Lucy hides behind the kitchen door not feeling the bruises but feeling the fear as it rises in her gut churning like sour milk, ascending to the base of her throat and threatening to spill over. He will smile as if he is not a monster, as monsters do. All those teeth, smiling, and ready to bite when the other grownups stop looking.
Lucy is in the garden on the swing because maybe there he will remember that she is only a child and he will stop smiling. Please stop smiling!
Lucy is hiding under the bed. Maybe he won’t look here. Or maybe will just like the game. The teacher. The Uncle. The friend.