I Will Survive

Chapter 1: What Have I Done?

I never spoke lies,
But sometimes...
the truth clung to my lips.

The first stab was in self-defence. The second stab was impulse, and the third was to hold the vulnerability at bay. The fourth was for all the times he hit me, the fifth for all of the things he said to me, and the sixth for all those perverted glances he shot my way. By the seventh I stopped coming up with reasons and let my anger and my fear lead me on, an intoxicating combination of control all focused on the point of a sharp cutting knife. Because nothing says don't touch me quite like Sally's Stainless Steel.

I'd lost count somewhere after eleven, and by the time my adrenaline died down and I realized it was safe, that he couldn't harm me, I noted with a distant fascination that I'd killed a man. For a moment I swelled with righteous anger, and all of it flung out of me as I curved to my side and hurled.

"What... what have I..." I tried to clear my throat, praying that if my voice became steady, my mind would follow suit. "Jim?" I don't know what sort of reaction I was waiting for. It would be obvious to anyone who waltzed into the room what had happened, so why was it taking me so long to process it? His body was cold, his blood was dry, and my fingers were growing numb with how hard I gripped the blade handle. He was red bone and white holes, and as I ran from the kitchen to the comfort of my bedroom, I remember thinking, 'he'd kill me for the mess I made.'

"Breathe." No matter the situation, it was that one piece of advice that held true. I'd dropped the kitchen knife somewhere, I didn't know when or how my thoughts focused on scrubbing my hands raw and clean. I couldn't decide if I was more disgusted by the red coating on my skin or the torn fabric of my dress. It seemed strange that despite my actions he was still to blame for all of my problems. I'd showered out of habit, but curling on the floor like a blubbering mess, I tried to let the weight of the water wash the one on my shoulders away.

Calm thoughts led to rational actions. Steady hands meant steady results, but despite both phrases racing through my mind, I couldn't stop myself from panicking or my hands from shaking. As I kept wiping away tears, I wondered when I'd started crying or if I'd ever stopped. Between trying to force myself to think rationally, packing and puking, it was an obvious truth that I....was a complete wreck.

I'd toyed with the idea of Jim dying, not in any sadistic or malicious way, and certainly not by my hand. I hadn't planned out details; when I was stuck in his presence I'd fantasize about how much easier life would be if he weren't around. I could've left at some point, I knew that, but I'd rather the evil I'd learned to adapt to than one I had never faced.

Breathe. Steady hands mean steady results. Repeating this makeshift mantra, I threw what little belongings I had into my gym bag, grabbed all the money I could find, and then I headed downstairs to tell Jim I was leaving.

His body shocked and disgusted me because, in my desperate attempt at normality, I had honestly thought I had made it up. I expected him to be alive and well, but the limp and mangled form before me proved there was no going back.

"Don't throw up. Don't throw up." I closed my eyes and forced the feelings down. I'd had a lifetime to practice this.

The police would deem it murder, maybe manslaughter if I was lucky. I could explain to them that it was self-defence, that he had come at me tearing at my clothes with red lust in his eyes, but the number of holes in him would be held against me. I could even see it in the headlines, 'Deranged Seventeen-Year-Old Kills Foster Father in Brutal Homicide.'

It wasn't like all hope was lost, though. I had the entire night to drive somewhere far and change my hair and my clothes. I could start over again. I winced at how callous I could be. It was true that I'd never cared for Jim, that he was just another name on a long list of foster parents, but I had killed him. I had decimated his body beyond recognition, forced the light to fade from his eyes, and after all that, I was leaving him here to rot. Perhaps he was right. Maybe I was an awful human being, but surviving was the only thing I'd ever been really good at doing in life. I could get past this, I could move on, and at some point, I could forgive myself. Now though, was not the time for sentiments. He was sick, and the world would be better off without him. I'd done it a favour, now was not the time for guilt, now was the time for escape. With that in mind, I grabbed the keys from the counter, whispered goodbye to a corpse, and exited the decaying old suburban house I spent the last six months calling home.

"Stop right there, you little tart!" As the familiar voice trickled into my ear, I was a mixture of fear and apprehension. I'd nicknamed her Suzy, with her limp locks and rag doll features. She was your typical nosy old lady with nothing else to do but snoop. She also wasn't particularly fond of me. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, sneaking out at this hour of the night, you dirty minx. Always giving that sweet Jim a hard time, well, not on my watch!" I chose to do the smart thing and ignore her, heading toward the cheap black Honda in the driveway. It was only when I sat down and closed the car door I realized my mistake. I had expected her to calm down and go back inside, but I'd never snuck out of the house before, and I hadn't been aware of how persistent old women could be. As she marched up to the front door, I realized that, in my panic, I had left it unlocked and slightly ajar. I was halfway down the street when I heard her scream.

Thoughts so far?

I hope you like it, but if you don't I want to know.

There's a lot of twists in store for you...