I wake up and realize I'm on Luke's couch. Again. I recognize it immediately—it's got that perfect blend of threadbare fabric and mysterious stains. Not the first time, definitely not the last. Hehe, go me! I glance around and spot a glass of water on the coffee table, sandwiched between the TV and me. God bless Luke and his psychic ability to predict my desperate need for hydration. I chug it down like it's the elixir of life. Hunger gnaws at my stomach, but I'm not about to raid Luke's kitchen. The guy's already done enough just letting me crash here. So, I grab my backpack and make my way to the front door.
Just as I'm about to step outside, I mumble a half-hearted goodbye to Luke. He responds with a groggy, "Be safe, kid!" Safe? Yeah, right. Safe is a fairy tale, and I'm no princess. But I guess it's the thought that counts.
I'm sprinting down the streets like I'm in some twisted race, dodging the few cars on the road. They honk at me like I'm some kind of radioactive hazard—which, honestly, I probably am. Some drivers even have the courtesy to roll down their windows and yell at me to get out of the road. Ah, the warmth of human decency. I don't blame them, though. I must look like a maniac who escaped from an asylum, hair flying, eyes wide, tatted clothes, and desperation written all over my face. Every shout makes me flinch, but stopping isn't an option. I have to get home before they wake up. I even manage to ignore the throbbing pain in my ribs.
When yet another driver decides to scream at me, something in me just snaps. I break down, sobbing like a little kid who just lost her favorite toy. But this isn't about a toy—it's about what's waiting for me if I don't make it home on time. Shit. Fucking shit. I'm so fucking screwed...
I push myself harder, running like my life depends on it—because, let's face it, it does. For the record, I used to be great at track. Like, really good, I used to compete and get on the podium, I would even get first place sometimes. That was before Jack slithered his way into our lives, even then I used to skip practice thanks to my mom's usual state of becoming unconscious on the floor or too drunk to drive me anywhere. But hey, at least Luke's place is only a 20-minute run from home, 13 if I sprint like my life depends on it. Which, again, it kind of does.
I finally reach home and use my spare key to slip inside. The house is eerily quiet, but it won't be for long if I don't hurry. I bolt up the stairs, every step echoing like a countdown to my doom. one, two, three, four, five, six... My room is my only refuge—Jack rarely bothers to go up there. If I can just make it to my room, I'll be safe. Safe from him, from his disgusting smirk, his disgusting body odor, his entire being. I hate him. I hate the way he makes my mom follow him around like a sad puppy. I hate his prickly beard that looks like it's trying to escape his face. I hate his breath that smells like something died inside his mouth. But mostly, I hate him for existing. For ruining everything. Not that my life before him was a fairytale but still my addict, abusive bitch of a mother was enough. I guess it was an early Christmas present.
I'm almost at the top when I feel a hand clamp around my ankle, yanking me down. I slip, my head banging against each step on the way down like some sort of demented xylophone. Jack's grip is like iron as he throws me against the wall. For a heroin addict, the guy's got the strength of a monster.
"Do you need a reminder of what happens when you come home late?" he snarls, his breath reeking of cigarettes and whatever else he's been poisoning himself with.
He doesn't wait for an answer—he never does—before he drives his foot into my already bruised ribs. The pain is instant, sharp, and all-consuming. But it's about to get worse. I hear the familiar click of his lighter. Not the cigarette. Please, not that.
He grabs my leg, yanking up my pants to expose my skin. I don't even have the energy to fight back. Not that it would make a difference; he's way too strong. I whimper as he brings the cigarette down on my leg, the burning ember searing my flesh. The pain is blinding, a white-hot agony that spreads through my entire body until I go numb. Tears stream down my face as he repeats the process two more times, each burn a reminder of my helplessness.
Finally, he gets up, fumbling in his pocket before pulling out one of his knives. The blade is still stained with my dried blood, a sickening reminder of past "lessons." He approaches me with that sick grin plastered on his face.
"NOOOOOOO!" I scream, my voice cracking with terror as he grabs my arm and pulls up my sleeve. He sighs, like this is just another chore he's stuck doing.
"Now, let's make this lesson stick," he says, pausing like he's got something profound to say. "I'm going to write something simple." He stops again to think, probably straining his last three brain cells. "How about 'Don't be late'?" He smirks, probably thinking he's clever.
As the knife slices through my skin, carving a straight line, I scream until my throat feels raw. I'm not sure I'm going to survive this time. Maybe that's what Mom wants. Maybe she'll finally be happy if I'm gone. I tried once, to end it, to make her happy, when she found out she called me " a fucking failure" saying "you can't even do one single thing right, like that useless father of yours, your just like that lying bastard." I try to pull my arm back, but every time I do, he kicks me harder in the stomach. My vision blurs with black spots, and my breathing becomes ragged until I finally lose consciousness.
When I wake up, I'm lying on the cold kitchen floor. My mother is standing over me, her face twisted with disgust as she slaps me hard across the face.
"So, you think you can just sneak in here like you own the place?" she spits, her voice dripping with venom. "You're just like your father—a useless piece of trash. I should've let him take you when he left, but even he didn't want you, did he? Why would he? You're nothing but a burden, a waste of space. You don't deserve anything—not food, not water, nothing. You're lucky I even let you stay in this house."
I cry, every word she hurls at me seeping into my skin like poison, spreading through my veins and choking the life out of me.
"Get up," Jack barks from behind her. I try—I really do—but my body refuses to cooperate, and I collapse back onto the floor, every nerve ending screaming in pain. "I said, GET UP!" Jack yells, his face turning an alarming shade of red. Dude, seriously? It's not like it's my fault you're a complete asshole. I mean, you did this to me, so excuse me if I'm not exactly up for a jog. But of course, I keep my mouth shut. You don't poke the bear, especially not this one.
Somehow, by some miracle, I manage to drag myself up and start crawling up the stairs. Every inch feels like a mile, but I have to get to my room. I have to.
"There's a business deal happening in a few minutes," Jack hollers from the kitchen. "I better not see or hear you, unless you want another 'reminder.'" His voice drips with threat, but I don't have the strength to care. "Yes, sir," I mumble, barely audible, before finally reaching my bed and collapsing onto it. Sleep pulls me under almost instantly, offering a brief escape from this waking nightmare.
A/N
Ok so we deffiently hate Jack at this point, and I'm resisting the urge to kill him by reapetedly chucking big heavy rocks onto his head until he dies, but because I need him he will remain alive, unfourtunatly. Next update will be in a few days. I'm going to be surprised even if i get 2 or 3 readers, but to anyone reading it, I love so much, thanks for choosing my story, hope you enjoy it.
SPOILER
It's going to get better for our pookie very soon
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Saving Isabella
Подростковая литератураIsabella's life has been anything but easy. At 14, she's already endured more than most. Her mother and her mother's boyfriend, Jack, were both controlling and abusive, leaving Isa to navigate the scars of their manipulation. Her mother always told...
