The human instinct for self-preservation is strong. I know, because mine pulls at me, too, like the needle on a compass. And everybody—I’ve been reading some philosophy—everybody seems to agree that the instinct and responsibility of all humans is to take care of themselves first. You have the right to survive, if you can.

But how come there don’t seem to be any rules about when you ought to help others survive? Rules telling you when that’s worth some risk to yourself? Callie and I were working so hard for you, Emmy, but as far as I could see, nobody else cared at all. For any of us.

ALSO BY NANCY WERLIN

Are You Alone on Purpose?
Black Mirror
Double Helix
Extraordinary
Impossible
The Killer’s Cousin
Locked Inside

SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in the United States of America by Dial Books,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006

First published in paperback by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., in 2008
This edition published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., in 2011

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DIAL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Werlin, Nancy.
The rules of survival / Nancy Werlin.
p. cm.

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Matthew recounts his attempts, starting at a young age, to free himself and his sisters from the grip of their emotionally and physically abusive mother.

ISBN : 978-1-101-57626-7

[ 1. Child abuse—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction.
3. Emotional problems—Fiction.] I. Title
PZ7.W4713Ru 2006
[Fic]—dc22 2006001675

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

This book is for all the survivors. Always remember:
The survivor gets to tell the story.

Dear Emmy,

As I write this, you are nine years old, too young to be told the full and true story of our family’s past, let alone be exposed to my philosophizing about what it all meant. I don’t know how old you’ll be when you do read this. Maybe you’ll be seven–teen, like I am now. Or maybe much older than that—in your twenties or even thirties.

I have decided to write it all down for you, and I will, but that decision doesn’t keep me from having doubts. I wonder if maybe it would be better if you never read this. I wonder if you really need to know exactly what happened to us—me, you, Callie—at the hands of our mother. As I sit here writing, part of me hopes that you go along happily your whole life and never need or want to know the details. I believe that’s what Aunt Bobbie hopes for, and Callie. I can understand that. For example, I have to admit that I don’t want to know any details about what hap–pened when our mother kidnapped you—so long as you’ve forgotten it, anyway. So long as you’re not having screaming nightmares or something.

But if you are reading this letter, that means you are about to find out everything I know. It means I will have decided to tell you—decided twice. Once, by writing it all down now. And then again, by giving this to you to read sometime in the future.

I hope my memories of that time won’t always be as clear as they are now. As I write, I only have to focus and I’m there again, in the past. I’m thir–teen and fourteen and fifteen—or younger. It was terrible living through it the first time, but I think it’s going to be almost as bad to live through it once more on paper. To try . . . not just to get it all down accurately, but to understand it. I need to make sense of it. I need to try to turn the experience into something valuable for you, and for myself—not just something to be pushed away and forgotten.

Emmy, the events we lived through taught me to be sure of nothing about other people. They taught me to expect danger around every corner. They taught me to understand that there are people in this world who mean you harm. And sometimes, they’re people who say they love you.

Matthew

MURDOCH

For me, the story begins with Murdoch McIlvane.

I first saw Murdoch when I was thirteen years old. Callie was eleven, and Emmy, you were only five. Back then, you talked hardly at all. We weren’t even sure if you’d be able to start school when you were supposed to in the fall. Don’t misunderstand—we knew you were smart. But school, well, you know how they are, wanting everybody to act alike.

That particular night in August, it was over a hundred degrees, and so humid that each breath felt like inhaling sweat. It was the fourth day of a heat wave in Boston, and over those days, our apartment on the third floor of the house in Southie had become like the inside of an oven. However, it was a date night for our mother—Saturday—so we’d been locked in.

“I want my kiddies safe,” Nikki had said.

Not that the key mattered. Once Callie and I heard you snoring—a soft little sound that was almost like a sigh—we slipped out a window onto the back deck, climbed down the fire escape, and went one block over to the Cumberland Farms store. We wanted a breath of air-conditioning, and we were thinking also about Popsicles. Red ones. I had a couple dollars in my pocket from the last time I’d seen my father. He was always good for a little bit of money, and the fact that it was just about all he was good for didn’t make me appreciate the cash less.

It wasn’t really his fault, that he was so useless. My dad was afraid of our mother. He kept out of her way. On the few occasions they were in the same room together, he wouldn’t even meet her eyes. I didn’t blame him for it too much. I understood. She was unpredictable.

I remember that night so well.

“We have to bring a Popsicle back for Emmy,” Callie said, her flip-flops slapping against the pavement. “We can put it in the freezer for tomorrow.”

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