodding off himself when Scout suddenly sat straight up in her bed and exclaimed in a loud whisper,

“Shit!”

Jem jolted in his chair. 

“What? Whats wrong?”

“I’m like Miss Dubose!”

“What? No, you are not,” Jem said, almost laughing.

“Yes, I am! She was scary to look at and so am I! I’m gross and ugly and stuck in bed all day, and I boss you around and make you read to me, and I would kill somebody to get more painkillers right now. What if I become an addict like her?!” 

“Atticus would not let that happen. Neither would Dr. Reynolds. Also, you don’t make me read to you, you can’t make me do anything. I help you because I want to. And you definitely ain't gross or ugly in the slightest. Sure, you are stuck in bed, but you are healin’ and lookin’ much better already. You’ll be walkin’ around again in no time.”

Scout looked relieved at the first two assurances, but she looked suspicious at the third. “I appreciate it, but you don’t have to lie to me, you know. I know I’m ugly. ”

Jem was taken aback. At first he thought she was just being contrary, but the way her shoulders slumped when she said it led him to think that she truly believed her own words. He had never heard Scout put herself down in that way. She was supposed to be all childish confidence and arrogance. And she had never really taken any note of her appearance before, for better or worse. At least he thought she hadn't. 

“You aren’t ugly, Scout. What makes you think that?“

“I had a mirror for a while down there, and I saw myself in the mirror here for a second when I was carried over for a bath. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how y’all look at me like I have a witch’s nose when you think I’m not lookin’.”

“That isn’t- It ain't cause of your face or anythin’, it’s the bruises and cuts and stuff. They just look like they hurt. And they are healin’ real quick, so you won’t even need to worry about any of that soon."

"Just try to tell me that my bloody eye doesn't gross you out. It grosses me out, and I'm the one stuck with it." Alright, now she was just being contrary.

"Okay- I'll admit your eye freaked me out a bit at first, but that was only until I knew it wasn't hurtin' you. And I don't know if you've seen it lately but it's almost back to normal. Dr. Reynolds said two or three weeks at the most, right?"

It had been over four weeks since she got out, so either her eye was taking too long to heal, or the doctor had lied. Scout ignored Jem's question. 

"Did you know that the red part feels scratchy?" A devious look grew on Scout's face as she drew out her words. "And the blood is absorbing back into-"

She was now teasing, actively trying to gross Jem out. It worked. He quickly surrendered. "Okay, stop, stop, stop-" 

Scout smiled and conceded, but her eyes were shifty. Jem could tell that she was trying to derail the conversation.

"Your injuries aren't a part of you, okay? They're just temporary."

"I know."

She wasn't lying, she did know that. But she still looked dubious. Then Jem realized that it wasn't the injuries she was insecure about. After a moment he found his words.

“I know it probably doesn’t mean much coming from me since I’ve teased you about it before, but I really don’t think you are ugly. Hey, and I remember Aunt Alexandra once said you would be pretty if you didn’t have a scowl on your face all the time.”

“I only scowled whenever I was around her.”

“Exactly.”

Scout looked like she felt a little better about herself for a bit, then her face fell again. Jem wondered what she was thinking about. He didn’t want to ask and couldn’t think of anything more to say, so the two sat in silence again until Scout spoke up quietly, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to speak at all.

“The man called me pretty. But he said I was ugly too. It’s... confusing.” Scout held her head in her hands and rubbed her temples.

Jem hated the man who hurt Scout more than anything. The damage he had done was far more than just physical. Insulting her and shattering her youthful confidence was horrible, but complimenting her as well was so cruel and twisted that Jem wanted to scream. 

Scout tilted her head and started fingering the locks of her choppy hair, frowning- another unspoken insecurity, another feature that Jem had assumed Scout had never cared about. He was almost certain she hadn't, before. She just liked it short so it wouldn't get in her face.

Her captor was the one who put those thoughts in her head- he was probably the one to cut her hair like that, after all. The bastard.

Even without their unique circumstances, Jem wisely surmised that 'It's just hair,' or 'It'll grow back' would be the wrong things to say, given that Scout was a girl, and girls didn't like statements like that.

Then he realized that he was pretty much saying the same thing about her injuries not even a minute ago, and he cringed at himself. No wonder she started messing with him.

Jem couldn’t think of the right thing to say, so when Scout went to itch her forearm, Jem scooted the armchair closer and gently took her hand, like he had seen Atticus do before. She flinched a little at the initial contact, but then squeezed back. 

Jem then realized that when Scout fell and he went to help her, it was the first time they had made physical contact since their first reunion. He had been so worried about her that he had forgotten his usual wariness and fear that he would scare her again. Holding her hand now was the second time they’d touched since, and though it surprised her a little at first, they both found comfort in the gesture.

As Scout drifted off and her grip loosened, Jem held on, reflecting on their conversation. Overall, he was proud of the way he (hopefully) made Scout feel a bit better, as he felt he did a good job responding to her doubts and fears. There were also, of course, things he wished he phrased differently and things that he wished he had said but only remembered after the fact, but that was a common thing for Jem. He mostly wished that he could have thought of something to say when she brought up the things her captor had called her.

When Atticus came into the room to check on Scout, he found Jem asleep in the armchair, with his hand still loosely holding on to hers.

Chapter Text

When she heard that Uncle Jack was coming to visit, Scout put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid Atticus would see the excited pump that she felt jump into it. She loved Uncle Jack, and apparently he was going to stay for a while to help her get on her feet again. Atticus had people who needed him in town, and his brother was one of the few people he could trust to keep his children and Calpurnia safe while he started going back to work more frequently. 

A week had passed since Scout’s sleepwalking incident, but the memory of it stayed with her and curbed her enthusiasm to attempt walking again. Atticus thought this was unfortunate, since before that night the possibility of being able to walk on her own had been something she was really looking forward to. Dr. Reynolds said that she should be ready to try it and get her strength back, but she would need assistance. Between his medical expertise and his ability to cheer Scout up, John Hale Finch was the perfect man for the job.

Atticus was glad that his younger brother of ten years saw Scout before Scout noticed him, so that he had time to take in her appearance and collect himself. In a second, Jack's creased brow was replaced with an abundance of warm, familial cheer, and he announced his presence. 

Scout was seated on the sofa, and when she turned to see him enter the room her face lit up like Christmas had come early. 

Jack really was a Santa Klaus-like figure, Atticus mused. Every Christmas Eve day they met Jack at Maycomb Junction, and he would spend a week with them, but aside from that the kids would usually only see him for Thanksgiving. That would have to change, Atticus decided. Life is too short to only see a loved one twice a year.

Jack took off his hat, brought it to his chest, and went down on one knee in front of Scout. They exchanged their greetings, and he said a quip that made her giggle. A real, genuine laugh. Atticus felt a twinge of jealousy which he quickly squashed. It didn’t matter that cheering up Scout came so much easier to his brother. She’s laughing, he thought, Thats all that matters.

“Now where’s that brother of yours?”

“He’s at school,” Scout replied. “You just missed him for supper. ‘Should be back in ‘bout an hour and a half, though.”

Scout now always kept track of where her family was and when they should be coming home. When anyone was running late, she tried to be casual when asking after them, but her anxiety showed through. Atticus didn’t think that Scout knew he noticed, but he did. So whenever he called Calpurnia to check in or urged Jem to not dawdle too long before coming home it was to ease her worry as well as his own. 

“Perfect.” Jack ruffled Scout’s hair, and to Atticus’s delight she squirmed away in a playful way, rather than a defensive one. She laughed and shook her head, bringing up her bottom lip to blow her hair out of her face. 

“You need a haircut,” Jack jibed. 

“Nawww,” Scout replied, itching the side of her nose with her knuckles.

Jack chuckled and asked Scout if he could join her on the sofa, and she said of course he could. Atticus took the chair facing the adjacent side of the coffee table where Jack set down his hat.

“How are you feeling, baby?” Jack asked as he sat down, and Scout shrugged.

“Alright, I guess. Better, but I reckon things hurt more since I can’t take as many painkillers now. Atticus and Dr. Reynolds don’t want me to get stuck on ‘em.”

“Ah, those two are right about that one. Those pills are tricky things, it's best to be careful with them. I know it's hard now but it’ll get better, I promise.” Scout nodded and gave a smile with one half of her mouth.

“Let me take a look at you,” Jack said and Scout turned towards him. He went to lift his hand towards Scout’s face and asked, “May I?” Scout nodded and Jack brushed her hair out of her face and turned her head gently, examining the fading bruises on her eye and cheek. He tilted her chin upwards to get a better look at the darker bruises that ran around her neck, and the scratches and fingernail indentations there. If the bruises were still this dark after weeks of healing he could only imagine how dark they must have been in the first place.

Jack was glad that his niece was looking at the ceiling as his face clouded with fury towards the man who did this. He looked over to Atticus, who met his eyes, looking fatigued. Jack calmed his expression before he lowered Scout’s chin back down and looked in her eyes.

“Does it still hurt to swallow?”

Scout was a bit confused since she hadn’t told anyone about that hurting in the first place, but she nodded.

“Hot water might help. Do you like tea?”

Scout shrugged, indifferent. Jack ended his casual examination and turned back to Atticus.

“Atticus, do you think Calpurnia could make us some tea? With extra honey and sugar for Scout?” 

Scout now looked much more excited about the prospect of tea, and she turned to Atticus as well with hopeful raised eyebrows. 

“I’ll go ask her now,” Atticus smiled, and left for the kitchen. Jack thanked him, then turned back to Scout.

“I’ve talked with Atticus on the phone and it sounds like Dr. Reynolds has been doing a fine job with your care- you’ll be all set to go in no time.”

“I reckon he has, but I think you’re a better doctor. Dr. Reynolds doesn’t tell stories like you do.”

"Hmmm... If telling good stories makes a superior physician then I suppose I should let F. Scott Fitzgerald take over my practice."

"Oh I think you're better than him too. Your stories are more fun."

Jack smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"I have plenty more to tell. I also have a surprise for you."

"What is it?" Scout perked up in her seat and her eyes darted over Jack's person, trying to identify a concealed package of some sort. Before she could strain herself by leaning over to try to see if he was holding it behind his back,  Jack revealed both hands and raised them in surrender. 

"I apologize ma'am, it's not that kind of surprise. Though do let me know if there is anything you want, I still owe my favorite niece a Christmas present."

Before she could be too flattered, Scout did some calculating in her head and realized,

"Heeey, I'm your only niece."

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" Jack laughed good-naturedly, trying to ignore that an exchange like this in the past would have been complemented by a playful punch to his arm. He glimpsed down to see Scout's tiny hands clasped firmly in her lap, as they had been since he arrived. Her powder blue nightgown sleeves didn't quite cover the lingering bruises around her wrists. Jack looked back up and held on to his smile like a cowhand wrangling a bull.

"Anyways, this is the surprise- there's one more guest who is going to stay here for a while."

"Oh? Who-"

"She's still in the car. I'll be back in a minute."

Before Scout could inquire further, Jack got up off the sofa, picked up his hat to leave on the hat rack in the hall, and left Scout to ponder who he was fetching.

For a second Scout hoped it was Miss Maudie, but she knew that didn't make much sense. Miss Maudie lived right across the street after all, and whoever it was was still waiting in Atticus's car, so he must have picked them up from Maycomb Junction with Jack. Did Scout know anyone else from Nashville? No one came to mind. Scout didn't like the idea of having to live with someone she didn't know, but she also didn't think that Uncle Jack would bring a stranger into their home after all that had happened. Although Uncle Jack did say that the guest was a "She", so that made her feel a bit better. Also, the Finch household only had one room to spare, so would Jack be sharing the room? Oh my, did the stubborn bachelor finally find himself a wife while Scout was gone? That didn't feel right either, somebody would have told her sooner if that was the case. And if he was rooming with an unwed female companion, the scandal would make Aunt Alexandra weep.

Oh no. Then came the worst thought of them all.

Was Aunt Alexandra staying coming to stay with them again?

Scout eyed the door with apprehension.

She was elated when Uncle Jack returned, not escorting a woman, but instead holding a traveler case from which emitted the unhappy yowls of Rose Alymer, his cat.

Jack had once said that Rose Alymer was one of the few women he could stand permanently, but even she now seemed to be testing his patience. 

"Oh hush," he admonished. "She's been singing all the way from Nashville. Bless those poor souls in my train car."

Jack returned to the sofa besides Scout and placed down the traveler case, which looked like a glorified large metal lunchbox with several inch-wide holes in it for air. A paw repeatedly batted at one of the holes, and the squalling continued, quite different from the quintessential meowing that one would expect.

Scout felt a compassion for Rose Alymer that she had never felt for any animal before.

"Oh you poor thing," said Scout. "Shoot, Uncle Jack, she must be so frightened. Please let her out, sir. Why're you keepin' her in that thing where she can't see?"

"I've never travelled with her before, I'm never gone long enough to warrant it. Didn't know she'd dislike it so much."

Jack unlatched the lid, opened it, and the heavy cat immediately jumped out of it and into his arms. Scout gasped in delight.

"She's even bigger now!"

Scout had only a vague memory of meeting Rose Alymer in person when she was a kitten, but she'd seen her grow bigger and fatter in snapshots that Uncle Jack brought over the years. He lifted the cat up to bring her face to his eye level and asked earnestly,

"Could you forgive me for your harrowing travels, Madame Rose Alymer?" 

Rose Alymer stared back blankly. Her ear twitched.

"I believe I am forgiven."

He set her down on his lap, and she immediately hopped to the floor, tail flicking indignantly. Scout snickered. The tea kettle whistled in the kitchen. 

"Is Cal going to kick her out?"

"No no, she knows I was bringing her here, as did Atticus. In fact, it was Atticus's idea for me to bring her along in the first place. Everything's been arranged with them. And Calpurnia knows that she has every right to shoo Rose Alymer away by whatever means necessary if she makes herself a nuisance underfoot or in the kitchen. She should know better than that, and she tends to mind her own business. Also, don't worry about keeping doors open for her. She comes and goes as she pleases, so if she gets stuck outside for a while thats her choice."

"How do you know she isn't going to run away?"

Scout leaned forward to gently offer a hand to Rose Alymer. The cat drew back and away and Scout's hand retracted back to a loose fist, staying very still. The cat hesitantly moved back forward, sniffing Scout's hand with her surprisingly cold nose.  Jack smiled.

"She knows where home is. She'll wander, but she always comes back. Don't ya, girl?"

Rose Alymer once again gave no answer. She turned away from Scout and Jack to explore, lifting her tail high to give them a clear view of her rear end. Scout wanted to pet her soft-looking yellow fur but she was too far out of reach. Her paws made no noise as she padded across the faded floral carpet.

"Don't be too disappointed if she keeps to herself, it's nothing personal. The younger folks in my neighborhood are very grabby so she doesn't trust children much, tends to steer clear of you all."

Scout nodded in understanding, silently vowing to leave the cat alone and to simply admire her from afar. Then she had an idea.

"For my Christmas present I want you to get her a case that she can see out of, one with a window." She glared down at the metal traveling case coldly. "That thing is horrible. I have half a mind to take a hammer to it if I ever get strong again."

"I might've let you if was mine, but it isn't, so don't you touch it. The neighbor who usually watches Rose Alymer for me when I travel has a few cats of her own, and she was kind enough to lend it to me," Uncle jack warned, then changed his tone.

"You will get strong again, I promise. I'm here to help you with that. But even so, I don't think a hammer would do much damage to this," Jack knocked on the side of the case twice and it sounded off two stubborn, dull metallic thuds, rather than the tinny clangs Scout was expecting. "A cat in this case could survive Armageddon. You'd be better off hiding it from me, perhaps burying it somewhere or dropping it into the watering hole..."

Scout smiled. Her father and uncle were so alike, and so puzzling. They were the only adults she knew who, while discouraging her and Jem from bad behavior, would often suggest more efficient ways to go about it.

"But that won't be necessary. I'll find her a new travel case in before we head back to Nashville. And that won't count as your present, though its very thoughtful of you to suggest that. So keep thinking about what else you want."

Scout beamed. Calpurnia entered the room carrying the tea tray and Atticus entered behind her with Rose Alymer on his heels.

"Oh Uncle Jack, thank you so much!" 

"Of course. I sure missed you, kid."

"I missed you too!"

“Can I give you a hug?”

Scout nodded enthusiastically, lifted her arms widely for him, and embraced the hug.

That was when everything went wrong, though neither Jack nor Atticus nor Calpurnia noticed at the moment.

God. What was wrong with me? It was Uncle Jack. And chess. He was not going to hurt me.

I knew that. And I knew that I knew that.

But my brain was apparently completely screwed up because every time the investigators or Mr. Tate or God, even Jem, spoke, their lower registers made my hair raise and my mind go run run run because if I didn’t I wouldn’t get a chance. 

And even though Uncle Jack was loving and funny and perfect, and he was a whole head shorter than Atticus, he was still so big and if he wanted to (and he didn’t, he wouldn’t, but God he could) he could grab me and hold me down and—

Something was wrong with me.

It had been almost six weeks, over a whole month since I got out. I should have been better by now.

And telling myself that only made me feel worse.

It was fine at first- perfect, in fact. In those first few minutes, he was just Uncle Jack, with his easy jokes and gentle doctor’s hands. And when he ruffled my hair it was so fine, and with the hug I didn’t even flinch. I didn’t even think about flinching, I was so ready to just welcome it and accept it as it was- a warm gesture from somebody who I loved, somebody who would help me and protect me no matter what.

But then I took a deep breath when my chin was tilted up on his collar and I smelled it. Just as I remembered, Uncle Jack always smelled like something pleasantly sweet, but he also reminded me of a bottle of alcohol. Just the tiniest bit. Much less than I remembered, I could tell it had been a couple days, even a week since he last had it. But it was still there. 

And in that moment, the ease was gone. Laughing with him was no longer effortless, my smile felt strained. I had to work to be happy with him and my God, it was exhausting. 

I kept on remembering Christmas when I went after Francis for insulting Atticus. I got in trouble and Uncle Jack knocked me to the floor when I tried to run. He was so sorry when he heard my side of the story, and he was glad to wrap up the knuckle that had split on Francis’s tooth, but it didn’t make me forget the fact that he had lit right into me without hesitation, and he could do it again if he wanted to. I was on eggshells trying to not give him a reason to.

Something was definitely wrong with me. I hoped it would be like how they said it would be, like how my body would heal and get better.

The first time I let it slip was later that afternoon when we were hunched over the chess board. My mind had wandered and when Uncle Jack moved his knight, the jerky movement of his hand caught me off guard and I reflexively pulled back my own hand which had been resting on the table.

I hastily went to make my next move, pushing some insignificant pawn while avoiding Uncle Jack’s questioning eyes. 

After a couple games passed Miss Maudie stopped by to visit. I felt a weight lift off my chest, as if I were being rescued, and I stopped to wonder why. I didn’t need rescuing from Uncle Jack. 

They exchanged greetings which quickly turned to jibes, with Uncle Jack trying to get Maudie’s goat, but the woman remained as unflappable as always. She teased him, and he teased her, and they ultimately appeared to enjoy each others company. I watched them, puzzled. 

I thought of the way things were before. Back then, I was more at home in my father's world. I used to prefer being in the presence of men rather than ladies. There was something about them, no matter how much they cussed and drank and gambled and chewed; no matter how uninviting they were, there was something about them that I instinctively liked... they weren't hypocrites, unlike ladies. Ladies that weren’t Miss Maudie or Calpurnia, I mean.

But even before, I noticed how most ladies seemed to live in faint horror of men, or seemed unwilling to approve wholeheartedly of them. I think now I understood why… did all women live in fear that men will do to them what Mr. Ewell did to me? Not just the kidnapping and beating, but the kisses too? And the touching that made me feel gross? And the… the rape? Could only men do those things?

Men weren’t tricky, weren’t flighty, they didn't trap you with innocent questions to make fun of you like women did, and that's why I used to prefer them. But I couldn’t imagine a woman being capable of Mr.Ewell’s brand of cruelty; literally trapping someone and making their life a living hell.

But then again, in my right mind I couldn’t imagine Uncle Jack doing that either.

I tried not to be frustrated with myself. I tried to focus on what Atticus had told me, that my mind was just having trouble adjusting to the fact that I was safe now. That I was now used to being on the edge, to expecting pain when people got close. Used to seeing people as threats. He explained it like it was a malady that would soon go away, perhaps once I was safe for long enough.

But if most ladies felt this way, maybe it wouldn't go away... not that I considered myself much of a lady. I just now knew about some things that you're only supposed to know when you are one. 

I wanted to go back to the way things were, when I trusted everyone. But knowing what I knew now, I knew I would be a fool to do so. I knew what men were capable of, what they wanted from women. What some of them wanted from girls, even. I had no grasp of how common that preference was, but I wasn't going to take any chances. I didn't need to be given a proper reason to think I would be struck, because I had already endured such treatment repeatedly without any reason at all. My trust in people not hurting me simply because they aren't supposed to was shattered, because Mr. Ewell wasn't supposed to either. But he still did. And with enough anger or alcohol in their system anyone- even good people, maybe even women- could too. And I didn’t want to be hurt again.

So I stayed on guard.

Chapter Text

Uncle Jack had been helping me get comfortable being on my feet for about a week, and we were making slow progress. With his support, I could stay standing next to my bed for almost half a minute and lift my legs one at a time as if I were walking in place. Once I was proficient at supporting my own weight we would take steps towards me... well, taking steps.

Just like he used to when he would perform a minor service for me or Jem, when we worked together Uncle Jack would tell me exactly what we were going to do, give an estimation of how much it would hurt, and explain why we were doing it, such as which muscles I'd be stretching or strengthening. He couldn't do much for my broken leg, which was still in a cast, but it was supposed to be taken off soon.

At first, his arm around my waist to support my weight or his hand pressing on my leg to help guide me to do a stretch properly would send wailing alarms to my brain, but his clear communication about what we were doing eventually helped with that. He gained my trust in the fact that what he said was really what was going to happen, and his hands never wandered. It was odd to be reminded that this is what physical contact with an adult man was supposed to be like- chaste, polite, not overstepping any boundaries that I was oblivious to before. It made the memories of Mr. Ewell’s actions feel all the more wrong in contrast.

Thinking about them, and how pliable and idiotic I was, brought me the overwhelming and impossible urge to crawl out of my skin. Mr. Ewell rarely spoke, and he surely never asked for permission to touch me. 

Thankfully, whenever I still got flustered fighting off memories during some exercises, I could blame my teary eyes on the pain, since that was't a complete lie. Uncle Jack's pain-level estimations were often off because I tried to not let on how much everything really hurt.

Uncle Jack's stories didn't distract me as much as they used to, but I still appreciated them, as well as his steady encouragement when I felt like I was failing. He told me I was doing well, and even if I didn't believe him, it was nice to hear.

After the first few days my determination to walk again returned in full force. Uncle Jack's tactics quickly switched from having to motivate me to get started, to having to remind me to slow down a bit, because I may or may not have been overexerting myself and pretending not to notice. I just didn't want to be helpless anymore. I felt terrible asking my family to help move me everywhere but I also hated being stuck in my room. And most importantly, I realized that if Mr. Ewell ever came back, I needed to be able to run.

Jem was as crazy for football as ever, but back in the fall he had been too slender and too young to do anything but carry the team water buckets. This he did with enthusiasm... until Mr. Ewell broke his elbow. With his arm healed up, Jem planned to go out for the team this year, so when he was home from school he often joined us for some of Uncle Jack's strengthening exercises. The rest of the household saw it as an act of camaraderie, but I quickly found it irritating.

While I struggled with even the most basic exercises with Uncle Jack helping me, Jem excelled at them.

I would huff and puff to catch my breath while Jem used his abundance of air to provide unwelcome pep talks.

While I strained to sink into a lunge on my left leg (which was my good leg) and had to bite my lip to keep from crying out, Jem repeatedly leapt from his left leg lunge to his right and back again while pumping his arms like he was running a marathon. It was humiliating. Jem didn't need Uncle Jack's help, and he made that fact very clear. I knew that no one was comparing us, and it wasn't a competition, but it still made me feel awful about myself.

It was stupid for me to compare my abilities to Jem's; he was older, bigger, and hadn't spent the last few months being starved and pummeled to a pulp. But as he smiled beside me, strong and capable, it was impossible to ignore the seeds of jealousy I felt planted in my chest. All I could hear was Mr. Ewell's voice in my ear, telling me how weak and pathetic I was, the memory of his words then warping into new vitriol of how I didn't deserve Jem's support, nor Uncle Jack's efforts to make me strong again. I was a spoiled and ungrateful little bitch, just like he said. 

During exercises I also started to remember the brief period of time I exercised in the basement after my stab wound was healed enough, but before my spirit and my leg were broken.

In place or in circles I ran and I jumped, I tried to climb the two wooden beams that supported the basement ceiling and only got more splinters that made me think of Uncle Jack. I worried that I had made him up in my head because he seemed too good to exist.

I rattled around that room like a coin in a tin. I got high off of the exercise, the feeling of doing something, of making myself better. I could push myself and sweat and remind myself that I was still alive. It hurt, but I could control how much it hurt, something I couldn't do whenever Mr. Ewell took out his frustrations on me. Laughably, I thought that if I stayed strong I could fight him off when I really needed to.

Even though that turned out to be a moot point, my efforts weren't all for nothing. I recently realized that they were what helped me run so far without stopping when I got out. Running, it turned out, was the only thing that really works.

But now that exercise, that exhilaration and feeling of being alive that I clung to so desperately, it only dragged down my limbs like they were made of lead. The pain it brought me no longer felt empowering. It wasn't something that I could reclaim and feel in control of by putting it onto myself. Mr. Ewell was forcing it onto me, even now, by what he did to me.

Eventually I couldn't contain my frustrations, and Jem's antics were what broke the dam. Thinking that it was only my brother's behavior that upset me, Atticus or Uncle Jack must have said something, because Jem stopped joining our exercise routine. 

•••

One evening, I was tired after a long afternoon of working with Uncle Jack and I felt a headache coming on. Jem and I were sitting on the living room carpet when Jem’s head tilted like a curious dog. His eyes narrowed at the kitchen table where Uncle Jack was sitting with Atticus, with Rose Alymer lounging underfoot. Jack was nursing a glass of a whiskey that had been gifted to his elder brother by a well-meaning client who wasn't aware that Atticus didn't drink. To complete Jem's dog-like image I pictured his ears perking up as well. He leaned towards me conspiratorially. 

“You think if I asked, Uncle Jack would let me try some?”

I made a face and groaned, “Bleugh, you don’t want any, trust me.”

Jem scoffed, and the slight straightening of his back and puffing out of his chest didn’t go unnoticed by me. “I’m thirteen, I could handle it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thats not what I meant. Its downright disgusting. Its like...” I struggled to find the words to describe it. “Its like swallowin’ liquid fire mixed with mouthwash and gasoline, Uncle Jack must be crazy to like it.”

“That sounds like a load of bull, who told you that?”

“No one told me, I’ve-“

I stopped short and pressed my lips together in a wide line, kicking myself internally. Why couldn’t I just keep my damn mouth shut?

Jem looked like I had told him that Atticus had decided to wear one of Aunty Alexandra’s dresses to the office.

“You’ve had whiskey before? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know if it was whiskey- and I didn’t want to, Jem, it was…”

Jem still looked confused and slightly impressed. He probably thought I had snuck a sip of something at the landing once.

“I didn’t want to. It was in the basement.”

Jem’s eyebrows raised while his face fell as if to say, “Oh,” and I knew he finally understood.

“He made you drink it?”

I thought back. I couldn’t remember whether my first sip of it was voluntary or not, and that troubled me. I opted for a nod.

Jem hesitated to continue, but his curiosity got the better of him.

“What was it like?”

“I told you, it was nasty.”

“No, I mean… how did it make you feel? Did you get dizzy?”

“Oh, right. Um…”

Thinking back was harder this time.

“I don’t really remember it. I remember feelin’ real sick afterwards.”

“Wow, you must have been drunk!”

I could tell Jem was imagining me as a drunken, stumbling idiot, and he practically laughed at the idea. My discomfort with the fact I couldn’t remember what I said or did returned and I became defensive.

“You would be too if you were forced to down a whole bottle in one go, and hadn’t eaten half a meal in God knows how long!” 

Jem grimaced at the thought. “Sorry.”

My anger was forgotten as another detail to tell him popped into my head. 

“Oh! I do remember it made my lips tingle after.”

“Was it… bubbly? Like champagne or somethin’?”

“No, no, this was way after. Like after I woke up. It was like they were extra sensitive, or sore almost.”

Jem looked puzzled, and a little worried, which made me start to feel worried too. Was that not normal?

“So you don’t remember anythin’ after you- after he made you drink it?”

A new memory emerged from the recesses of my mind- I vaguely remembered stumbling into Mr. Ewell's lap, and then feeling sleepy and... happy?

I frowned as I recalled the few times in the basement where I felt content when Mr. Ewell held me close, back when I knew it was wrong but it hadn't yet given me any fear or unease beyond that.

I could never tell Jem about those moments, I couldn't tell anyone. Despite my best judgement, I had already tearfully confessed to Attics that I had hugged the man, that I had touched him, and that I had let him touch and hug me. Atticus had assured me that no matter what I did, it wasn't my fault that I was raped. But I didn't believe him. He didn't know about the other moments where I didn't resist Mr.Ewell's arms, and that my drunken self might gone to him for comfort yet again. I was ashamed.

“Uh, I think I was dizzy, but no, I don't. Not until I woke up feelin’ sick, like I said. And I had a massive headache.”

“Do you think…“ Jem stopped himself. “That sounds awful, I’m sorry.”

“Do I think what?”

“Oh, nothin’.”

“No, I want to know.”

“Forgot what I was gonna ask.” 

The sentence was believable enough, but Jem’s body language told me he was lying. His eyes flicked to mine then looked away and I could tell he knew that I knew, but he stayed quiet. I hated when he did this.

“I know you’re lyin’, spit it out Jem.”

“My question woulda done you no good, there was no point in askin'. You don’t remember it anyways. And if it made you remember that wouldn’t be good either.”

Oh, now I needed to know.

“I don’t mind, try me.”

He wasn’t convinced.

“Even if it was bad or embarrassing I’d rather have it come back to me now than later. And thats assuming I’ll remember anythin’ at all.”

After a few moments Jem finally gave in. 

“Well, you mentioned your lips being sore, and sometimes that happens when- or its a sign of-" Jem hesitated, obviously already regretting opening his mouth, but he continued on. "Do you think he might have been kissing you?”

I froze.

Without warning I froze as his mouth crashed onto mine, and a gurgled whimper escaped my mouth….

…Was Mr. Ewell kissing me?! This did not feel like a kiss. Grown-ups weren’t supposed to kiss children like this…

…Even when his face moved down to my chest I could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips on mine, making them feel tingly and swollen on top of the pain from the fresh cut…

I pushed away the memories from when I was raped, feeling violated all over again. My fingers flew up to touch my lips where the small cut still remained. Jem watched me with concern growing on his face. 

I hated the memories from that last encounter with Mr. Ewell, but somehow, at this moment, not remembering anything about when he got me drunk was scarier. He could have done anything to me, and I wouldn’t have known unless it hurt real bad. After it happened I felt sick thinking about the hole in my memory, but back then I was mostly just worried that in my woozy state I could have said or done something embarrassing. I was so oblivious.

Did he kiss me then? Oh God, what if I kissed him?  Or worse, he could have been touching me. My stomach turned to water and I nearly threw up.

Why did I remember feeling happy?

Jem had asked a question, and he was waiting for an answer.

“Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.” 

I felt dumb for forcing him to ask. He could see that the question caught me off-guard, and he tried to make amends.

“I’m real sorry, it was a terrible question. I didn’t want to-“

“It’s okay. Can you get Atticus to help me get to bed?” 

“Yeah, but are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, I promise.” Lying came easier to me than telling the truth, nowadays.

Jem probably could have helped me get to bed just fine, if not with a bit more strain, but that simply wasn't the way we had come to do things. Despite feeling a little more comfortable around him now, I still felt awkward and nervous about asking him to help me in that way, and I think he was wary of doing something wrong and hurting me, so he did what I asked and stood to fetch Atticus. 

It ended up being Uncle Jack who carried me to my bedroom and set me in bed, and I breathed through my mouth so that I wouldn't smell the alcohol on him as much. 

"There we go," Uncle Jack said once I was settled. "All set. Are you comfortable?"

I just sighed and nodded my head, turning onto my side to face away from him. My headache had gotten worse and my throat felt icky. I was forcing myself not to cry until Uncle Jack was gone, but when he started patting my back like I was a little baby I realized that he wouldn't be going anytime soon. I didn't want to ask him to leave, so I silently let a few tears leak out and drifted off for a while.

I sat against the wall visible from the door, holding my flannel sleeve against a cut near my eyebrow that was freshly bleeding since I had picked the scab off of it. I was trying to remember a dream I had when Mr.Ewell wandered in, looking somber. At first his somber appearance put me a bit at ease, because I didn’t anticipate too much wrathful trouble from him, but then I remembered the last time he was like this. My throat went dry; that was the night he almost killed me.

Not knowing what to do, I froze up. It didn’t look like he had a knife with him again. My heart raced and I watched his every movement warily, only to be surprised as he laid down on the floor in front of me, wrapped his huge arms around my waist, and placed his head low on my chest, as if he was listening to my heartbeat. Then he just stayed there, still, but for the rise and fall of his mountain of a back. He was a little drunk, I smelled it with each of his exhales. 

I awkwardly kept my arms raised, not sure what to do. My leg that was turned in Indian-style was squashed a little by his weight, and my torso was weighed down too. Despite not being a very tall man, he sure was heavy. I placed my hands on the crown of my head, one over the other. I tilted my head over to see if his eyes were closed, and they were. 

He wasn’t asleep, I could tell because he grunted when I tried to move my leg out from beneath him. When I lowered my arms to rest on his back he sighed happily. 

He had held me before, but this… this felt like I was holding him. It was nice, I supposed. He seemed mellow. He was warm. 

I promised to be good to him, that’s why he didn’t kill me. Thats why he was keeping me around. 

And maybe... maybe I liked this. For the moment, my fear of him abated. Maybe he was as lonely as I was.

So I ran my hands through his thinning hair.

Mr.Ewell woke me up with his wandering hands. He was rubbing my left shoulder and the action seemed innocent, but I didn't trust my own judgement anymore.

"Please don’t," I dared to whisper, emboldened by my grogginess. "I don't want it."

His hand froze, gripping me just a little too hard, and I was suddenly afraid of him. I had made him mad.

"’M sorry, ’m sorry!" My voice sounded slurred and pathetic. I tried to open my eyes but failed. My whole head was hurting, especially my face. "Please sir... I don’t wanna to do this anymore..."

The hand quickly withdrew, and someone- not Mr.Ewell- cleared his throat.

"Hey, Scout?" Uncle Jack said in a strained voice.  "Do you know where you are right now? You know who I am?"

I grudgingly opened my eyes, raised my aching head, and looked around the room. Rose Alymer was curled up at the foot of my bed. I felt like I was about to say something but I’d forgotten it. "Oh," I said, dropping my head back against the pillows. "Yeah, hey, Uncle Jack. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, honey," he said. "Go on back to sleep." I meant to ask what time it was, but instead I closed my eyes and snoozed for what felt like seconds before hearing Atticus's low voice.

"You should go get some rest. I'll stay with her for a little while longer."

From the lack of creaks on the floorboards, it didn’t sound like anyone was moving.

"You doing alright now?" Atticus asked. Both he and Uncle Jack spoke so quietly that when the wind picked up outside I had to strain to hear them.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Uncle Jack said. "Glad she slept right through it. I ain't a fan of cryin’ in front of kids."

Uncle Jack cried? Did I hear that right? If so, it was probably my fault. I kept on making my family sad and I hated it. 

Uncle Jack continued, "You should go rest, brother. You need it more than I do. Im sure you don’t need me to tell you that you’re wearing yourself down.”

”No, Maudie and Calpurnia remind me enough. Im doing just fine.”

”You’re doin’ just fine?” Uncle Jack didn’t bother trying to hide the disbelief in his voice.

”Fine enough,” Atticus conceded. “Fine enough to stay with her until I’m more confident she’ll sleep through the night. When she gets confused like you said the nightmares are worse.”

“I see. Oh dear, I feel real awful for scarin’ her. To think that she thought I was- it makes my stomach turn just thinkin’ about it. I apologize again. I hope she’ll forgive me.”

“I’m sure she will, but based on what you told me, chances are she won’t even remember the interaction.” Much to my frustration, Atticus was right. I had no clue what either of them were talking about. All I could gather was that Uncle Jack had scared me somehow, and I made him cry. How many times had I done things like that without realizing it for it to be a casual occurrence? “And even if she does, she won't hold it against you. Jem and I have scared her pretty bad at times and she has forgiven us, but I know it still is a terrible feeling.”

“Agreed. I can’t remember the last time I cried before this. I almost did after you phoned me when you got her back but not quite. Frankly, I don’t know how you can take all of this. How do you manage it?"

Atticus sighed. He had been sighing a whole lot lately.

"To completely honest, I'm not quite sure. It's all too easy to focus on the injustice of it all, I've had my fair share of dwelling on that and I'm sure there'll be more to come. So I keep on reminding myself how much of a miracle it is that she is with us, and how lucky we are to be able to help her heal in any way we can. No matter how long it takes, what matters is that she's here. She's right here, and I'll be damned if I let anything more happen to her. And I know that anything I'm feeling is nothing compared to what she is dealing with, and if she can fight through it, so can I. Or at least I have to try."

I felt my heart swell with appreciation for my father. I didn’t want him to disregard his own emotions, but a comforting warmth spread in my chest from hearing a verbal confirmation of how much he cared for me and was planning to keep me safe. If his words were to be believed, he really was happy I was here, and he maybe even thought I was still a fighter.

“I knew she was hurt, and you told me exactly what to expect, but still, I- just-" I heard Uncle Jack take a deep breath through his nose. “Pardon my language but God damn, Atticus. I know you must be tired of hearing this, but I am so sorry."

Atticus's response must have been nonverbal.

“Thank you for asking me to stay here. I am so happy to see her now, even if she isn’t happy to see me.”

“She is happy you’re here, Jack. I told you, it isn’t your-“

“I know, I know. I just miss the old pep, you know? I took it for granted then.”

My heart sank. I'd been trying really hard to be normal, to be just like I was before. I wanted nothing more than to be all right for them.

I didn't know what to do now, knowing that they could see right through my act. 

The two Finch brothers were quiet for a while. I had a feeling they were watching me so I kept up my sleepy breathing pattern and subtly twitched, a deception I had perfected in the basement. I then heard both of their footsteps leaving and the creak of the door closing behind them. The last muffled query I could understand as they walked down the hall was,

“Legal question, brother. How long of a sentence would an honest man get for castrating a man like that?”

I couldn't hear Atticus's response. I was curious what 'castrating' meant but I couldn't exactly ask for a definition later on without revealing that I had been listening. I knew the conversation was continuing out of my earshot. I wished I could tip toe after them to eavesdrop as I once could have- another motivator to get strong enough to walk again. I fell back asleep before Atticus returned.

Chapter Text

A few days later, I had a break from working with Uncle Jack. It was now March, and one of his old Nashville acquaintances who'd moved to Mobile heard tell that he was staying in Maycomb and invited him on a three day long fishing trip. Uncle Jack joked that he wished he could send Rose Alymer in his stead, as she would enjoy the bounty of the activity much more than he, but he supposed he would enjoy the company, so he went. He actually first asked me if I was okay with him going, and of course I said yes, though I would miss him. 

Also, I had been feeling worse and worse for the past few days, and I felt like hell on this morning specifically, so the break from our exercises was a relief.

After overhearing Uncle Jack and Atticus's conversation, trying to act like how I used to was starting to wear me down. I was constantly looking for signs that they or Calpurnia weren't buying it, but they must have been better actors than I was, because I couldn't read them. If I was ever off, no one ever called me out on it, not even Jem, so before I had taken that as a sign that I was hiding it well. Now I didn't know what to think. I wished I had just been asleep like I was supposed to.

I was sitting at the kitchen table nurturing a headache, since I had asked to be placed in a spot where the sun was coming in through the windows. I felt it heating up my hair and skin but I was still shivering and the light hurt my eyes, so I was annoyed. I would have asked Calpurnia to help me move again, but she was busy in the guest room, taking advantage of Uncle Jack's temporary absence to tidy up. Apparently, it was overtly clear that my uncle was accustomed to living as a bachelor.

I set down my mug of sugary tea that was provided by Cal. It was still too hot for me to drink, but once it cooled down a little I thought it might help my throat feel better, since it hurt every time I swallowed. The feeling made me anxious, taking me back to how it felt when my throat was still hoarse from screaming in the basement and from Mr. Ewell's large hands wringing my neck... in a way not dissimilar to how I was now holding my mug to keep my hands warm. Uncomfortable at that thought, I let go of the mug and crossed my arms instead.

When Atticus came home earlier than usual midday for supper there was obviously something on his mind. Cal called out good afternoon to him, and he responded in kind as he hung his hat on the hat rack in the hall. But the greeting didn't meet his eyes. I raised my head to get a good look at him: jaw tense, lips in a hard line, and a furrowed brow.

It was such a rare occurrence to see Atticus express emotion so blatantly, that it briefly allowed me to forget the throbbing at my temples and the faint nausea that bubbled in the pit of my gut. Something must be really wrong.

"Are you alright, Atticus?" I asked, and he immediately stiffened as his eyes caught mine through the kitchen doorway. For a moment he paused, as he had not noticed my presence, and a look of guilt almost spread across his face, before it was replaced with his usual polite indifference again. He entered the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. 

"Hey hon, how are you doing? Has Jem come by yet?" I tried not to be annoyed that he ignored my question, maybe he just didn't hear it. 

"I'm fine," I lied. It hurt to talk. "Jem ain't-isn't out yet, you're quite early."

Right on cue, Cal called across the house again, apologizing for the delay and assuring us that lunch would be ready by the time Mister Jem was home from school. Atticus called back, saying that there was no rush.

I once again was reminded of the glorious absence of my Aunt Alexandra, who during her reign here would not abide such behavior. If someone needed to speak with you, Aunty believed that they should either waste the precious seconds it took to walk to whatever room you were in, or not speak at all. In most cases this rule only seemed to apply to Jem and I, who would receive no response back when we replied to Calpurnia's calls, and we'd be forced to either seek her out ourselves or pretend that we'd never heard her in the first place.

Aunt Alexandra would always jump dramatically whenever somebody raised their voice across the house, and depending on her mood and the identity of the agitator this action would either be followed by a tsk-tsk-tsk and a shake of her head, or a brisk scolding. Before, I thought that her jolting was simply a method of trying to guilt us into better behavior, and I found the action irritating. But now I wasn't so sure, and I felt foolish every time I had to repress my instinct to do the same thing.

For the first time, I questioned if my grandfather had been a kind man. I knew that Miss Maudie's aunt taught Calpurnia to read out of a book that was given to Calpurnia by Granddaddy Finch, so that was a kind gesture. He also was the one who taught Atticus when he was younger, so he must have been a good man to instill in my father the morals that he held today, or at least to allow him to leave Finches Landing to read law in Montgomery and learn his morals there. He also taught Uncle Jack, and that closed the deal for me. To produce two such wonderful sons, Granddaddy must have been good. And they wouldn't have let him hurt Aunty.

Perhaps it was Uncle Jimmy, so silent and peripheral to me, who made Aunt Alexandra jump... maybe that was why she was so willing to stay with us, why she wouldn't miss him...

I shook myself from my thoughts. How awful it was for me to be pondering if Aunty was abused, and to be making such accusations in my mind. I'm a terrible person.

A pot with potatoes, vegetables, and some sort of meat that I had watched Calpurnia prepare was stewing on the stove. Atticus strolled over to it. It was overly pungent to me even from across the kitchen, but Atticus inhaled the aroma with approval. He gave no explanation for his early arrival. In the spirit of encouraging honest conversation, I confessed something else that was on my mind.

"I don't like Jem walking by himself. I would like it much better if you picked him up."

"I agree with you on both fronts," said Atticus. "I don't like it one bit, and if I had my way he'd let me drive him both ways."

Oh, I thought. That was easier than I thought it would be.

"But your brother is as stubborn as I am, so I made a deal with him. I'll be the first to admit it was too hasty." 

I felt like this was a moment when Uncle Jack would say, "Ay, there's the rub." I had once asked him what exactly it meant, and he said it was Shakespeare, which didn't help. Atticus continued to explain,

"We struck it in an emotional moment, with the hope that we would have apprehended your captor by now, but I would prefer to not go back on my word. I'm hoping that once I'm driving you to and from school, Jem will deign to join us for the ride."

I smothered my guilt at the mention of the search for Mr. Ewell, then stuck my tongue out towards my tea at the mention of going back to school, retracting it as Atticus turned back around. 

"I assure you that Jem isn't being completely left to his own devices, though. The sheriff does rounds of the routes leading to the school every day now to ensure the safety of not only Jem, but all the rest of the young folk there as well.”

The way Atticus leaned his weight back against the counter gave the impression of ease, but the way his fingers silently tapped against the tile told a different story. He could sense my doubt.

“There are good people in this town, and someone who lives along your route to school is keeping an eye out for Jem specifically. I know that I can't hide you two away from the world forever, but I will do my best to watch out for you when I can. Even if it is through another source."

There was a conspiratorial lilt to Atticus's typically arid voice. I wracked my aching brain, trying to grasp the implications of what Atticus was assuring me. I gasped loudly when I guessed what- or who- he was talking about.

"Boo Radley!" I exclaimed.

"That's Mr. Arthur Radley to you," Atticus corrected, as dull as ever. 

"You told Mr. Arthur to spy on Jem!"

"I did no such thing."

I barely heard him. My mind whirred with old memories of carved soap dolls and good-luck pennies, laughter emanating from a grey house with sad brown doors, and summer days spent planning on how to lure Boo Radley out. My small fantasy about him was alive again: he would be sitting on the porch, and I'd say, Right pretty spell we're having, isn't it, Mr. Arthur?  But Atticus seemed to be one thought ahead of me, as always.

"Before you let your imagination carry you away, it is Mr. Nathan Radley who is looking after Jem. And I did not ask him to. He told me in passing that he was taking it upon himself to do so, seeing how much it disturbed his younger brother to see you two hurt. When Arthur brought Jem back, he was dismayed that he didn't get to you in time- as you may have realized already, Arthur Radley has always been watching after the both of you, in his way." 

I realized that this was the most I'd ever heard Atticus talk about the Radleys; whenever Jem asked about them, Atticus's usual answer was for Jem to mind his own business and let the Radleys mind theirs.

"However, I would not put the safety of your brother and you into Mr. Arthur's hands. He does not need that pressure of responsibility, nor any more guilt for what happened. I'm sure that he'll still be looking out for you two, but it's Mr. Nathan who will take action if your captor shows his face again- he knows how to use that shotgun of his."

Not wanting to imagine the situation where Mr. Nathan Radley would need to use his gun, I thought instead of how Jem had silently cried after the same man put cement in the knot hole that connected us to Boo. I remembered the brown woolen blanket that Boo had put around my shoulders the night we watched Miss Maudie's house burn- I think we still had it somewhere. More than ever, I wished I had had the sense to turn around and see him. We had a lot to thank him for.

And if Mr. Nathan could shoot trespassers in his collard patch at night, he surely could shoot Mr. Ewell in the day. Or at least scare him off. My fear for Jem eased a bit.

"Does Jem know about this?"

"It isn't a secret, per se, but he hasn't bothered to ask about it." There it was again, that lilt in Atticus's pleasantly dry tone that was the closest thing our father would come to being sly.

Jem thought he was being all big and brave walking to school by himself when there could be a kidnapper around, yet he had our childhood phantom and the phantom's armed keeper watching his back. An urge to laugh simply took the form of a grin, which turned to a half grimace as my stomach rolled.

"You never answered my question before, Atticus. Are you alright?"

Atticus sighed and gave me a wry smile. "I'm alright, Scout. A little tired, thats all. It's been a long couple of days." His fingers wandered to his watch pocket.

"Do you…wanna talk about it?" I asked, not wanting to intrude, but too curious to stop myself.

Atticus sighed again and sat down across from me at the table, entering a sunbeam that glinted off his glasses.

My stomach leapt with excitement at the prospect of him coming clean about what was bothering him, but in my current state the sensation quickly turned to blatant nausea. I tried my best to steady myself as Atticus slowly prepared to speak.

Thank God he's distracted. Holy cow I'm dizzy…the room is spinning. Get it together, don't ruin this. Be supportive and peppy, just like you used to be.

"It's just… Well, it's a few things. With the way this town moves in slow motion you'd think that they'd know a thing or two more about patience…"

It was nice to be able to just listen instead of talking with my sore throat. But as I talked myself through the listening process, I realized that I was so distracted with maintaining composure that I hadn't heard a word of what Atticus said.

"-can't just stick our heads in the sand and pretend the problem will-"

I blinked hard, and watched as Atticus's lips moved and his hands gestured. I vaguely nodded along.

"-and I don't mean to scare anyone, but it's the truth. And somehow the full-grown adults in this town would rather-"

It was fairly evident that the problem had something to do with the unidentified Mr. Ewell, I had somehow managed to gather at least that much. There also might have been something about Atticus causing a mass hysteria? The subjects slipped by too fast for me to keep track. It didn't help that the light from the windows was hurting my eyes and I had to squint.

"-which, quite frankly, is ridiculous, and is absolutely out of the question. You two have been through enough, it shouldn't fall to you to-"

I noticed that my ears began to ring, and my lips began to tingle, then they went completely numb. My lids fluttered and felt myself sway to one side, before I threw myself against the back of the chair as a desperate means to stabilize. The knock of my cast against the chair's rungs was far too loud to my ears. I wished the chair had an arm for me to lean on. 

The jerk of my movement caught Atticus's attention immediately. I noticed the outline of his form stiffen.

"You're white as a ghost," he deadpanned, eyes widening behind his glasses. "Are you-"

As my consciousness continued to fade, I felt myself slide further, and then begin to fall.

"Scout!" Atticus's voice echoed.

For a fleeting moment I thought that my head would hit the floor, but Atticus somehow managed to run to my side and catch me before it could. I pondered that maybe he wasn't as fragile as I thought he was, then I passed out.

"Hey, hey, sweetheart…can you hear me?" Atticus prodded, voice heavy with concern and his hand gently gripping the base of Scout's neck. She was limp in his arms.

"Scout? Scout! You're scaring me here, baby," he added, breathless by now. He kept on saying her name to get her to open her eyes.

After a few seconds of unconsciousness, Atticus was about to call out for Calpurnia when Scout's eyes fluttered open. She took in her surroundings and the kitchen table above her before staring up at her father in confusion.

"Wha... why 'm I on the floor?" she managed to mumble, as she tried to piece together the lapse in her memory.

"You passed out cold, hon."

"Oh... 'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Did you eat today?" Atticus prodded, and used his thumb to push back the overgrown bangs that stuck to the perspiration on her forehead. Scout shuddered at the thought of food, but Atticus assumed this was in response to his small affection, and he swallowed hard.

"Yeah, I did…this mornin'. You were there, Atticus," Scout finally said, still grasping what had happened. 

“Right, sorry."

Scout had passed out countless times in the basement, and she had forgotten how frightening and disorienting it could be. Especially when she wasn't alone, and had to deal with Mr. Ewell's taunting or his continuing abuse the moment she indicated she was conscious. Sometimes he wouldn’t even wait until then. Early on she made the mistake of reaching out to him to catch her, and after that he made a point to always let her fall. He found it funny.

Atticus was grateful he came home early that day- if not, would he or Calpurnia have come in to find Scout unconscious on the kitchen floor with an awful head wound? Or was it his fault she had passed out in the first place? He might've been causing her emotional distress but he was too caught up in his ranting to see it. He kicked himself for not getting a better look at her before.

"Did I… upset you? When talking, just now?”

“No, I didn’t faint, if thats what you're sayin',” Scout said defensively, scrunching her nose at the affronting word. She sounded insulted. Then she mumbled, "Faintin's for ladies who wear corsets too tight."

Atticus decided not to correct her. After a moment of debate, he placed the back of his hand against her forehead. He was glad that she didn't flinch again, but his mouth creased into a frown.

"You're burning up."

"I am?" Scout asked, and began to feel embarrassed by that point. She should have known that she was coming down with something.

She had attributed her physical ailment the past few days not to sickness, but to a relapse in her healing process, because her body felt nearly as shitty as it did a couple weeks ago. She supposed that if her stupid emotions kept on relapsing to how they were when she first came home, it made sense for her body to do so as well, so she had been determined to push through. 

But no. She was just sick. Again. She thought of Mayella and wished she could be here with her.

Atticus, on the other hand, wished his brother was home. He knew Jack would come rushing back if he knew that Scout was sick, but Atticus didn't want him to cut his trip short, especially after he had been so much help to them already. Atticus mulled over whether he could afford to stay home from work again to help take care of her. And though Calpurnia had been very diligent in keeping Scout's wounds clean, they would need to call Dr. Reynolds to make sure that it wasn't an infection bringing this on. 

"Let's get you back to bed," Atticus stated as he scooped Scout up. Her head lolled to his shoulder as they made their way out of the kitchen and through the hall. She felt very warm, even through his shirt and jacket. They were just about to reach the open door to her room when Scout said, "Wait."

Atticus stopped, and Scout surprised herself by asking,

"Can I... may I stay in your room instead?"

There were a few reasons why the question came out. Scout's room was slowly starting to feel like another prison, and she knew that if she was sick they'd want her to stay in bed for a while again. Memories were invading her head more and more often these days, so the change of scene would be nice. And maybe in her father's room she wouldn't imagine that she saw Mr. Ewell's face in the windows as much. 

Also, Atticus no longer slept in the armchair in her room every night. Scout was glad that he could be more comfortable now- she saw the tells of his neck and back hurting after sleeping in the chair, so she and Calpurnia had both encouraged him to move back to his room. As a compromise Atticus always stayed until Scout fell asleep, and he always arrived quickly when she cried out. So, more often than not, Scout only pretended to fall asleep so that he could leave and go to bed properly, and then she would be awake and alone, trying to delay the nightmares for as long as possible.

She'd been tempted to ask to stay in his room a couple times now, but pride hadn't let her. Now that she was sick and pathetic already, she supposed pride could make an exception.

"Sure," Atticus replied simply, turning around and steering them down the hall.

He placed Scout on his large bed for the moment, then left to fetch a folding cot for her and inform Calpurnia that she was sick. Calpurnia chastised herself for not noticing sooner and gathered spare sheets, pillows, and covers for the cot while Atticus went to call Dr. Reynolds.

When Calpurnia arrived in Atticus's room Scout was shivering but remained on top of the covers, an arm slung across her eyes. The older woman shook her head at Atticus's temporary negligence, then pulled back the covers of his bed and tucked Scout in real good so that the girl wouldn't suffer while she arranged her cot with bedding.

"Heard you weren't feeling so well, honey," Calpurnia remarked as she started fixing up the cot.

"Mm-hmm," Scout responded, uninspired.

"How long have you felt sick for?"

"I dunno... a few days, maybe?"

"A few days?!" Cal wheeled around, her eyebrows reaching for the heavens. Scout moved her arm to see this and backpedalled quickly.

"It hasn't been this bad, I just felt off, that's all. And my head hurt a little. It sorta all hit me at once today."

Calpurnia knew that if Scout was admitting that it hurt 'a little', then it hurt a lot.

"Why didn't you say anything sooner, baby?"

"I... I'm sorta used to feelin' bad now, I didn't think much of it."

Scout turned her head away so she wouldn't have to see the pitying look on Calpurnia's face, and after a few seconds the woman turned back to the cot. Scout's underestimation of her own afflictions was not a new concept, but Calpurnia hoped that in her current state she would be more keen to admit them. Calpurnia tried to keep her tone casual as she asked,

"How are you feeling right now?

"My body hurts some, and everythin' just feels... yuck. 'Specially my throat." Scout's voice was muffled, and Calpurnia turned around again to see that she had hid under the covers. She supposed that either Scout was cold or her head hurt so bad that the light bothered her- or both, the poor thing. Calpurnia closed Atticus's curtains, but knowing that total darkness scared Scout, she lit one of Atticus's reading lights and partially shaded it with a towel.

Scout became visible again. She still had chills though, and she felt the weight of the bed dip down as Cal sat down next to her and began to rub heat into her arms. 

Scout was reminded of the last time somebody did that for her, and in her woozy, achy state with the dim light of the room she became confused. She missed her friend, who had so little but gave her so much of her time and care when she could. It scared Scout to not know if the young woman was okay, but it felt like she was right there next to her... Was being home just a dream brought on by her fever?

"Mayell-" The end of the name fell away as Scout's eyes flew open and she caught herself, heart skipping a beat. "May I have some water, please?" she corrected, and Calpurnia obliged, fetching her a glass. She didn't insult Scout by trying to help her drink again, but Scout did have to use both hands for the glass to be stable.

Scout mentally noted that she would have to take extra care in her current state to not let anything slip about Mr. Ewell. That was too close of a call.

Jem arrived home from school, and Calpurnia hurried off to finish preparing lunch. Jem stopped by to say hello to Scout, and on the topic of her sickness he said,

"You really can't catch a break, can you?"

He seemed less pitying and more baffled, even annoyed, and Scout appreciated that. She shared his annoyance at the higher power above, presumably God, who was continuing to kick her while she was down. Scout had been questioning some of God's methods lately, but doubting him too much would just be asking for more trouble, so she tried not to. For that reason, and because it made her sad to think about everything she had done wrong in her life to make him so mad at her.

When Jem left to head back to school Scout was comforted by the knowledge that he was safer than she had thought before, thinking back to what she remembered of her earlier conversation with Atticus.

Discomfort promptly returned when Calpurnia brought her food and she dry heaved over the side of the bed, unable to stomach even the idea of eating. As she regained her bearings, all she could think was that if this stupid illness caused her tentative progress with food to regress as well, she was going to punch something.

Atticus's phone call with Dr. Reynolds revealed that frustratingly, he was also out of town, but Atticus was given instructions for Scout's care and to carefully monitor if her illness got worse. He shared these instructions with Calpurnia. Scout's symptoms were common enough for this time of year, but with how weak her body was, this very well could evolve into something dangerous. 

She would need to have a bath for Calpurnia to check her for infected wounds, and Atticus was to fetch medicine set aside by Dr. Reynolds' maid later that afternoon. But first, Calpurnia finished fixing the cot for Scout, who protested when it was time for her to be moved from the bed.

"Now, we can't have you hoggin' up Mr. Finch's bed, Scout, 'specially if you're fixin' to be sick again," said Calpurnia as she gently tried to pull back the bedclothes, and Scout stubbornly pulled them back into place. "It's nice enough already that he's lettin' you stay in here. Your cot will be just as warm in a minute, I promise."

Scout knew she wouldn't be able to win this battle, but she really wanted to stay. She knew that with the state she was in she wouldn't be able to keep her guard up, and maybe she didn't have to do that here- the place she fled to when she was even younger the first time thunder rolled too loud overhead, or on the few rare occasions when she had bad dreams and Jem didn't feel like the right person to pester about them. The bed smelled like Atticus. It made her feel safe.

"It's alright, Cal." As if summoned by Scout's thoughts, Atticus had entered the room. "She can stay. I reckon this mattress is more comfortable."

Scout smiled in gratitude and turned so that her cheek squished against the pillow.

"That's mighty kind of you, Mr. Finch," Calpurnia conceded. "What do you say, Scout?"

"Thank you Atticus," said Scout, wishing that she had thought to thank him on her own accord before being prompted to.

•••

After Scout's bath, it was determined that none of her wounds appeared infected, and Calpurnia was especially relieved, since she had been in charge of keeping them clean.

The hot water soothed Scout's aches and chills, so she didn't mind the extra time it took when Calpurnia made her soap all over twice, drawing fresh water in the tub for each rinse. Baths following Scout's time in the basement had been tense things due to the pain of cleaning her wounds and her aversion to being touched, but today her drowsiness helped her relax, even leaning into Cal's scrubbing rather than pulling away from it. Scout was only annoyed at the fact that her right calf with the cast had to stay out of the water, as usual. And when the rest of her body emerged back into the cold air to dry off she was miserable.

Atticus didn't help her mood by announcing that he would be heading back to work. He could not afford to continue taking off as much time as he had been. His colleagues and clients, sympathetic to his family's situation, had offered him a generous grace period, but there was only so much they could do.

Atticus had to remind himself that his family's welfare wasn't his task to bear alone alone. Calpurnia, the anchor and saint she was, insisted she had everything under control in the household, and he believed her. Calpurnia had always been so much more than just a cook to the Finches, fulfilling the duties of housekeeper and nanny to the children, having looked after Scout and Jem since they were babies. She played an integral role in their upbringing, and Atticus always held her in high esteem. Alexandra's lack of respect for Calpurnia became a source of strain in his relationship with his sister.

Lately Calpurnia had been going above and beyond in her assistance with Scout's care, and Atticus felt even further indebted to her. In addition to keeping up with household expenses and feeding his family, Atticus needed to work to pay Calpurnia for her dedication.

He knew his sick daughter would be taken care of, but it didn't make leaving her any easier.

Scout was smart. She understood that Atticus needed to work, and that his job was important. She knew that the country grew poorer by the day, and that her family was poor because the farmers were poor, so they were lucky to have shoes to wear and a car in their driveway.

But the significance of all of these things evaded her as her father kissed the crown of her wet hair and disappeared down the hall. 

She didn't want him to go, but knew it'd be selfish to ask him to stay. It was selfish enough for her to want him to stay, when he gave her so much of his time already. Even so, more than usual Scout mourned her and Jem's tradition of running as far as the post office corner each evening to meet Atticus coming from work. Yet another motivation to get strong enough to walk again. Then again, that routine might be discouraged while her supposedly anonymous captor was still on the loose.

Since she was still shivering, Calpurnia tucked Scout back in with extra blankets, but left a cold rag on her forehead to bring her fever down. Scout thought that if she had never experienced real torture before, she could have been convinced that this was something close. As soon as she was alone, the rag was chucked across the room.

Scout was sulking and hadn't noticed a new presence in the room when the furry form of Rose Alymer leaped onto the bed by her feet, investigating. It wasn't often that she got this close.

Uncle Jack was clearly Rose Alymer's favorite, with Atticus being a close second, and she could often be found loyally trailing behind one of the two men. Calpurnia was also admired at first, only losing her appeal when she made it clear that she was quick with a broom and the cat was not welcome on the kitchen counter. To Scout, Rose Alymer was indifferent, but she was positively allergic to Jem, leaving a room when he entered, which gave Scout a small sense of victory. 

Perhaps it was the unusual location, or the bigger bed, or that Scout was incapacitated even more than usual, but Rose Alymer padded across the mattress towards her. Not wanting to spook her, Scout slowly unearthed an arm from the covers and offered her a loose fist, which she sniffed. Apparently appeased by whatever her nose revealed, she then took another step forward and rubbed her cheek on Scout's knuckle, pressing boldly enough that her lip pulled up, revealing a glimpse of small sharp teeth. Scout smiled, and Rose Alymer then marched right up to her face and smooshed the top of her little head against Scout's cheek. She couldn't help but laugh, but the sound didn't scare off the cat, who turned back to Scout's hand, brushing by it as if showing her how to pet her. Scout obliged, admiring her soft, yellow fur. After a moment, Scout whispered,

"Can I call you just 'Rosie'? Would you mind terribly? 'Rose Alymer' is quite a mouthful."

Happy purring vibrated through the still air, which was an answer enough for Scout that Rose Alymer wouldn't mind at all.

Scout didn't have the energy to continue petting her for very long, but the cat didn't seem offended, instead tucking into where Scout's free arm had moved the covers aside. She laid down, tucking her paws beneath herself, and Scout could hardly believe her luck; that this creature would want to be so near her, especially when she was used to mistreatment by children. It must have taken a lot of trust.

Maybe Rose Alymer was just leeching off of Scout's heat, the same way Scout placed herself in the sun before. Or she fancied herself a doctor like Uncle Jack, and she could tell that Scout was sick- or that she had been sad. Scout had heard before of animals having intuitions like that.

Either way, she was a good doctor, because her purrs were a soothing rumble as Scout dozed off.

•••

When Atticus returned from work, Jem was laying on the temporary cot in Atticus's room with a sports magazine in his hands. Rose Alymer had left. Scout's face was flushed and frowning. She looked so small sleeping in Atticus's double bed. A bucket filled with water sat on the floor, and a wet rag was folded on Scout's forehead. Jem started, 

"We've been takin' shifts, she keeps on-"

Scout interrupted wordlessly by peeling the rag off and tossing it to the ground with a mild splat.

"...throwing the rag," Jem finished his sentence with a sigh. Scout grunted and turned in her sleep.

"She's slowin' down now though, that one lasted a whole ten minutes. She has a better throwin' arm asleep than when she's awake," Jem joked as he tossed the magazine aside and pulled himself off of the cot. His humor reminded Atticus of Jack's bedside manner. "Earlier she managed to hit both me and that same spot on the wall, multiple times, with her eyes closed," he gestured to the far wall and sure enough there was a darker spot where the wallpaper was still drying.

Jem went to pick up the rag and dunked it back in the water, wringing it out, and said, "I can't tell if its helpin' or not. She clearly doesn't like it."

"I can see why," Atticus remarked as he took the wet rag from Jem and felt how cold it was. There must have been ice in the water earlier.

"I am sure it is helping, thank you for doing this. I can take it from here, though." 

"It was Cal's idea," Jem demurred, rubbing the back of his head. Atticus's words were an invitation for Jem to leave if he so wished, but he lingered instead, worry drawing his brows together as he eyed Scout's violently rosy cheeks. "Okay," he nodded, added a quick "Thank you!" and retreated from the room before Atticus could ask him what was on his mind. Atticus saw that he left his magazine on the cot in his haste to leave.

Atticus picked up the bucket of ice water and brought it around to the other side of the bed. He placed it on the nightstand, took off his shoes, and sat himself on top of the covers, making sure to give Scout as much space as possible. She let out a small groan when Atticus held the cold rag against her forehead again. He knew that this was the only way to make sure she kept it there. He had spent plenty of hours this way in the armchair in Scout's room, from holding ice to wounds to bring down swelling, to applying warm washcloths to help bruises heal more quickly, and he had become quite proficient at it. He could read aloud the paper in one hand while holding a warm compress to Scout's eye with the other.

A few minutes later Scout tried to move her head away from the rag, but Atticus held fast. She whined again. Cal had told him that Scout seemed more receptive to touch today, so Atticus tentatively used his free hand to stroke her hair as an apology. She sighed and her breathing slowed. Atticus's mind was taken back to the early morning in January when she first came back home. 

At the time, he had no idea how much pain she was in. She had told him in her raspy, trembling voice that she thought she was dying, and he still didn't understand. The sheriff's coat hadn't been opened yet. She was wrapped in blankets in Atticus's lap and he was reading a boring column in the paper to try to lull her to sleep, but she was too on edge.

Despite Atticus's assurance that she could rest, Scout kept her eyes open, and he could tell that it was difficult for her to do so. She kept on looking around the room, eyeing the windows and turning her head to any new noises, like a loud crackle of the fire or a bump Calpurnia made in the kitchen. Her blinks became longer and slower but she still remained awake and wary.

Atticus eventually set down the paper and tried gently running his fingers through Scout's greasy hair. He remembered it helping his late wife when she was stressed, and he hoped it would work for his daughter. It seemed like it was. She was certainly breathing more smoothly, and her eyes started closing for longer periods of time. He avoided the many knots so that he wouldn't accidentally tug on her hair.

He had been doing this for a couple minutes when Scout's eyebrows suddenly furrowed and when she opened her eyes, he saw that the held back tears in her eyes from earlier had returned.

"I'm sorry," she rasped, looking at the ceiling.

"What are you sorry for?"

Scout looked up at Atticus now and it seemed like she couldn't find the words. "I- I think I did somethin' wrong... I... Nevermind. Can you just read again?"

"Of course." Atticus didn't know what to make of her words, but he didn't want to ask her more questions when her voice was so hoarse, and she so clearly needed comfort, not an interrogation. She was home now, thank the heavens, he would have all the time in the world to talk with her. So he began to read for her again as she asked, and she soon fell asleep.

After half an hour and a re-cooling of the towel, Scout stirred. The roughness in her voice took Atticus aback, given his previous train of thought.

"I'm cold. Can we stop?"

"Not until your fever is down, honey."

Scout let out a huff, but didn't have the energy to argue.

A silent moment later, she drowsily confessed, "I wish you didn't have to go to work," then she looked embarrassed, her face somehow reddening even further. 

"I wish I didn't have to go either."

That was the second time that day he had surprised Scout by agreeing with her.

"Don't you like helpin' people?"

"I do, but I'd prefer to stay here with you and Jem and Cal."

"I thought you might be tired of helpin' me all the time."

"No baby, of course not."

Scout looked doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I would never grow tired of helping you. Never."

Rather than smiling at the confirmation as Atticus expected, Scout simply looked at his face, trying to find the truth there.

Chapter Text

I didn’t have a body. I floated like some sort of ghost, watching as Atticus discovered locks of hair on the porch, presumably mine. They started to get blown away in the wind and Atticus chased them. What if that was all he had left of me?

Mr. Ewell held my hair back as I kneeled in front of the toilet, vomiting into it. With his other hand he patted and rubbed my back and shoulders.

"Get it all out, there you go."

He was being real nice to me, he didn't even sound annoyed. Usually when I got sick and couldn't hide it he punished me for it, for making a mess or wasting his food or just for being disgusting in general.

This time was different, and I vaguely recalled him whisking me into the bathroom since I could hardly stand on my own. Ah, I remembered now that he was being nice because he had forced me to drink something that had made me sick. He never apologized for anything, but the way he was supporting me now felt like an apology, and I felt cared for... until his hand moved lower to squeeze my backside, and I retched again.

I was laying frozen and alone on the basement floor. The stone floor and the blood in my veins had both turned to ice, every time I moved a new joint or limb I could feel the ice breaking. I didn't want to move but I had to, it felt like something was about to come after me. Or it was already here, just waiting. Biding its time. I needed to be able to fight it, I had to move, and I heard the sickening snapping and crackling through my body as I did so.

Hundreds of razor-sharp points pierced through my skin from the inside, and when they poked through they weren't clear like icicles but still blood red red red RED RED RED RED RED RED-

I awoke with a gasp to Calpurnia retracting a needle from my arm. 

"I'm sorry baby, I tried not to wake you."

I didn't hear her. My hands fluttered around frantically, feeling around my elbows and wrists and knuckles for where the frozen blood was poking through. My clammy skin lacked any perforations but I could still feel the phantom pain in my joints, in addition to the real throbbing from where the needle had been. Calpurnia held my arm to dab at the spot gently and I wrenched my arm away.

"It's done, it's done now. Easy, hon."

I was sinking into the earth- no, I wasn't, it was just the down and springs of the mattress below me giving way as I moved. The bed was always too warm and soft when I awoke from my dreams of cold stone floors.

Blood didn't freeze into spikes, it pooled beneath your thighs and it was dirty and bad and you had to get rid of it- it was important to be clean. If you weren't clean, you had to hide it, even if it hurt- That's why Mayella gave me the towel, so I could wipe away what her father had done to me... but there was too much blood. I didn't do a good job. They all could see it, they all knew...

"Alright, come on now, take it easy- Here's what we're gonna do, lets do this- slowly now, easy-"

Calpurnia breathed with me, as all members of the household had learned to do, and she stopped me when I went to itch the ugly scar beneath the bandage on my forearm by putting a cold wet washcloth in my hand. It was slightly shocking, but the cold grounded me to the present. My breathing slowed. I squeezed the rag and ice water dripped onto the covers on my lap.

"There we go, it's all done. You're all good, baby."

No one was touching me. The ground wasn't ice, I was in a bed. A large bed, not mine, but it was safe. It belonged to Atticus. It was harder to see with the curtains closed, but I could tell the sun had set. I lifted the cloth to cool my sweaty forehead.

"Not quite done, unfortunately," said Atticus, and my head whipped around to face where he stood beside the bed. I hadn't realized he was there. "You still have to take this as well. Then you can go on back to sleep."

I looked at the dark bottle and spoonful of medicine in Atticus's hands and grimaced. 

"If you hold your nose it won't taste as bad," he suggested, but I shook my head, thinking of how Mr. Ewell held my nose to force alcohol down my throat. I traded the cloth for the spoon and took the medicine without complaint. My throat was sore and the oily liquid lingered thickly. In fear of my steadfast grimace becoming permanent, Atticus had me drink some water.

Neither he nor Cal asked if I wanted to talk about my dream, kindly sparing me the routine of refusing them as I always did.

I struggled to fall back asleep afterwards, even though I felt my fatigue in my bones. I pushed aside the extra blankets that had been tucked around me, annoyed by them and the extra heat they generated.

It was just Atticus and I again, and he returned to his spot on top of the covers- as far away from me as he could get without falling off of the bed, it seemed. This time around I welcomed the cool washcloth he held on my forehead. I wanted him to pet my hair like he had earlier, but I didn't want to ask him to.

Atticus had a book to read. The silence was peaceful, only broken by the sound of the paper as Atticus periodically turned a page, but I couldn't help but fixate on the space between us. I had been noticing the distance more and more recently.

It seemed like ever since I got home, nobody wanted to be close to me.

Sure, my family and Miss Maudie would keep me company. They would move me from room to room, tuck me in, hold me still after my nightmares so I wouldn't hurt myself. They would check on my wounds, help me bathe and dress- well, the latter two tasks now primarily fell upon Calpurnia. Atticus hadn’t helped as much with things like that lately.

All the same, I felt a lack of closeness. Every cautious touch felt like it was out of necessity. Uncle Jack needed to help me with my exercises, or I would fall. If I wasn't escorted to the bathroom I wouldn't be able to go at all.

I was rarely alone. I wasn't being treated like a leper. Everyone was giving me all the kindness, dignity, and time they could offer. But there was some sort of wall keeping me at an arm's length from them. I wished they weren't so wary of frightening me. I wished I wasn't so easily frightened.

I just... I felt a new kind of longing inside of me. Well, not a completely new longing. It was a feeling which I recognized from before, which was why it filled me with such dread. I felt it in the basement, when I was freezing with cold, and I wanted Mr. Ewell to hug me.

But this was different. It was different, right? Wanting a hug from Atticus?

I hated that I wasn't sure.

Atticus and I had been so close before, routinely showing physical affection- dry kisses on the cheek, being rocked in his lap with his arms around me, sharing the swing and examining the wisteria vine at the end of the porch. Oh, just thinking about it made me feel like my heart was reaching out for something... Running with Jem to greet Atticus as he returned from work, him catching me and swinging me high. Carrying me to bed when I was too tired to go myself, even though back then I was perfectly capable of walking. 

It was normal then, it felt right. The absence of it now when I needed him the most left an aching hole in my chest that I couldn't fill.

Atticus said that what happened to me wasn't my fault, then why was everyone punishing me for it? Why had everything changed? The explanation that flooded my mind was that I had done something to make Mr. Ewell do what he did to me, and everybody knew it. I did something wrong. 

The voice in my head was really loud, and really mean. It didn't help that I was miserable with fever, so the usual defenses I had against my darker thoughts were weakened. They often took the form of Mr. Ewell's whispers and sneers as he crooned foul words into my ear. I used to think I could block him out, but how could I, when his words and my thoughts were one and the same? His voice had poisoned my mind, telling me in baser terms that I was repulsive and needy, pushing away the people around me then pathetically grasping at them to stay. He accused me of missing him (Why else would I be thinking about him all the time?), of missing our closeness, of now looking for someone to replace him. 

Thinking about that, and about the confusing, traitorous things I did, brought tears to my eyes. Because if I was truly disturbed by what had happened, shouldn't I wish to not be close to anyone? Thats what my family seemed to expect, and sometimes it was true. Sometimes I hated to be touched.

But not always. Not now.

I squeezed my eyes shut, glad Atticus wasn't looking, but at the same time, I wanted him to see, to see my distress and the turmoil inside me to help explain it, or tell me that it was okay. That I was okay.

I wanted Atticus to comfort me, to hold me tight in his arms like the child I was. But he kept his distance from me, like the others.

When I hoped for our reunion in the basement I imagined a tearful embrace, a hug to ground me and prove to me that I was really there. I imagined that everything would be alright after that. Instead, I could vaguely recall tentative arms carrying me and holding me as if I was made of broken glass.

Atticus was safe. Miss Maudie, Cal, Uncle Jack, Jem, and Atticus were all people who cared about me, who would protect me from harm, who would never think of hurting me the way Mr. Ewell did- even if I had to actively remind myself of that every day. I had to make myself believe it was true, because without that trust I would have nothing.

I thought again of that hole inside of my chest, that aching place that felt like it was both reaching out and sinking inwards. Something told me that being close to Atticus and the rest of my family would fix it. Breaking down the barriers that separated us would make me whole again.

But to go to Atticus now, to initiate the comforting contact that I missed... It was risking too much. I didn't want to do something wrong that would change things again, for the worse. If there was a chance that me being close to Mr. Ewell caused his actions, or caused him to look at me in a way he knew he shouldn't... I didn't want to make anyone want to do that to me again.

Then I realized that I had just made a test for myself and failed it.

By not going to Atticus when every instinct willed me to, I was declaring to myself that I didn't trust him. At that very moment, he was holding a cool washcloth on my forehead to keep my fever down, and likely had been doing so for hours, out of worry for my health. And all I could do was think so lowly of him, betraying him in my mind.

It wasn't true. It wasn't. I trusted Atticus with all of my heart. I wanted to hug him and drift off knowing that I was safe in his arms, sure that when I opened my eyes he would still be there.

My thoughts went in circles, made only more tumultuous by my headache. The feeling in my chest was now tight and twisting, and instead of reaching outwards it suddenly reached up and clenched my sore throat, forcing me to swallow hard, and before my thoughts could manifest into tears I tried to shut them out. When I had to shut things out in the basement I focused with everything I had on a better place- but now, my better place was right here. With my family.

I focused on the weight of Atticus's hand on my forehead, consoled by it.

I then thought about every pain in my body, oddly consoled by that too. If I was going to be such an ungrateful, faithless wretch, at least the universe had found a means to punish me for it. I wasn't able to 'catch a break' because I didn't deserve one.

Before my body mercifully let me doze off, another doubt reared its ugly head. 

Who was I to assume that Atticus would even want to hug me anymore?

Scout had chills again, so she was wrapped back up in the covers, with the new addition of Miss Maudie's Christmas quilt that had been fetched from her room. 

To give Scout her space, Atticus had moved to the folding cot in the corner that Calpurnia had made up, where Jem's forgotten sports magazine remained. He set it aside with the intention to return it to Jem in the morning. The cot wasn't sized for a man of Atticus's height, but he managed. Here and there, Scout began to snore lightly and Atticus found it a little adorable but a little worrisome. It was normal enough for Scout to snore, but tonight he thought it might denote congestion or swelling in her nose or throat. He listened carefully for any changes.

He was on the brink of sleep himself when Jem entered the room quietly, announced only by the creak of the door and the rustling of his pajama pants. Surprisingly, Rose Alymer didn't leave the room upon his arrival, but that might've been because he was blocking the doorway. She looked like she was guarding Scout from her spot at the foot of the bed.

Atticus sat up and put on his glasses, giving Jem his full attention. The boy's face gave little away. Their conversation was quiet to not wake Scout.

"Atticus, Uncle Jack's not gonna be happy that we're keepin' this from him."

"You're right. But you know just as well as I do that he'll be on the first train back if we call, no matter what we say."

"Would that be such a bad thing? He didn't seem too thrilled about the trip in the first place. It's like he knew somethin' like this was gonna happen."

"Unfortunately, 'this' isn't something that Jack's presence would fix. Let him be angry with me, son. We can truthfully say you wanted to call him first thing." Jem had indeed, threatening to phone Uncle Jack himself when he came home for lunch and learned of both Scout's illness and Dr. Reynolds' absence. But clearing his own name isn't what Jem was worried about. Atticus continued, "He deserves this break for all he's done for us."

"He's only been here a week and a half. Do you want a break?"

Jem's hushed words were piercing, referencing Atticus's vigil that had begun the morning of January fifteenth- no, Halloween night. If Atticus wanted his brother to have a break after only eleven days of caring for Scout, what did he want for himself?

I thought you might be tired of helpin' me all the time.

"I do not."

For the second time that day, Atticus's answer was resolute.

"Then why are we making him stay away when all he wants to do is help?"

The shaded lamplight of the room didn't quite conceal the upward furrow of Jem's brow, so tightly wound. His voice stayed low, but it wobbled with desperation- a greater emotion than the defense of his uncle warranted- and Atticus realized that the boy wasn't just talking about Uncle Jack anymore. Though Atticus couldn't read his mind, Jem's words betrayed his sense of inadequacy from the past few weeks; feeling like he couldn't do anything for Scout, or feeling like he always made things worse.

Adding insult to injury, when Jem stepped closer to Atticus's double bed Rose Alymer leapt off of it, dashing around his feet and out the door, effectively abandoning her post. To Jem, Scout looked more vulnerable without the cat there.

"What do we do if her fever doesn't come down?" Jem whispered, shifting on his feet. "Is she gonna be okay?"

In that moment, there was a crack in Jem's usual bravado.

For Jem, the forced swagger that comes with the transition into adolescence had been joined by a dogged determination to appear unshaken by... well, everything that had been happening within his family lately. Atticus faulted himself mostly, since he had told Jem that they had to stay strong for Scout.

He supposed that having another man in the house for Jem to mold himself after was also shaping his character in new ways. Atticus noticed Jem adopting some of Jack's mannerisms, such as being quick with a joke to ease tension in a room, and taking a new interest in (and responsibility for) the medical side of Scout's care, despite his squeamishness. And it was clear that all three of the Finch men loved to make Scout smile.

None of them were setting a good example of talking about their troubles, though. And just when Atticus happened to sit down earlier that day to try to do so, Scout was too busy trying not to faint in front of him to listen. It was no wonder Scout wouldn't tell them when she was hurting. Atticus needed to remedy that, and he planned to.

"Come here, son." Atticus patted the cot. Jem sat beside him and leaned against his shoulder. Atticus wrapped an arm around him. They both let out a deep breath at the same time, then smiled slightly at their coordination.

"She will be alright. You likely were too young to remember, but you both have been sick like this before. It was scary with how young you were, but Cal and I were able to manage with instruction from Dr. Reynolds, as we are now. Even then when he was available, the doctor said it wouldn't be productive for him to be here just to wait with us. I don't feel justified asking Jack to do the same," explained Atticus, his voice a low rumble.

"I know the circumstances are different now. We do have to be watchful, but the fever has to run its course. The medicine will help make it easier for her. She should be better even before Jack returns. If her fever hasn't broken by then, then we have to take further action."

"And then Uncle Jack will be cross with us," Jem added.

"And then Uncle Jack will be cross with us," Atticus repeated in affirmation. "In his way. Nothing we need to be worried about, though."

Both of Atticus's children were too young to not seek help. Jem was too young to share his furrowed brow. Despite him temporarily taking turns as a caretaker and his similarities to Atticus's brother, Jem wasn't Uncle Jack, nor was he expected to be. He was just a boy, young and scared, and he shouldn't have to deal with any of this stress. That was Atticus's job.

"It's not time to worry yet."

Jem nodded at the familiar words, trusting that Atticus wouldn't lie, especially about something like this.

They both knew that they would worry, nonetheless.

Atticus was conflicted, since he knew that Jem wanted to help. Not being able to help was hurting him, he could see that now. Where was the right balance between letting him be a kid and letting him be the man that he wanted to become? Was letting him take more responsibility onto his shoulders the only way to give him some sense of control? Or would it just feed into Jem's idea that it was his fault that Scout was kidnapped, and that he had to make up for it, somehow?

Atticus had a lot of thinking to do, but it was late. Jem had school in the morning.

Atticus gave Jem's shoulders a squeeze before they both made to get off the cot. Scout stirred at the squeaking metal and her snores sputtered like the tiniest of car engines.

"Is Jem here?" She sounded half asleep still. 

"Mm-hm," said Atticus as he picked up the sports magazine and put it in Jem's hands.

"Hi, Scout," said Jem.

"Hm," Scout sighed happily.

"Sorry to wake you," Jem added, but Scout was already back asleep. Atticus escorted Jem back to his own room and tucked him in.

None of them knew how frightening the next twenty-four hours would be.

Chapter Text

The next day, Atticus took the car to work, rather than walking as he always did. He stayed at the office for a mere two hours, then drove back home. He was too anxious to stay away any longer.

And yet, like he predicted, all he could do was wait. 

For all her inner lamentations regarding Atticus’s absence yesterday, Scout hardly noticed his early return, nor was she able to enjoy his company. She slept away the morning and afternoon- or, at least she tried to. She fell asleep frequently but jolted awake from fever-induced dreams just as often, and Atticus could see her holding back tears every time. Rose Alymer was put off by this behavior and had made herself scarce. 

Scout had no remaining energy to resist the cold washcloth anymore. She also had stopped swimming around the double bed, trying to find a spot where the sheets were cool, as she had been before. When Calpurnia administered her medicine- both kinds again, one with the needle and one orally- the girl didn't even flinch at the needle. It became one minor twinge in a sea of sore muscles.

After that, Calpurnia couldn't seem to keep still. She alternated between standing at the stove, fixing a pot of soup for Scout to eat (that she knew Scout would most likely reject), and sitting in a chair beside the bed, watching along with Atticus to see if her condition changed.

•••

 “I don’t know.”

When first asked about how often she was given food, Scout was at a loss, so Dr. Reynolds prompted, 

“Every day?”

She shook her head in a definite ‘no.’ 

“Every three days?”

She shook her head again. 

Atticus thought he felt his stomach growl, as if in sympathy. Though nowhere near as monstrous as Jem’s, Scout did have quite the appetite before, and Calpurnia’s cooking had accommodated them both. The sudden lack of sustenance for so long must have been painful. 

“A week?”

Scout shrugged, looking annoyed at this point.

“I said I don’t know. I couldn’t really tell the time in there.

Does it really matter?”

•••

Atticus and Calpurnia eventually fed Scout some of the untouched soup from earlier- she hadn’t eaten in over a day, and maybe it would help the shaking. She didn’t protest much, too weak to resist, but it still felt like forcing her anyhow. Not five minutes later she threw it all up again, and then began sobbing, and Calpurnia felt so awful about it that she had to excuse herself for a few minutes. Atticus feared that the older woman had left for some privacy to cry as well.

As Scout's fever reached even higher, Atticus felt again the familiar helplessness of the worst months of his life, where he counted the days since his daughter was taken. Now she was right here, but he repeatedly pulled out his pocket-watch to track the passing hours as her pallor worsened. He gripped the watch tightly, as if he could hold time itself still.

He really wanted to hold Scout, but he had to put her needs first, and she didn't reach for him like she used to. Perhaps she never would. The thought made him feel like he was dying inside a little, but he would do anything to help her feel safe. Respecting her boundaries was the least he could do.

Atticus drove Calpurnia to the home of one of her neighbors to pick up an herbal salve that she swore by, and Maudie Atkinson watched over Scout in their absence.

After they returned, Scout began to cough in her sleep- a guttural, rattling noise that had Atticus on the phone with Dr. Reynolds in an instant. With his guidance, Calpurnia woke Scout and sat her up to listen to her back and chest. 

Even half asleep with her head drooped, once her nightgown was lifted up Scout feebly raised her arms to cover her chest- a defensive instinct that caused Atticus and Calpurnia to share a knowing, mournful look; The pain of a needle earlier hadn’t provoked her, but the feeling of being exposed did. However, Scout didn’t resist when her arms were guided back down with soothing words from Calpurnia. 

When prompted to cough again, her first attempt was half-hearted, but the second turned into a set of real coughs that helped them determine that thankfully the buildup was only in Scout's throat, not her lungs. The relief in the room was palpable.

Calpurnia's ear parted from the burning skin of Scout's chest and she pulled her nightgown back down into place. The girl slumped forward, wrapping her arms around the woman's neck. 

“Oh, hello Miss Finch,” Calpurnia said, surprised, patting her back gently. “Let’s get you back under the covers now, hm?”

The hair that had fallen over Scout’s face fluttered with her breathy plea of "Stay," and she added “please,” as an afterthought.

“Alrighty then. That I can do,” Calpurnia obliged. She rocked Scout in her arms, humming low and soft. “You jus’ let me know when you want to lay back down, hon.”

Atticus tore his eyes away from the pair and excused himself to thank Maudie for her help if she hadn't left already. He instead found that Jem had returned from school for lunch, and Maudie had made sandwiches with items she found in the Finches’ kitchen. For all his timekeeping, he had missed his son's return. 

If Maudie wasn’t there, and Jem had returned late, or had not returned at all, how long would it have taken Atticus to notice? 

How could he be so careless?

Every time I woke up I wanted to cry from the pain that was in my muscles and joints and behind my eyes, but I resisted when I saw Atticus beside me. 

My dreams were vivid and most were too bizarre to describe. I barely remembered them once they were done, but one image had burned itself into my mind. It was behind my eyelids when I closed them, like the spots after staring at the sun for too long. I couldn’t keep my eyes open so I was forced to look at it.

It was almost human, but not quite. It made my stomach sink. Two black pinprick eyes above a widely grinning mouth with lots of narrow, sharp teeth.

Then, it was too human, all skin and heat and sharp stubble. It seemed like everything I saw had to relate to my bad memories somehow, trying to dig them up from where I buried them. The teeth changed and became familiar. I tried not to think about how Mr. Ewell bit me that night, many times, and did so many other strange things, and I still didn’t understand why.

Even now, safe in my room, my neck felt weird and vulnerable, like something was going to happen to it. So I covered my neck to protect it and felt my pulse beating, pressed against my hand. It was oddly reassuring to hold my own neck like that- it helped me feel more in control. It only backfired when I was falling asleep and my hand twitched and it didn’t feel like my own, so it spooked me.

Wide open arms at the bottom of the staircase. An unlocked door behind me. And the smile, the choice to walk back down to him and into his arms that felt synonymous with descending back into Hell. I wondered how different things would be if I had left Mr.Ewell then- no, if I had escaped then, when I had the chance. 

For one thing, I wouldn’t still be in bed.

Why did I have to think about him all the time? Even when I was delirious- especially when I was delirious. Why did everything lead back to him?

At some point I had been changed into a nightgown with shorter sleeves. Calpurnia rubbed some sort of lotion onto my arms and legs. It smelled like a tree, and I think it helped my muscles feel less achy. That was nice.

But things were getting worse. I was getting worse. It felt different from my fever in the basement. I woke up gasping from another dream and Atticus was assuring me that it was okay, I was okay, when I suddenly thought, 

What if I don’t wake up from the next one?

Mr. Ewell was in the next one. It wasn’t violent, but in it he got far too close and I couldn’t do anything about it. I woke up coughing and uncomfortable, slightly delirious still, but with a new certainty instilled in me because I knew that Atticus never felt like that, and he never would. There was a clear wrongness with Mr. Ewell I had sensed, even at the beginning, and the dream reminded me of that.

I often feared that I’d wake up back in the basement, but not waking up at all hadn’t seemed like an option since I returned home. I struggled to open my eyes to look at Atticus’s profile. He was sitting on the bed beside me, yet still felt so far away.

What if I died never having hugged my father again? All because Mr. Ewell was in my head, making me doubt. But he wasn’t really there. It was just me.

It was the simplest thing, and yet it was one of the hardest things I had ever done.

I needed to be strong.

”Hey Atticus?”

Atticus started at the small voice. He had been praying. Scout didn’t seem to be in a fit enough state to turn her head, much less speak. But she managed to prove him wrong, as she always did.

“Yes, hon?”

"Can you hold me?”

There was a brief pause as Atticus processed Scout’s request, which was enough time for her to lose all of her confidence and she backpedalled, 

"Its okay if you don't want to- you don't have to, I mean-“

"No baby, of course I want to." 

Before Atticus could think of the least imposing way to reach for her, with a surprising amount of strength Scout peeled herself from the sheets, crawled into Atticus's lap and tucked her head under his chin. Awestruck, he put his arms around her. 

"Is this okay?" 

Atticus felt Scout’s nod in response. Her back and her hair were damp with sweat but he paid it no mind. He began to rock her gently, and they stayed like that for a few minutes.

Scout scrunched her face in an effort to stop the tears that pricked her eyes. She pursed her lips to one side, and then the other, and twitched her nose, but it did her no good.

Due to their orientation, Atticus was only clued in when her breath caught and she hastily wiped her cheeks. Alarmed, he carefully turned her to see her face.

"Oh no, baby, what's wrong?”

"No no, I'm happy!" Scout sniffed. "I don't know why I'm cryin’.”

“Are you certain? If this is too much-“

“No- Yes, I mean- Please let me stay here with you.”

The tears burned on Scout’s face as they fell. Atticus wanted to wipe them away but was still unsure if he had caused them, so he kept his hands where they were on her shoulders. His wish to hold her made him careless, he scolded himself- even though she had initiated it- he should have known it would scare her.

“Of course you can stay. But are you sure you don’t know why you are crying?”

After a small round of coughing Scout shook her head, yet once she spoke she seemed to have a pretty clear answer. Drowsiness loosened her tongue and she found herself being more honest than she had anticipated.

“I thought it might feel like how it felt to be close to him. But it doesn't," she broke into a watery smile, the relief shining through her teary eyes. “I’m- I’m real happy it’s different. I knew it would be.”

Atticus didn’t know what to say. He was happy too, but the mention of Scout’s captor made his stomach turn. It hurt to know that he made her think of him, even though he had assumed as much already. He reminded himself that it was a good change for Scout to finally speak of the evil man, when she usually withdrew somewhere miles away in her mind at the thought of him.

Atticus let himself smile with her, and that was enough. She tucked her head back under his chin. 

Scout didn’t realize it, but she knew something close to how Atticus felt in that moment. She had felt the same way the day before when Rose Alymer chose to trust her and cuddle close, despite having been scared of and mistreated by children in the past.

It took a lot of trust, so much so that it felt like yet another miracle.

“Atticus, are you cryin’?”

Sure enough, he was. How she was able to tell before he knew it himself, without even seeing his face, he could not say.

“I suppose I am.”

Scout tried to turn her head up to look and see but she had a poor vantage point. Atticus felt her eyelashes brush his jaw before he got the message to pull back to let her gawk at him. Her eyebrows furrowed and she used her thumb to wipe away Atticus’s stray tear.

“Why?” asked Scout.

The feeling of a small, warm hand starfished against his face in concern would have been enough to make a grown man cry if he hadn’t started already. Atticus smiled at the question, his children turning the tables on him as always.

“Hm, I reckon it’s a couple things. I missed you, thats a big part of it-“

“I’m sorry,” Scout interjected.

“Hush now, no more ‘sorry’s.” Atticus put one of his hands over her own on his cheek and continued. 

“Another big part of it is that I’m happy that you’re happy, if you truly are,” Scout nodded. “And I’m sorry that it’s a teary sort of happy for the both of us.”

“No more ‘sorry’s,” said Scout, both parts mocking and sincere. 

Atticus smiled again, not without a familiar pang. Unlike her, he did have a lot to apologize for. He didn’t think he could ever apologize enough.

“Alright, you got me there. The last thing is that I haven’t slept in a while. Not sleeping makes it much easier to cry.”

Scout took in this new information with gratitude. With how little she slept now and how often she cried, that would explain a lot.

“Can we go to sleep then?”

“Of course.”

Atticus temporarily set Scout down to place his tear-splashed glasses aside, then reached across the bed for her Christmas quilt. He wrapped her in it, then gathered her in his arms again and held her close to his side, and she curled up against him.

“Is this alright?”

“Mm-hm,” said Scout. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am.”

After a moment, he added, “Please excuse my questioning earlier. It is great when you can say how you are feeling, but you never need a reason, nor an excuse, to cry.”

“Oh,” said Scout. For some reason Atticus’s words made her teary again. Her head hurt too much to think about why. “Tha’s good,” she slurred slightly, her eyes already closed. Atticus supposed that his earlier estimation of her strength was more accurate than she had initially shown it to be. She had a sudden burst of energy, used it, and was now out of it again.

Before long, Scout dozed off to sleep and Atticus felt her head wilt to the side against his chest. He gently brushed his knuckles against her cheek, feeling the warmth of her breath against the back of his hand.

•••

Afternoon turned to evening. 

Jem hadn't realized how reassuring it was to be able to hear Scout through the door of their adjoining rooms. He couldn’t stand the silence.

He knocked quietly on Atticus’s bedroom door instead of admitting himself this time. Scout frowned in her sleep when her father pulled away, letting out a small noise of disappointment. Atticus checked his pocket watch as he went to speak with Jem in the hallway.

"You should get on back to bed, son. It’s late.”

”Can I stay in here tonight?” 

"That probably isn't the best idea, in case Scout's illness is contagious. I don't want you to get sick as well."

"I was in there for hours yesterday, if I'm gonna catch somethin’ I probably already have it."

Atticus considered this, but looked unconvinced.

"You seem alright to me, and if that hasn't changed by morning you still have to attend class. This isn't like one of Scout's plots to get out of going to school, is it?"

"No sir," Jem shook his head, lips curling at the memory of Scout's old antics. 

Once she went so far as to pay a whole nickel for the privilege of rubbing her head against the head of Miss Rachel's cook's son, who was afflicted with a tremendous ringworm. It was a terrible plan, one that Jem only learned of when Scout later complained of being a nickel short, asking to "borrow" one of his. Thankfully the ringworm didn't take, but Scout felt gypped.

"Please? The cot is out anyways.” Not sensing any yield from Atticus, Jem’s face fell. “Okay. I understand. But if somethin’ happens… can you come get me?”

Atticus, alternatively, had already begun to concede. Maybe this was the start of letting Jem help, as small of a gesture as it might be.

“If she starts fussing I’m sending you back to your own bed. Sick or not, you’ll learn nothing after no sleep.”

He reopened the door for Jem and it took the boy a moment to realize he was being invited in. Atticus ruffled his hair as he passed by.

“She’s looking better,” Jem said quietly, his face looking hopeful. 

And he was right. 

It was nice to have a third pair of eyes confirm it, after Atticus’s own and Calpurnia’s. Scout had sweat profusely through the late afternoon and evening, and eventually her body started to cool down. She slept more soundly and moaned in discomfort less often.

Her fever had broken, thank the Lord.

After tucking Jem in on the cot, Atticus had barely even gotten back onto his own bed when Scout burrowed into his side, throwing her little arm over his torso.

Atticus hadn’t told her earlier what truly was the main thing that had made him cry. He was sorry enough that he had let her see him cry in the first place.

Up until that moment, Atticus felt torn apart thinking that Scout was going to die in this bed. He didn’t let her know that of course, he didn’t want to put that on her. He couldn’t let her see how frightened he was- how frightened they all were.

He had called Dr. Reynolds repeatedly, challenging the poor man over the phone more than he ever had with any professional in their own field. Because what if he was wrong? What if Scout did need to go back to the hospital?

She had felt so far away that Atticus felt like he was losing her all over again. It was a terrible thing to think, but with everything she had gone through… for all her stubbornness, he couldn’t blame her if she stopped fighting. Stopped holding on. And he was so afraid that she wouldn’t even have a choice, that her time imprisoned had weakened her body in a way she couldn’t come back from. 

But then she came back to him. Planted herself in his lap, showing him that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Praying earlier, Atticus had a minor revelation. He had been thinking about how he had lost his beloved wife to a heart attack. A health issue, a hereditary condition. Not a freak accident nor a case of violence at the hands of another person. Nothing he could have done. 

No way he could have saved her.

Maybe thats why doing nothing, waiting, felt like letting Scout die. It made him irrational. All of the waiting he had done since the jury went out over the summer had tested his faith.

When Scout started getting better he felt slightly foolish, of course. He owed Dr. Reynolds an apology the next time they spoke. 

As father and daughter held on to each other, Atticus felt like this was a turning point. Scout’s fever broke, and with it a barrier seemed to be broken down between the two of them. 

Maybe tomorrow things would change again, but he was so grateful to have this moment to hold her and show her that this closeness was safe. The helplessness he had been facing for months made him feel like less of a man, but today proved that he was still a father that a son and daughter would reach out to.

He leaned his head down to kiss the crown of Scout’s sweaty hair, and he held up his glasses for a moment to check that Jem was on his way to sleep in the cot.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Scout stayed tucked in close to Atticus’s side. Her temperature was still high, but not nearly as high as the day before. She finally was able to eat something so she was less weak and shaky. Jem was confirmed to still be in good health, so he left for school.

The complete lethargy that left Scout unable to move before (much less hold a conversation) had retreated to mere drowsiness, which she was more than used to at this point. Restless, agitated, and a little bit disoriented, Scout’s lowered fever now made her eyes bright and her questions bold. 

"Why'd you come home early for lunch yesterday?”

“Do you mean the day before last?”

“Oh. Yes, I’spose.”

"To be honest, I hadn't noticed I was early until you pointed it out to me. I suppose I was anxious to get home."

"Why?"

"Hm. How much of our conversation do you remember before you fainted?"

"Hey, I didn't faint-"

"Right, poor phrasing on my part. Question still stands, though."

"Yoouu... said somethin’ about... sand?” Scout knew she looked confused by her own response, and she caught Atticus's mouth twitching into a smile.

"You didn't catch very much then, it seems. I reckon that is for the best."

"Heyyy, that ain't fair!" She protested, her gravelly voice rising in volume. "You told me then, why can't you tell me now? It had to do with people in town or somethin'. I can't repeat it not because I didn't ‘get it’, I just don't remember it, thats all."

"'Isn't' fair, not 'ain't'," Atticus corrected. Scout’s face grew hot, and it wasn't because of her fever. "I've had some time to think it over since then. There are certain things that I need to take care of in town. It was kind of you to ask after what has been bothering me, but those particular concerns are my responsibility, not yours."

Since Atticus didn't seem to be listening to her, Scout looked away with the intention to stop listening to him.

"It's not that I don't think you're capable of understanding. You are intelligent and capable of that, even to a fault.”

Not listening to him didn’t last long.

"What do you mean by, 'to a fault'?"

“What I mean is, you can understand and stew over things a bit more thoroughly than most kids your age- and some adults, for that matter. And while that’s all well and good in the classroom, its not so great when you need peace."

"You sayin' I worry too much?"

"Something like that.” 

Pursing her lips, Scout bit back a retort. She thought she worried just the right amount for how much she had to worry about. But her head ached and she didn't have it in her to argue.

"Can you trust me enough to know that I will tell you what is necessary, but not deleterious to you? I don't want you to worry about things that are out of your control."

Everything seemed out of Scout’s control lately. And she was starting to think that it always had been.

She felt that Atticus was being tricky. Of course she trusted him enough, but to ask her to not ask questions- or to be complacent with the withholding of answers- was asking a lot. She didn't like to be kept in the dark.

Atticus, on the other hand, felt like he was digging the familiar hole again- how was he supposed to make Scout comfortable disclosing her problems when, for her own good, he couldn’t be transparent about all of his own?

Nonetheless, she nodded. After everything he had done for her, she felt that the least she could do was not give Atticus a problem about this. The act of backing down, though- being submissive again- made her feel a bit queasy.

"Thank you.” Atticus leaned over to kiss the top of her head, then returned to his place, but Scout was still pouting in indignation. 

Truth be told, she was going for the guilt trip, and it seemed to work.

“I’m not trying to chastise you for worrying, it is something I am guilty of as well.” He then added more softly, “I would like to share a part of the reason why I may have been anxious to return home, if you would allow me.”

Scout perked up at this, curious, and nodded again.

“The office, it is…hm, not ‘monotonous’, that’s not quite accurate. But it is easy to feel like I’m going back in time there.” Scout thought of Atticus’s quiet quarters in the Maycomb Bank building, which contained little more than a hat rack, a spittoon, a checkerboard, and an unsullied Code of Alabama. “Sometimes when I go to work I worry that you won't be here when I come back- its not that I think he is going to take you away again," Atticus interrupted himself, answering Scout’s unspoken question. He didn't have to clarify who 'he' was. "I know you're safe here. But I sometimes worry that I only imagined that you came home. Or that it is December again. Two impossible things to worry about, hm?“ 

That wasn’t the kind of information Scout was expecting- she thought it was going to be something about the town. But she appreciated it.

"I do the same thing. I think that I'm gonna wake up and find that this was all a dream, that I'm still in the basement." Scout fiddled with a button on Atticus's vest, as if to check that he was real. "Thing is, I never dreamed about home and you and Cal when I was down there. Thought about you all the time, but never dreamed about you. Is that weird?"

"Hm, that is interesting. Not weird, though."

"I worry about you and Jem too."

"I know. I know you, honey."

Atticus’s words hit Scout like a pile of bricks. 

Did he know her? Did he really? She couldn't help but feel lately that it wasn't true. If he could see what’s in my mind, I wonder what he’d say.

Scout went silent for a while, her cheek squished on Atticus’s chest, eyes cast somewhere far away.

"I want you to focus on getting better. Can you do that for me?”

That apparently was the wrong thing to say to break the silence.

“I already agreed to not askin’ questions, okay?” Scout burst out, using her hands to sit up with a grimace. “There’s nothin’ to 'focus' on! I just lay in bed or sit somewhere else and do nothin’, all day. I can’t-” Scout’s hoarse voice became more gruff with her frustration until she hunched over with a few dry coughs. Atticus scooted away to get her a glass of water from the nightstand, but when he turned back she had already deflated. 

"It seems like gettin’ better is somethin’ I'm not really good at, but there’s not much I can do about it,” she mumbled and turned over, facing away from him. 

Atticus assumed that this was Scout’s equivalent of leaving the room, bedridden as she was. With that thought, he was reminded of how little freedom she had. From being stuck in a basement to being stuck in a house… Had she even gone out into the yard since she was carried in? Atticus felt guilt again. She was probably going stir crazy!

Noticing he was still holding the glass awkwardly, he set it back on the nightstand and missed her flinch at the sound. There was a few feet of distance between them again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know we do things, we read and play games, and- you and Jem and Uncle Jack and Cal have been spendin’ so much time with me. I’m bein’ such a- I’m sorry,” Scout rasped.

“What did we say about ‘sorry’s?” Atticus asked.

“No more of them,” Scout conceded. She rolled back onto her back, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t know why I don’t hate him. I don’t know why I was mad at you.”

“You don’t hate the man who hurt you?”

“I- I don’t think so. Is that weird?”

“I don’t know,” Atticus answered honestly.

“I feel like I should.”

“I believe I hate him enough for the both of us. So you don’t need to take the effort.” Scout balked at these words coming from Atticus ‘It's not okay to hate anybody’ Finch. “Also, you have plenty of reasons to be mad at me.”

“No I don’t!”

“Yes, you do, so feel free to take it all out on me, if you need to.”

Scout crawled over, jokingly said “Argh!”, then pretended to lightly punch Atticus’s chest a few times. It turned out to just be an excuse to be close enough to lay down and rest her head on him again. As happy as he was to see this side of her again, his guilt returned. He really felt like he didn’t deserve this forgiveness and affection. 

He thought again about how Scout had been stuck inside for so long. 

“Would you like to go out today?”

She lit up. 

“Really? Where to?” Then she thought about Atticus having to carry her around town and frowned. “Uh, I don’t want to see people.” 

She didn’t want them to see her, really. Atticus caught both this and another underlying meaning, though he did not know it was a false one; The lie of Scout not knowing what her captor looked like made it so that any man who passed by could be him. It was a convenient prospect for Scout, under the guise of a frightening one. The threat of danger was a much better reason for hiding from society than mere embarrassment.

Sure, there was still Mr. Ewell, but unlike a crazed anonymous kidnapper, Scout was confident he wouldn’t try anything in town, in the daylight, when his name was still clear- clear legally, if not in the hearts of Maycomb.

“How about a drive?” Atticus suggested, and Scout agreed. He let Calpurnia know they were going out. He grabbed his hat and, to Scout’s great pleasure, brought Jem’s newsboy-style cap for her to wear.

The sun was white and the air was crisp and still when Atticus carried her out the back door and to the carhouse. He lifted her into the car, wrapped in her Christmas quilt. Scout appreciated his discretion when the likes of Stephanie Crawford lived across the street. She felt a little silly wearing her nightgown out of the house, but by not changing, it was a guarantee that there was no chance Atticus would take her out of the car to see people, and that put her at ease. They didn’t even bring her shoes.

Scout was sat on a pillow in the front seat with a couple of blankets swaddling her, and Atticus was glad for it when she insisted that the window remain rolled down, despite the cool day. He pushed back her hair and fixed the cap on to keep her bangs out of her eyes.

She squinted in the light, watching the houses pass by. Familiar landmarks, the edge of their old summer play boundary. They drove by the Radley place and toward the school yard. That was good, if they had gone the opposite way they might have retraced the route Scout took to escape and she didn’t know how she would handle that.

Atticus drove very slowly to not rock her around too much, noting how she leaned against the door for support.

He rarely took the car out but for business out of town, and this drive felt so different from the recent drives he spent searching for Scout, or taking her to and from the hospital, or driving a solemn Jem alone to school. His little girl was in the passenger seat now, looking out the window. It was surreal.

The air smelled different. I felt very awake. We passed the Radley place and my mind buzzed with questions.

Would Mr. Nathan get in trouble if he actually shot Mr. Ewell? Did I even want Mr. Nathan to shoot him? Yes, of course I did- especially if Mr. Ewell was going to break his end of our deal and hurt Jem.

But did I really want Mr. Ewell to die? That was a ridiculous question, of course I did... right? Because I wanted him gone- even if I didn’t hate him. Didn’t everyone else want him to die? Didn't Atticus?

Actually, I wasn't so sure. Everyone wanted my captor to go to jail, that I knew. Everyone except for Mayella, who said she needed him. She and her siblings all did.

I didn't need Mr. Ewell to go to jail, I just wanted him to leave us alone, which is what he was doing. I felt like I was supposed to want him dead, though. 

I started with the first question, breaking the peaceful quiet of the drive.

"Will Mr. Nathan get in trouble if he shoots the man? If the man goes after Jem?"

"Not if there is still any justice left in the world."

"Is there?" Out of everyone, Atticus would know. It was his job, after all.

He hesitated, which wasn’t reassuring. 

“Yes, there is. In this world, and the next. Though the judgement of the next is more infallible.”

Great, now we were talking about religion, somehow. I didn’t prod more on that subject.

We passed the empty school yard, as class was in session, and I realized I was still scared for Jem, despite Mr. Nathan Radley’s vigilance. I voiced my concerns to Atticus.

“His teacher knows to call the sheriff immediately if he doesn’t show up for class. But yes, I was planning to loop back in time to pick up Jem for lunch today, whether he likes it or not. Reckon it’ll be a good start, get him used to driving with us. Perhaps you could try speaking to him about it as well. He might listen to you."

I hummed, considering this. Jem never listened to me, on account of my being a girl, being younger, and being a pest. But maybe in my absence he had forgotten about these things.

Buildings grew further and further apart as we drove on. 

I tapped two of my fingers on the ledge of the car window, making my hand look like a person running and jumping along the passing scenery. I entertained myself that way for a while before I had to use my arm to brace myself.

My weight was directly on the injured place between my legs, which I was used to whenever I sat on a kitchen chair and could shift my weight, but the jostling movements of the car were uncomfortable. The pillow made it worse because it wasn’t completely stable. As sick as I was of the bed or sofa, I missed the option of being able to keep my weight on my back. 

Something in the passing breeze tickled my nose, but instead of sneezing I ended up coughing again and yow, the clutching of my crampy stomach hurt.

The view was nice though, so I kept my watery eyes on it.

As Atticus and Scout got further from town, the countryside opening up was lovely, but the road got rockier and bumpier. Each jolt was made more pronounced by Atticus’s slow and steady pace, and speeding up didn’t help either. 

Scout finally gave in asked if she could lay down, and Atticus immediately pulled the car over to help her get situated.  “I don’t have to stretch out, just don’t wanna be sittin’ up anymore.” So she stayed in the front seat, and soon she was laying across it with her head on the pillow by Atticus’s thigh with her knees tucked in slightly, feet up on the seat. She was still looking up out of the windows, though her view was mostly sky now.

“I could fall asleep like this,” said Scout, cocooned by her mountain of blankets. 

“You may, if you’d like.”

“Nooo-ooo.” She wasn't going to let this outdoor excursion go to waste.

As they went along, Scout’s mind stewed up more questions. She thought about how nice it was to be close to Atticus, how it had felt like something was missing but it wasn’t anymore. But she was confused.

Why was it okay for Atticus to hold her, but Mr. Ewell holding her was different? Was it because Atticus had never hit her? Well, by that logic, she couldn’t be close to Calpurnia either. Or was it because a subconscious part of her back then knew what Mr. Ewell wanted to do to her, even though Scout herself didn’t know it? The way he touched her was different, she knew that from the start. And she ignored it, pretended she was imagining things, because it was easier. Leaky memories of loneliness and confusion and guilt intruded on her speculation.

She didn’t want to ask Atticus about it, in case his answer made him change his mind and they weren’t able to be close anymore.

Her mind spiraled, and on an insane whim, she asked a different question, one that had bothered her since Dr. Reynolds’ explanation of her assault. Her voice crackled as she did.

“If married couples… do what the man did to me, don’t they have to be in love? Did he… does he love me?”

The innocence of Scout’s question and the sad confusion on her face when he looked down at her were almost too much for Atticus to bear. It was half a blessing that he had to keep his eyes on the road.

“It is preferred that married couples love each other, yes, though that is not always the case. There are many reasons for two people to marry and try to start a family. As for your second question, I… I can’t really answer that Scout. But… no, I don’t think so. You don’t commit acts of such violence towards someone you love. If you really love them, you don’t ever try to hurt them, or take advantage of them. The man who did this was hateful and cruel. Hurting you this way was more likely an act of power, a way to make himself feel bigger. I suspect that his hate may have been towards me, and he took it out on you, and for that I am so sorry.”

Scout was staring at the roof of the car. She thought she would cry. Instead she felt hollow.

“He said he did.” 

Mr. Ewell had told her that no one could ever love her except for him, to be exact. Scout, who had never felt more helpless than she had in that moment, believed him. The words replayed in her head whenever she gained an ounce of pride in herself, humbling her down to the dirt.

“He may have said it was love, he may even have believed he was loving you, but that wasn’t love. It was abuse. I don’t want you to come away from this thinking that is what love is.”

If Atticus thought that the man didn’t love her, he was probably right. Scout felt foolish. But things still didn’t add up- why would Mr. Ewell hold her and kiss her if he didn’t? God, why did she even care? The man was an insane, lazy drunk with anger issues who would never pick on somebody his own size. Nothing he did made any sense. She had to stop thinking about it.

The mood of the car was absolutely abysmal. Scout was determined to not let her stupid, depressing questions ruin this outing. She was determined to move on.

“Atticus, why is the sky blue?”

••• 

They got back to the school yard right before Jem got out for lunch. He was in the seventh grade and went to high school, beyond the grammar-school building, so Atticus made sure to park in a spot where the boy would have to actively choose to ignore them. And Jem knew it too, when he saw the car. He didn’t know whether to be angry or worried as he half-ran over, looking back and forth over his shoulders for the -nonexistent- judging looks of his peers.

He swung the door open and threw his bag inside, slipping inside after it.

“Whats wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Jem.” Okay, no need for worry, Jem decided. Anger, then.

“Then why are you- Oh, hey Scout.” His anger towards Atticus quickly dissipated when Scout’s head poked up over the front seat.

“We’re pickin’ you up!” Scout chirped.

Jem was distracted and pressed his back against his seat as some fellow town children who went home for lunch passed by. When Scout saw what he was looking at she shrank down below her seat again.

“Good Lord, you two,” said Atticus, shaking his head. He started up the car. As they pulled away Jem leaned forward, folding his arms under his chin on the front seat.

“That’s a lot of blankets,” said Jem.

“Yeah, we had the windows down earlier. I’m still sick, mind you,” said Scout. She saw Jem’s eyes move to the top of her head and knew what he was going to say.

“He-y, that’s mine!” 

“Oh, you can have it back,” Scout handed back Jem’s cap, the wind wasn’t moving her hair around anymore anyways. Jem put it on his on own head with a huff. “I didn’t take it, Atticus let me wear it.”

“Well obviously not, how would you have taken it?”

“Jem,” Atticus said sharply.

“Aw, he’s fine,” said Scout. “It’s true, ain’t it?” She couldn’t steal anything if she couldn’t even stand.

Jem thanked her for backing him up with a look and a pressed smile, then said, “How’re you feelin’, anyways?”

“M’fine.” She found interest in settling back into her pillow.

Atticus took Scout’s elusiveness as an opportunity to cut in. “That reminds me, there is something I have been meaning to talk to you both about.” He spoke with the air of a pre-composed speech, and the Finch children steeled themselves. “I would like you to try to be more open about how you are feeling. It makes things a lot harder, and a lot scarier when things go wrong.”

His chin lowered in Scout’s direction.

“You have to let us know when you are hurting, baby. Even if you are ‘used to it,’ or think it’s normal.” Scout internally cursed Calpurnia for ratting her out about that. “If you told us how you were feeling a few days ago we could have given you medicine then, and it wouldn't have gotten as bad as it did.”

Scout went red, feeling that she had messed up again. She wished that Atticus had talked to her about this before Jem got in the car. Jem was still leaning over the front seat since Atticus was driving slow enough.

“Atticus, she gets it, sir. You’re makin’ her upset.”

“I’m not just talking to Scout, son. This goes for both of you.”

His tone was warm, but both children were stunned silent, in the same way they were when Alexandra put Atticus up to talking to them about ‘living up to the Finch name.’ He recognized this and felt the urgency to soften, but he wouldn’t retract his statements as he did then. 

“I haven’t asked either of you to talk about what you’ve gone through,” Atticus took a breath, “…and I don’t intend to. ” 

Holy Moses, Scout thought she could have a heart attack in that moment where he paused.

“But I want to help you. You both have a lot weighing on you. You shouldn’t have to bear it alone.”

Scout and Jem waited until they were sure he was done. Was this the sort of thing they had to respond to in the affirmative?

“Okay.”

“Yessir.”

The assenting voices sounded off by his thigh and his ear. Atticus frowned at himself. He felt he came across much more harsh and formal than he intended to, but it just felt so important, he couldn’t afford for it to be up for debate.

To break the tension, Scout bombarded Jem with question after question about school until he got fed up with it. 

"You should save your voice, doesn't talkin’ hurt?"

“Mm-m, not anymore." Scout shook her head.

"I'm glad," Jem said dryly, not fooled for an instant. He reminded Scout of Atticus and Uncle Jack in that moment.

••• 

We had supper and Miss Maudie was invited over. I stayed back while Atticus drove Jem back to school, dismissing his complaints; Jem would rudely have to leave our company earlier than necessary if he walked, and Atticus was heading in that direction anyways to pick up Uncle Jack from Maycomb Junction. It baffled me how this logic was more convincing to Jem than the threat of running into our attacker.

Uncle Jack had missed supper when he arrived and he didn’t want to trouble Calpurnia, so he planned to go into town to grab a sandwich at the O.K. Cafe with Atticus. Atticus would depart for his office afterwards and Uncle Jack would return to us. I had the feeling that Atticus’s intention was to divulge the past few days’ events to Jack there, as he wasn’t the type to eat twice. They offered to take Miss Maudie and I along with them but we declined. The car ride was fine, but I still didn’t want to make an appearance in public, and Miss Maudie was polite enough to stay with me.

Uncle Jack's bag was still in the car, so he went out to fetch it while Atticus carried me to my bed- my own bed, not his, I noted, trying not to feel sad about it. Miss Maudie settled herself in the armchair beside it, looking quite at home yet still elegant. However, her snort and scoff was as unladylike as I'd ever seen when Uncle Jack, not one to break tradition, made a show of yelling from outside for Miss Maudie to come marry him as he would every Christmas. It was the first time I had witnessed this ritual at Maudie's end of it, and I braced myself as she called back, "Still can't hear you, Jack Finch!"

With seemingly untarnished pride, after dropping off his bag Uncle Jack stepped into the room to say farewell for now, and he dramatically tipped his hat to us as he left. Another sudden but unobtrusive movement, and I unmistakably flinched.

What did I think he was going to do, throw the hat across the room?!

Once we were alone, I queried Miss Maudie. 

“Miss Maudie, you like Uncle Jack, right?”

“Of course, but don’t tell him that. If he catches wise I’ll never hear the end of it.” Miss Maudie winked and smiled. Her gold bridgework twinkled.

“Even though you like him, when you’re around him, do you ever feel… scared? Like somethin’ bad is gonna happen?”

Miss Maudie’s eyes lost their playfulness and turned as sharp as a hawk’s.

“Why? Has he done anything to you, child?”

“What? No, no! That’s not- no.” 

“Just because I like him now, don’t think that I can’t change my mind if he’s ever laid a hand on you.”

“He hasn’t- well- no, not like that." 

I thought of Christmas and Francis again. Miss Maudie looked more and more concerned and suspicious by the second. I grew exasperated- It already stung to have people accusing Atticus of terrible things, I didn't want Uncle Jack to fall under the same suspicion just because I couldn't phrase things the right way.

“He didn't do anythin' wrong, and it’s not just him, it's just… it's everyone. Well, not everyone. Mostly just…” I trailed off.

“Men?” Miss Maudie asked gently. 

“Yes!” I breathed, relieved. Miss Maudie was a good friend to us Finches, and one of the few ladies who I felt akin to. Rather, I hoped to be like her, as I admired her greatly. And her eyes didn’t scare me when they turned serious. I felt secure in my choice to confide in her. 

“I feel like I'm goin’ crazy. I expect them to do things I know they would never, ever do- to hurt me the way that the man hurt me, which I now know is one of the lowest things someone can do, so how can I think that of them? Uncle Jack would never, it's so awful for me to think of him that way. I want to trust him. Atticus said that it- my jumpiness and stuff, was somethin’ with my mind, that I wasn’t used to being safe yet. And that it would get better. But it hasn’t.”

"You aren't crazy, child. That fear of being taken advantage of like you were is more common than you think. It is an unfortunate fact of our world, of being a lady.”

"Are we all scared that they'll do that to us?” Us. It almost slipped off my tongue without notice, that ladies and I were an 'us' now.

"To a very small extent, I believe so. It may not always be fear, but merely awareness. The moment we become aware of the way of men and women, even if we manage to ignore it, it's always somewhere in the back of our minds.” 

Miss Maudie's hand closed tightly on mine, and I said nothing.

“Jean Louise, its too easy to let one person warp your view of an entire group of people- that goes for not only the ranks of men and women, but different races too, though I think you may be more familiar with the latter idea.” I nodded. “I promise you that very few people are capable of such cruelty. Most men have the instinct to protect, especially those in our county. They will go to great lengths to protect you.”

I frowned, thinking of the speculations of investigators, all thinking that it had to be someone from out of town because ‘This sort of thing just doesn't happen in Maycomb’.

“Your existence might make some men here uncomfortable because with you, they failed. They failed to protect an innocent child from the worst of humanity. And some men won’t want to acknowledge that. They might blame others- The police, your father, even you, then face the fact that they didn’t do their duty, and they let someone of their own kind get away with this. But not a single person can say that you deserved it. No one deserves this, not the rudest woman in the world.” 

“But, people don’t know about… everything, right? They just know I was stabbed and kidnapped and hurt and stuff.”

“Well… yes. That is all that was confirmed in your statement.” Miss Maudie looked torn, then she fixed her face, and switched her tone. 

“I am not withering without my husband, may he rest in peace. I’m content in my independence here on God’s green earth and feel fulfilled in my activities. In this stage of my life, I of all people could disregard men, and discredit them. And so could you. But I will not.”

I had somehow forgotten that Maudie Atkinson was a widow. She was just Miss Maudie, to me.

“Trust is a mighty hard thing, child. Your trust in men is broken, understandably so. Let them try to make up for it. Let them help you. Don’t push them away. That being said…” Miss Maudie released my hand and patted it, looking firmly in my eyes. “Trust your gut. If any man makes you uncomfortable, they'll have to answer to me. Family, stranger, or president of the United States. It doesn't matter if you think I like them.”

Chapter Text

Sheriff Heck Tate was determined.

This would be only the second time he was allowed to search the Ewell residence, but he had circled the property often. He became nose-blind to the unpleasant smell of the town garbage dump, which he had searched thoroughly both before and after Scout’s reappearance. He had been hollered at by Bob Ewell’s children many a time, then by the man himself one day. As cordial as Ewell was during the first search of the place, he had gotten more and more aggravated every time since- understandably so, if the sheriff was honest with himself.

Obtaining a new warrant for the house itself was near impossible when other investigators were also sent to search it, and he had already had his chance, and he lacked a fresh probable cause.

The throng of outside investigation on Jean Louise Finch’s case was whipped up by many factors; the controversy of the trial, the reopening of old cold cases, her father’s role as a member of the state legislature (thus alleging the attack as a threat to government, which was a stretch, in Heck's humble opinion)- even boredom perhaps, from the corners of bordering counties who somehow had the authority to stick their noses in.

But the public interest in the Finches that had picked up then faded by the end of the previous summer, and had picked up and faded again in November, and then again in January, was all but faded now too. And good riddance, Mr. Tate would say.

Those far-reaching men didn’t know the town like he did. They didn’t know the people. They didn’t know Bob Ewell.

His house was investigated, but there weren’t many places to hide someone in such a small, rough cabin. There were no more instances like Mayella’s where the seven Ewell children were paid off to go to town, nor scared off the property by other methods. And Bob Ewell wasn’t the only man brought in for questioning.

There were many outspoken critics of Atticus who had loose alibis on Halloween night, as well as the members of the mob who had violent intentions at the jailhouse the night before the trial. Atticus was slow to identify the countrymen he remembered, but Mr. Underwood had a sharp memory, a good view from his window, and no such hesitations. The mob had seen Jem and Scout that night as they defended Atticus, and any one of them could have singled the children out as targets in that moment- the sheriff paid special attention to the burly man who Scout had kicked in the groin after he grabbed Jem (as petty of a motive as it would be, that kick could be one, nonetheless). In Maycomb County alone, Bob Ewell was not the only racist who was capable of violence and offended by Atticus defending Tom Robinson. Not by a long shot.

Ewell acted nervous and eager in his cooperation with the Sheriff, as both of them were aware of the implications of the trial and his actions following it- his public threat to Atticus, the day he stalked Helen Robinson, and his suspected attempt to break in to Judge Taylor’s place. To an outsider, Ewell could be seen as getting a wake up call to stop spewing threats and get his act together because of the possibility of him being blamed for something much more serious that he did not do. Mr. Tate didn’t think Bob was that smart. If he wasn’t guilty, he would have been haughty about it from the start. His initial too-easy helpfulness was unnatural.

This case should have been simple. Animals were simple, and the man who did this was nothing more than one.

When Scout first admitted that she didn’t know the identity of her captor, Mr. Tate was surprised.

Scout was the most puzzling part of all of this. The smartest thing would be for her to tell them the truth and it seemed like she was trying her best to do so. It was hard to think that a child of Atticus Finch could be a convincing liar. Scout was well aware of Mr. Ewell before Halloween, so if it was him, wouldn’t she tell them? All the sheriff could think was that if Ewell had gotten Mayella to lie for him, he could do it to Scout as well. The kid was smart enough to pull it off too, and he found himself convinced every time he interviewed her.

He had to remind himself that her bruises not just being on the right side of her face and body didn’t mean much in terms of clearing Ewell’s name ever since the trial, since he could have been more careful about which hand he used. Especially if he had been planning to let her go.

Mr. Tate tried to continue his investigation without prejudice, but with the dead ends Scout left him with, his gut always brought him back to Mr. Ewell.

He could lose his badge if he didn’t do this properly, and if he didn’t keep his badge, he couldn’t continue protecting this town to his full capabilities. He could lose Maycomb to the kind of men who insisted that Bob Ewell was just ‘a little rough around the edges.’ The sheriff was already being accused of personal bias due to his insistence to continue investigating in the man’s direction- even though Ewell should’ve been the most painfully obvious main suspect.

Mr. Tate was not one to dwell in conspiracy theories, but couldn’t help but feel like his hands were being tied because of political optics. After the discourse of the Tom Robinson trial, the county and state men didn’t want Mr. Ewell singled out again. Him being found guilty in this case would draw further unwanted attention to the fact that the outcome of the trial was complete disgrace. It was infuriating, the possibility that this pursuit of justice for Scout was being impeded in order to cover up another injustice.

So, Mr. Tate felt that this warrant was his last shot. It was born from the welfare office, which was investigating improper use of its relief checks. They were tipped off that the entirety of a check intended towards feeding a family of nine had been cashed in at the liquor store the previous night- it seemed that Mr. Fortner had finally gained a conscience, but only after the sale went through. Either Mr. Ewell had a full stash of green whiskey somewhere, or he was dead from alcohol poisoning. And his children had a way of crying from hunger pains.

The cramped size of the Ewell cabin is what had thrown the others off of its scent- if Mr. Ewell had Scout, they supposed he had to have been keeping her somewhere else. Somewhere larger, with an abandoned cellar or basement- one nice enough to have a restroom, if Scout was to be believed. The four irregular lumps of limestone that this place sat on were solid.

If Scout was lying, though, anything could be fabricated. The convenient detail of a bathroom might be her way of avoiding the embarrassment of admitting to less dignified conditions, like having to use a bucket or worse.

The only residence in Maycomb known to have a cellar belonged to the Misses Sarah and Frances Barber. Their cellar was checked a few times during the search for Scout, since the deaf sisters could have missed it being used right under their noses. However, it had remained locked and undisturbed ever since the Halloween before last, when the children of Maycomb thought it would be funny to take every piece of furniture from the ladies’ living room and hide it in the cellar. The fateful Halloween pageant this past year had been organized to curb such mischief, or at least to divide up the children’s manpower and ability to displace things in town.

Oh, how Heck Tate missed those silly small-town cases, where the only mysteries to be solved were of imaginary Syrian thieves or the buggy placed on top of the livery stable. Before the Halloween night when Maycomb became paranoid about knowing where their children were.

It seemed that the only children left to run wild now were the Ewells.

Beneath its ramshackle shell, the Ewell cabin was square with four tiny rooms opening onto a shotgun hall. Something about it had struck Heck Tate as odd upon his first investigation, but he couldn’t place it. He moved from room to room multiple times, glad to be rid of Bob Ewell’s twitchy scrutiny this time around. Ewell was off hunting in the woods, but his children milled about, some watching the sheriff through the windows, which were merely open spaces in the walls. Mr. Tate asked those inside the house to clear a room whenever he entered. They obeyed, but the younger ones made a game of it, immediately moving into a room when he left it, or scattering from one when he approached, amused by how he was circling so. He ignored them.

By going back and forth, back and forth, and looking like quite a fool to the Ewells, Heck Tate finally placed it. He thought the large chiffarobe was what made the room seem small, but it wasn’t. The two rooms on one side of the hall were slightly smaller than the others. The plank wall between them was much thicker.

With less effort than expected, Mr. Tate moved the chiffarobe aside. Something under it made it slide and not scuff the floor, revealing a doorframe with no door. Thinner planks were nailed to the inner lip of the doorframe instead. He ordered the Ewell children to stay out of the room while he went to his truck to get a crowbar, and they were all at the window outside when he returned. With the crowbar, he pulled back and carefully removed the planks.

And he found the green whiskey.

Rows of shiny bottles sitting on dusty shelves made up of sheets of hammered metal and smaller planks of wood, held up by bits of tree-limbs and tool shafts forced between the walls, with misshapen nails for further support. The closet was shallow enough that there was surely no room for a kid in there.

The only non-alcoholic content was a wrinkled brown paper bag, and inside of it were a few coins and small pieces of jewelry, too nice and untarnished to have been purposefully thrown away. Mr. Ewell or his children must have found them in the dump, and clearly had no intention of trying to return them to their original owners. The empty locket even had a surname on it, which would have made returning it an easy task.

The sheriff had found what he was sent for, but it wasn’t what he was looking for.

He shifted over to the wall space beside the door and put his hand on the wood, thinking.

Using a combination of tapping and prying, with the crowbar he created a large enough gap to pull away a plank there, and added it to the pile. There was some damage, but he’d take the hit. He pulled away another, and there was a wide enough gap to poke his head in.

The space was narrow, and only contained three thin wooden pillars supporting the roof of the cabin, some rat dung, and the missing door leaning against the wall.

Mr. Tate pried away another plank and squeezed in between. He could stand facing the length of the space without his shoulders touching the walls, but just barely. The door didn’t have a doorknob, nor any of its hinges. There were no scratches on it.

No evidence that Scout ever spent any time in that room, if you could call it one; there was hardly any space for a man and a girl anyways. Nothing matched her descriptions, except for the detached door- the door was enough to give him hope, though. (He didn't know that it was the wrong door, the bathroom door that she slept on instead of the entrance door, and that was why it wasn't scratched up.)

He later brought others, and they acknowledged the coincidence, but they saw nothing more than he did. All anyone could see was the secret stash of a dipsomaniac and a wide wall cavity. The closet that took advantage of the space could have been left over from the Prohibition, for all they knew.

After that, they asked Scout questions again. She held firm with her previous answers. Then, for the first time, Mr. Tate asked her straight if Mr. Ewell was the one who took her.

She said no. She said it firmly, then looked angry in the face of betrayal, since by asking this, the sheriff showed that he didn't believe many things she had said. His assurances from every angle that she would be protected and was free to tell the truth fell on deaf ears. As he left, she began to cry. Atticus looked disappointed in him as well.

Mr. Tate doubted himself. He knew he was frustrated with his failing investigation. Scout was home now, he should be moving his resources towards her protection and recovery. Maybe it was God's will that his instinct towards Bob Ewell had been beaten down by red tape; it prevented hasty, foolish action from himself.

And maybe a part of that gut feeling he had came from the knowledge that no matter who had really been responsible for Scout's kidnapping, he would always believe that the Ewells were largely to blame. Their actions had killed an innocent man, brought the attention and ire of the county onto Atticus Finch, and made his children a target. Was Mr. Tate trying to find the easy way out, railroading the child into accusing the town's most infamous pariah? He couldn't forget that Mr. Ewell was only representative of a larger problem.

The sheriff had seen plenty of kids lie, and adults for that matter. He also had seen how kids cry when they are trying to elicit sympathy and get out of trouble- upon second thought, he had seen the same from adults as well.

If Scout was lying, she didn't lie like them. So if she was, Mr. Tate wondered if something about her trauma made her believe her own words. There was a touch of that sense of trying to escape in Scout’s crying, swept up in genuine anger, sadness, and fear. It didn’t feel like a distraction. She left him as perplexed as ever. Until he had more pieces of the puzzle, he didn't want to pry deeper, as he didn't want to mess up the kid even more. He had already broken her trust.

Mr. Ewell admitted to his crime of hoarding and the misuse of relief checks, pleading ignorance to any guidelines on how to properly use them. But no, he didn't build the closet himself, he just fixed it up a little, and no, he wasn't going to show it to them when they first came to investigate because ain't a man got any right to some privacy, and he was hiding it from his kin, not the law, and Prohibition's over, ain't it? And no, he didn't know what was in the rest of the space—how dare the officers come in and tear apart his family home. They then offered to fix it, but he declined. Now that they had gotten it started and the cabin didn’t seem to be toppling over, he said he would go ahead and open that space up, make some more room in the house for his kids.

Before all of that though, in the moment when he first found the wall cavity, Mr. Tate tapped the wooden floor of it with his foot. He just had a hunch, and you couldn't arrest someone on that alone. It went deeper than this, something more was hidden here and his gut wasn't letting it go. He reached out to pick up the crowbar, then pulled up the floorboards.

There was only the rough limestone foundation of the cabin beneath.

Solid. No hollow echo or shifting when he stomped on it in different places. No cellar door, or crawlspace.

He had hoped that this odd space between the walls was really a staircase, but he was disappointed to find that it was not.

The sheriff didn’t know that Bob Ewell, in spite of his notorious laziness, had been hard at work to make it look that way.

“See? Ain’t nothin’ to be ‘fraid of.” I tried to pull my hand back and he clucked in disapproval, holding firm.

“I know you don’ have a mama at home, just like me. Has your daddy ever done this with you? Or that brother of yours?”

“What? No, I- I don’t think so,” I said, terribly confused.

“If yer a good girl, you can see Mayella more often. You two can talk ‘bout whatever stupid shit you want, ’s long as you don’ mention what we do down here. Got it?”

Mayella and I had never talked about what he did to me in the basement before, despite his accusations that we were conspiring against him. We talked about other more upbeat things, and I couldn’t wait to be able to do that again. I missed her so much. I wondered if she would hug me.

“Okay…” I said hesitantly, not sure what exactly I was agreeing to.

“Good,” he crooned in a way that made my hair raise. “Its cold in here, why don’t you come sit with me?”

He released my hand and I pulled it protectively to my chest. When I didn’t immediately crawl over he grabbed me by the waist and dragged me between his legs none too gently. I was turned away from him. He grasped my wrist and pulled it away from my chest and behind me, straining my shoulder a bit with the weird angle…

After I freaked out, he left me and didn’t come back for a long time. Then I didn’t have him or Mayella.

What was wrong with me? He wasn’t hurting me. Couldn’t I just go along with it for five minutes? Why was I such a screw-up?!

I wasn't alone anymore. He shook me so hard my jaw clipped and I thought he would break my neck.

He let go to take off his belt. I fled to the corner- I would curl up, but not so closed off that he’d get frustrated and pull me away from the wall. Give him plenty of areas to target; arms and legs, my whole front if he wanted. He could whip any other part of me, I just couldn’t stand the idea of him tearing up my back again. 

Thwip - it didn’t really hurt yet. Snap- I crossed my arms in front of my face. I let my flannel sleeves fall down my arms to expose the skin, because I didn’t want him to make me take my shirts off completely.

Snap snap snap snap- my forearms were on fire. He switched to the buckle side.

Scout awoke curled up in the corner, her solid and reliable corner, when used correctly. There was a strategy to hiding when there was no true way to hide, she had learned that after her first whipping.

Then the lamps of her bedroom seeped into her eyes, and she placed herself at home. Scout brought her knees to her chest, resting her nose on her forearm as tears soaked her sleeve. Her back was to a corner, but not the corner. She must have sleepwalked again, and she suddenly felt the pains of her journey to get down there.

She was determined to get back into bed by herself- then found that the muscles of her shoulders and lower back felt like taffy that had been stretched far beyond its limits. Between her decent to the floor and working too hard with Uncle Jack, she was fried. Dr. Reynolds had taken off her leg cast but she still couldn’t really walk just yet. So she stayed on the floor.

She felt like a big baby. Unable to walk on her own, coddled by everyone, crying all the time…

Her barely ajar door was pushed open further, and she felt caught- but it was only Rose Alymer. She should have known it would be, since the hallway light hadn't turned on.

Scout thought that the cat was better company than anyone else she could think of at the moment. The cat wouldn't ask her questions or look at her pityingly. She was just a comforting presence, something living and warm that Scout could hold on to if she came closer.

Scout eyed the door warily, trying to squash the part of her that hoped someone would come find her anyways. The hallway remained dark, but she wondered why her stomach sometimes sank when the light flicked on through the cracks, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong.

She thought about the light in the basement, and found her answer there. There sometimes was a thin bar of light under the door, and it was brighter only when Mr. Ewell or Mayella were with her, and not even all the time then. They must have pushed something in front of the door that hid it and blocked out the light. Did Mr. Ewell block in Mayella with her sometimes? Probably not, she was in and out so quickly. Was there a window in the room above? She didn’t notice one during her escape, but that whole night was a blur, and she did remember the silvery moonlight from the night her leg was broken, so there must have been one.

Rose Alymer bumped Scout’s arm and Scout almost smacked her, shaken out of her thoughts.

Petting Rosie seemed to make something tight and cold loosen inside of Scout's stomach. She relaxed, settling into her corner more comfortably, and soon dozed off. The hardness of the wood floor was familiar enough. The cat walked away, bored of her.

In the morning it caused a fuss, but Scout thought it was better than waking her family all up to help her.

Scout turned nine. She was sad on her birthday. She didn’t mean to. She smiled for her presents and the good food and how silly Uncle Jack looked in the conical paper hats. Atticus held her a lot that day and it only helped a little. It scared her that she could still be sad even when she tried really hard to not be.

Scout had never been such an introspective child. She was thoughtful and interested in many subjects, but herself wasn’t one of them. In the void of the basement though, eventually there was nowhere to look but inwards, and the habit stuck. New kinds of feelings had been stirring up inside of her and she couldn't help but dwell on them. They were separate from the general dread she felt that Mr. Ewell would return, and they were harder for her to understand. 

She was more at ease around Uncle Jack now, but her smiles still felt forced, so she realized that it wasn't because she was scared of him. And it wasn't just him that she had to work to be happy with anymore. There was a heaviness in her chest that just didn't seem to go away, similar to that strange longing ache she felt when Mr. Tate first carried her home. Both then and now it was a feeling that she didn't feel was deserved, since she knew she had so much to be grateful for; She was lucky to be alive, to be home with her family, and they treated her well. Even so, on most days a tightness lingered in the back of her throat that told her that she could cry at any moment, and it was frustrating. 

There were moments when she was happy, but trying to grasp onto them and keep that feeling with her was like trying to hold the orange light of the setting sun in her hand. 

She had never felt like this before Halloween. She envied the way she was before, when laughter came easily and being content was the rule, not the exception. Not for the first time, Scout found herself mad at her ignorant past self. Emotions back then were something that just happened, and she rarely scrutinized them or wished that she was feeling something other than what she was. Never before had she felt shame for her anger or sadness, having always felt that they were justified. She had never been aware of the fleeting nature of her own happiness, nor was she grateful enough before for how deeply she simply felt. 

All too often, there were stretches of time now when her melancholy faded into nothingness. Anger, curiosity, stubbornness, compassion, and a desire for justice, those feelings and traits that she exhibited so strongly before, all were often dulled into an absence of any emotion whatsoever.

Sometimes, she thought she might prefer sadness over that. With sadness, you could give it a reason. She knew she had a big reason to feel sad; The many flowers on her dresser had long since wilted and withered and been cleared out, but the folks who sent them seemed to agree. 

But feeling nothing at all? There was no reason to feel nothing.

During those times Scout would even feel detached from her fear of Mr. Ewell. Despite this, she knew that it was still inside her because she would still wake up screaming, her lungs releasing all of the fear that had been building up in her system. This would sometimes push her out of her empty spells, and everything would come flooding back at once. But she couldn't even feel the relief of release because once she came to her senses she would hold back the tears until they choked her. She didn’t want Jem or Atticus to worry, and she didn't need yet another reason to call herself weak.

She smiled at Uncle Jack’s witticisms, ate the ‘taste tests’ that Calpurnia brought her from the kitchen, cuddled close to Atticus, and pestered Jem the best she could. None of it felt like it used to. She would never not enjoy their company but with every repeated action from another life she had to admit to herself that something inside of her had changed. Atticus had explained her jumpiness to her and she understood it, but this felt different. She couldn’t even feel anger. Something was broken.

In the end, Scout resolved herself to try and hold on to the illusion of normality for as long as she could. The other option would be to let go and surrender to the alternating waves of melancholy and pure apathy that now hit her every day, and the idea of that terrified her.

It didn't help that it was only just starting to kick in for Scout just how terrible everything that happened to her was. In the moment, she knew it was bad, but she was mostly just focused on getting through it, or getting her mind somewhere else. When it was happening most parts weren’t that scary because it was her entire reality- she had to face it. Afterwards, she had done a pretty good job of blocking it out. Now when she tried to think back on it she could hardly breathe.

It took a long, agonizing dream where she watched Jem go through what she did for her to realize it. Jem stabbed, beaten, whipped with a belt, burned with a cigarette, cut with a knife and broken glass. Jem tied up, weak with hunger, his leg stomped on and broken, his head hitting the ground far too many times. Mr. Ewell getting too close to him, watching him, asking him to whistle a tune... Scout woke up before she could see the rest, already beside herself with grief for her brother's suffering.

But it was her suffering. And it still could be Jem’s if she wasn't careful. In the day she could pretend all she wanted that nothing bad had happened, but the night wouldn't let her.

The fact that after such a long time she was still out of commission also scared her- this was going to impact her for much longer than she thought it would. She only just started to realize that getting home wasn’t the most difficult part. It was one thing to stay alive, it was another to be able to truly live. She couldn't call what she was doing now a life at all, and now the fact that she had had a birthday made a bit more sense, since she felt very very old thinking that way.

Chapter Text

Either Dr. Reynolds, Sheriff Heck Tate, or Atticus had tipped off an investigator about the unusual scar on my forearm, because when two men came to the house they focused on it and nothing else. They thought it might be a clue as to who my captor was.

As usual, Atticus talked to the men in another room before they spoke to me, but Dr. Reynolds was supervising this time as well, and the sheriff showed up too. Feeling like one person too many, Uncle Jack stayed in his room.

There I sat again, on the sofa in the living room with Miss Maudie’s quilt in my lap and my feet hanging. Dr. Reynolds had requested I be dressed in short sleeves.  One man sat in the chair on the adjacent side of the coffee table, and another chair from the kitchen was pulled up next to the sofa, and Dr. Reynolds was standing almost behind the sofa at the corner. They all had to be close today, and I mustered my courage, thinking of my talk with Miss Maudie. They all want to help you, I reminded myself, as Dr. Reynolds laid my right forearm on the armrest of the sofa, palm-side up. Golly Moses, I was white.

Atticus got to sit next to me on the sofa today, and I clung to him with my free hand. He was looking at my face, not my arm. Dr. Reynolds peeled back the bandage and gauze, and the rest of them all leaned in. I breathed in sharply. Let them try to help you.

There it was, the two intersecting lines surrounded by a circle. The circle part was not cut as deep and had faded more, but it was still clearly visible. The brutally crossed 'X', as much as it had scabbed and "healed", was still disturbing to look at. I turned my head away.

"If you don't mind, my colleague here is going to sketch out a picture of it. So that we have it clearly on record."

I frowned, imagining the picture of my scar sitting in a filing cabinet somewhere. If it was alphabetized, would it be found under "S" for "Scar", "W" for "Wound", or under my name, perhaps? Maybe "E" for "Evidence?" 

"H" for "Hideous", my subconscious sneered.

I could almost hear Mr. Ewell laughing and almost feel his putrid breath on my face as he traced over his initial, shallower cuts, slowly carving each line forcefully into my skin.

I cringed at the dull scratching of the pencil on the paper as he darkened his lines. I tried not to watch the pencil's movements as they were all too familiar. My right hand was shaking.

Sheriff Heck Tate was standing by, on the perimeter of the room. I still didn't know whether it was him I had been calling out to in the moments before Mr. Ewell took the knife to my arm. 

The sketching man's eyes were magnified by his glasses as he leaned closer, not wanting to miss a single detail.

The other man sitting spoke to me. 

"Does this symbol mean anything to you?"

It was a symbol?

I looked back down at my arm. It didn't reveal anything new. I tilted my head, still nothing. 

I shook my head. The ‘X’ made me think of a pirate marking treasure on a map, but that felt foolish to share.

”Did the man say anything to you around the time where he gave you that wound?”

I swallowed hard. “Um.” I moved my hand around because it was feeling funny. “It was ‘cause I was hollerin’ and makin’ noise when he told me not to.”

“Why were you doing that?”

“Wanted somebody to hear me.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Anyone at all, really.”

“Did you do that often?”

“At the beginning, yeah.” That time was different, though.

“Did he seem to think that you would be heard?”

“Not usually. He didn’t care most of the time.”

“But this time he did. Do you know when this was?”

They must be new to this case. “No.”

Dr. Reynolds pitched in and I twitched, having forgotten he was there behind me. “From how much it had healed by the time she first came home, I’d say it was in the first half of her ordeal, perhaps even the first few weeks.”

“Does that seem accurate?” they confirmed with me.

“Yeah.”

When they were done, Dr. Reynolds wrapped Scout’s arm back up, and they left. Scout took her arm back and held it to her chest. Now it was just Atticus holding her other hand. There had been so many men in the room, and as much as she told herself they were good people, and she tried to be smart like Miss Maudie, every glimpse at the disgusting scar brought vivid images of Mr. Ewell hovering over her with his knife, and the way the one man scratched at the white paper, he could do it too so easily, they all could…

Scout felt the air leave her lungs as she tried to get the image out of her head. It hadn’t seemed so bad in the basement, at the time she was just grateful that he wasn’t cutting out her tongue. She had held it together well until now- she could feel her pulse pick up and her vision fade. 

Atticus had seen it coming, which was why he hadn’t left her to escort their visitors outside. Now he was kneeling in front of Scout, trying to guide her breathing, but she couldn’t hear him. She tried to pull down her nightgown sleeve to cover her bandage but there was no sleeve to pull. The room was too small, even though it was the biggest room in their house.

“Out-outside, outside. I need to get out of here,” she gasped, pulling on Atticus’s collar, to which he swiftly picked her up and went out to the front porch. The moment they got through the door, Atticus felt Scout’s ribcage expand in his arms as she let the cool air fill her lungs. She visibly calmed as her head turned away from his chest and her eyes darted around, taking in the neighborhood and the blue sky beyond the porch. Atticus sat them down on the porch swing and hid his disappointment when his daughter moved herself off of his lap. After a moment she leaned over and rested her head against his arm and they sat in silence together.

Something about their drive the other day must have flipped a switch in Scout’s mind, making her nervous system aware of the outdoors, or of the difference between inside and out. Before they started attending school and in the summers since, the Finch children’s days were never spent inside unless it was raining; maybe that instinct had returned.

Once Scout was cleared to do so, she would ask to go outside every day, sometimes sitting on the porch swing, sometimes sitting on the grass in the backyard, or the screened back porch, but always where she could breathe fresh air and feel the breeze on her face. The sound of wind chimes in the distance was new, they must have been put up while she was gone. She liked them a lot.

She started wearing her old normal clothes during the day instead of her set of nightgowns. She tried wearing her old cozy two-piece pajama set too, but the feel of the pants made her nightmares worse. So the gowns remained at night.

Scout liked to be bundled up, partly out of necessity since she got cold much easier now. She hated shivering. It rattled her nerves and brought her back to the frigid basement. It would be easier once Maycomb heated up, but for the first time in Scout’s memory, winter had lingered in a way that suggested that spring would stick around for more than its usual couple of days. She hoped the summer would come in its usual oppressive fashion. In the meantime, she took a particular shining to one of Jem’s jackets, a thick one with a bumpy, wooly collar, and she ‘borrowed’ it often.

One day the wind picked up, sweeping dead leaves down the sidewalks. Weary townsfolk looked up at the gray clouds and hurried home. It started raining just as night fell. There was thunder but it seemed to just hover over one place really far away.

Scout’s routine came to a pause when cold rain poured relentlessly over Maycomb for days on end, and she was told not to go outside lest she catch a cold- she wasn’t even allowed on the screened porch. She found herself unable to stay in the same room for more than a few hours, apologizing to whoever was responsible for helping her move at the time. She tried to burn off steam working on walking with Uncle Jack, and they were making good progress, but it wasn’t enough.

Almost a week passed and the streets had turned to red slop. Farmers who were grateful for the water at first were now wary of crops being drowned. Jem was letting Atticus drive him to and from school every day.

The household got a small scare one afternoon when Atticus was out at work, and the sky was still dark with rain. Scout was missing from the couch where they had set her last. 

Uncle Jack and Calpurnia swept through all of the rooms in a frenzy only to find Scout right outside the back porch. Scout was barefooted, fully soaked, and shivering in the rain with wiggling toes and her face smiling up to the heavens. She was standing by herself, leaning her weight on a large unopened umbrella, which was tucked under her armpit and poking deep into the grass. With her eyes closed and the sound of the rain pattering all around, she didn’t hear Calpurnia open the door. 

When the woman stepped off the porch and exclaimed, “Scout!”, the startled girl nearly jumped out of her skin. Tripping over her own feet, she lost hold of the umbrella-crutch and stumbled towards the nearest tree where she caught herself and winced with a small “Oomf!”

It was all done in a flash and Cal feared for the worst, but Scout merely shook her hair like a wet dog and smiled again, this time in Cal’s direction.

“Gee minetti, you spooked me there, Cal!”

After apologizing and quickly escorting her back inside, Calpurnia dried Scout off with a towel by the fire and scolded her, “You coulda caught your death out there The very idea, runnin' off like that- ain't you got any sense at all? When Mr. Finch hears about this…” Uncle Jack stayed silent and toweled off Scout’s hair.

Calpurnia was glad to see Scout smiling and on her feet, but the older woman was having none of her reckless behavior. Did the girl want to get sick again?  She didn’t seem to understand how terrifying the prospect of losing her again was, or how painful it had been to watch how sick she had gotten the last time.

At one point, Calpurnia had thought that Scout was going to die in that bed, and it would have been her fault for not managing to complete the comparatively simple task of making Scout well again after the miracle of her return. She couldn’t risk that again.

She wrapped Scout in a blanket then hustled to the kitchen to prepare a hot drink to “thaw her out” and Uncle Jack followed her with the towels, swinging the dirt-tipped, wet umbrella. Jem stayed with Scout by the fire.

“How did you even get out there?” Jem asked, thinking of how Dr.Reynolds had said Scout needed assistance walking for at least another two weeks.

Scout’s visible cringe when he asked the question was a clear indicator that it wasn’t a pleasant experience, but she tried to hide it. “It was... fine, I didn’t fall or anythin’- well, I did have a little trouble down the stairs...”

Before Jem could take his turn reprimanding her, she justified herself.

“It was okay, I swear! I barely put any weight on my leg, and my leg don’t even hurt much anymore, it just hurt... other places.” The pink on the tip of Scout’s frozen nose spread all the way to her ears, and she momentarily found the fire fascinating. She always tried to avoid talking about what she had endured in her captivity, especially what her captor did to her the last night before he let her go. Jem hated that it still caused her pain, and that it caused her face to color in shame whenever she winced because of it. She was too young to be embarrassed about- or even know about- something like that.

Scout’s screams at night begging a man to get off of her haunted Jem, and they rang through his head again until Scout’s voice shook him out of it. 

“I just really, really needed to get out. It felt like the walls were closin’ in around me, and my chest was squeezed all tight with them. I’m real sorry if I scared y’all, I shoulda told somebody, but I couldn’t stay inside one more minute.”

She was apprehensively staring at Jem, who then made an effort to relax his face and clear his mind, sure that his expression had been sour with his thoughts. “It’s alright, I ain’t mad. I don’t think Cal is either, really. Just worried.”

Not a moment later Calpurnia came back in the room and proved Jem’s point by handing them both warm mugs and fussing over Scout. Calpurnia squawked when she felt Scout’s forehead and found it hot, only for an exasperated Jem to sigh, “We are sittin’ by a fire, Cal.”

“Is that sass, young man?”

“Nome’.” Jem quickly said and snapped his head back toward the fire. Not wanting to start anything, Calpurnia tsk’ed him for his attitude and excused herself, but not before insisting that she’d be checking Scout’s temperature again later. Uncle Jack was at the back of the house, cleaning where Scout had tracked in some mud and wet grass.

A long moment passed where the two Finch children simply sat together, no sound but the periodic crackling of the fire and the constant downpour outside. After a while of watching the fire with her chin resting on her knees, Scout scooted herself closer to Jem and leaned her head against his shoulder. 

The weight was light, like Scout wasn’t letting her head sink down fully, but Jem let it be. She may not be fully relaxed, but she was touching him. Trusting him. He thought of looping his arm around her shoulder, but decided against it. Instead he tilted his own head a bit to lightly rest upon her own. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Scout.”

Sometimes she wasn’t. There were moments where she wondered if things would have been easier if Mr.Ewell had just done away with her like she expected him to- like she hoped for him to do, at one point. It was disparaging when she finally got out and it didn’t feel the way she thought it would. Like a part of her was still in the cellar. A part of her always would be, she assumed. But standing in the rain and focusing on nothing but the feeling of the drops against her skin reminded her that being out of there and being alive was a wonderful thing. 

“I’m glad I’m here, too.” 

And she really meant it.

•••

A man remained in the rain, eyes still on the door in the near distance where Scout had just been brought back inside. Did he dare go to the window? The heavy rain made the sky dark even in the daytime. It would be a rare opportunity to watch her when it wasn’t late at night.

No, no, it was too risky. He damned the help for interrupting their moment.

The girl had been so close. All alone, shivering, smiling. He remembered the last time he had seen her truly smile, and the smile had been for him. On Christmas. Her cheeks then had been flushed warm with drink rather than cold. He missed her sleepy laughter from that night, her shivers as the hair rose on her arms…

He felt himself being stirred, and he imagined what he could have done differently just moments ago. He could have stolen her right there if he was quick enough. If the housekeeper had taken her by surprise surely he could have too. But no, he would not take her again.

Not yet.