Shattered Innocence

Awakening Shadows

Chapter One

I wake abruptly, drenched in cold sweat, tangled in twisted sheets that cling to my bare legs. My tank top and thong stick uncomfortably to my skin, while my long black hair clings to my body. Disgusting. Pathetic. Count, Nora, count. I begin counting the faint rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains, signaling the arrival of dawn. Then I count the bricks on the wall, and the stains on the ceiling caused by my neighbor's excessive plant watering. I count until my breathing steadies until his face and voice fade from my mind. It's only then that I notice the lingering taste of blood, and I sigh before throwing off the covers. I rise from the bed to stretch, awakening my body, and make my way to the adjacent bathroom.

Switching on the fan and light, I lean against the counter and stare at my reflection in the rectangular mirror. Bloodshot eyes and prominent bones bear witness to my dwindling appetite. I'm deteriorating as I approach... there. Shaking my head, I push back my damp hair and spit into the sink. I run the tap, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. As I stick out my tongue, I notice tiny bite marks. Apparently, I must have bitten it in my sleep. I turn away and twist the knob, letting the water for the cheap hotel shower cascade down.

I arrived late last night, and I have another day of driving ahead before the funeral. Funeral. Just the thought of it feels surreal. He's actually dead. The man I once believed to be invincible, unstoppable. I should be rejoicing and celebrating, but all I feel is lost. For so long, he was the shadow trailing behind me, always one step away. And now... what am I running from? What should I do? And Ana... What about Ana? She remained by his side after I vanished. What does she think happened to me? I often wonder if she remembers me.

Does she even care, or has she become his little clone, brainwashed and molded to his liking? She was always easily influenced by him, always eager to please. I wonder if he hurt her like he hurt me. No, he couldn't have. I made sure of that. But she will be at the funeral. What do I say to her? Will she even recognize me? Will she even care? It has been ten agonizing years of running, hiding, and existing as nothing more than a ghost, all thanks to him. I was just a kid when I left, only seventeen, but she was even younger.

She was only fourteen, and that's a long time to spend with a monster like him. My swirling thoughts and concerns won't help. He taught me not to jump to conclusions, that the only certainty in life is reality, not the worries inside my head. The only truth lies in what I can taste, see, feel, and explain. Facts.

So why should I leap to conclusions? Why worry about what I can't control? I need to focus on what I can analyze from the situation. Do better, observe more, and react without emotion. The command invades my mind, unwelcome but persistent, just as it has been since I heard the news.

I had become skilled at pushing the memories away, unlearning everything he taught me, even though it seemed impossible. I had settled and lived a somewhat normal life, even though no one truly knew me. But then he died, and it was as if a floodgate opened. All the fear and pain rushed back, drilling into my body until I couldn't even slouch without his irritated command ringing in my ears, as if he were still here. I dip my head under the shower stream, turning up the temperature in hopes that the scalding sensation will wash away everything except the present. Grabbing the cheap soap, I lather it up and methodically cleanse my body, taking note of every raised scar, some of which have faded thanks to his miraculous serum.

Perfect beings can't have scars, after all. Everything had to be flawless and under his control. I was designed to fit his every need, to transform into whatever he desired at any given moment—older, younger, sophisticated, or streetwise. My first act of rebellion after running away was dyeing my once dull, shoulder-length blonde hair jet black. Now it cascades down to my hips, disregarded by him, who preferred it trimmed to his specifications.

He believed long hair was unkempt, and as I brush it back, I catch a glimmer of dark blue woven through the curls. Continuing to wash, my hand glides over my defined abs. I could never shake off the need for rhythmic exercises, cardio, and weight training that he ingrained in me, not to mention the survival skills and expertise with weapons. Jujitsu and every other martial art still reside within me, like a routine I can't escape. Initially, I detested the fact that I would wake up at 6 AM, compelled to run and work out. It felt like I hadn't escaped him.

But now, I revel in my strength, in the euphoria and emptiness I find when pushing my body to its limits. Reaching my tattoos, I hesitate. He despised them, claiming they made me stand out when I needed to blend in. That's precisely why I got my first one at just seventeen, a month after my escape. Since then, I've adorned my left arm with an intricate sleeve of lines, dots, flowers, and mandalas.

My hand, too, bears ink. Over my right hip, a gun design resides, and a skull wraps around the top of my thigh, merging into the black and white artwork that stretches all the way to my toes. There are a few more scattered here and there, like the one under my breast and the piece behind my ear, but these are the most meaningful and beautiful.

The dark ink stains my skin permanently, serving as a reminder that I'm not the flawless creation he sought to mold. I'm real, down to the chipped black nail polish on my toes, the nipple piercings, and the new unhealed scar diagonally running across my foot from my recent bike accident. I'm no longer the frightened Nora who cowered before the man who was supposed to protect and love her. I am Nora, the formidable woman he created in those chambers of torment, the one he could never control. I am his greatest mistake, his fiercest adversary, and, had he lived, his downfall.

After conditioning my hair, I rinse it off before stepping out and wrapping a small, worn towel around my waist. I wipe away the condensation on the mirror and gaze at my reflection. I appear more determined, more... liberated. Could that be the feeling? Could that be the glimmer in my emerald-green eyes? Puckering my full pink lips, I tilt my head and scrutinize myself.

I stand tall, nearly six feet, just like him. I used to be lanky as a child, but as I grew, I gained muscle and curves, with a slender waist, flared hips, and ample breasts. My legs are long and lean, my arms strong, and my abs toned. Ana was always smaller, and I wonder if she still is. Stop. Focus. Pushing aside the invading worries and thoughts, I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and plait it back before putting on a bra and slipping into tight black workout shorts. Moving into the adjacent room, I rearrange the double bed to create space and begin my morning warm-up routine, fully energizing my body and igniting my adrenaline.

I start with stretching, followed by cardio exercises like running, jumping, and burpees. Next, I perform sit-ups, Russian twists, and push-ups. Once my workout is complete, I cool down by stretching my muscles, relishing in the strength coursing through me. I proceed to practice jujitsu, blending it with Krav Maga and traditional karate. I can never be too prepared, and the movements flow effortlessly, ingrained in me like an unbreakable routine. When I'm finished, I take a moment to meditate and regulate my breathing. As my eyes open, I feel rejuvenated, reminded of why I'm on this path—for her, always for her.

Shedding my workout gear, I change into tight black leather trousers and slip into my steel-toed military boots, each hiding a concealed knife. I opt for a simple black shirt, loose enough to hide the holsters containing small handguns, and as always, I place my long, handcrafted necklace around my neck, concealing it beneath my shirt—the habit born from hiding it from him, so he wouldn't take it, crush it, or use it against me. It serves as a constant reminder of why I survived, of why I continue to fight. Grabbing my snug leather jacket, I pack the remaining belongings into my duffle bag and give the room a final scan to ensure I haven't forgotten anything.

Then I leave the shabby hotel room behind. Checking out under a false name and using a fake credit card, I step outside, embracing the one joy in this world that I allow myself—my bike. My Suzuki GSX-R750, painted in black and fading to red, represents the closest I'll ever come to experiencing happiness as I race through the world. There's nothing quite like it. Slipping on my helmet, I secure it in place and crank up the volume of my rock playlist. While everyone else may be consumed by grief and mourning... me? I'm fucking celebrating. I just need to make sure the old bastard is truly dead first.