I wake up on my hard mattress to the sound of yelling. The thin walls do nothing to muffle the chaos downstairs. I'm not allowed to leave my room during these "business deals," so I decide to clean myself up instead. My body protests with every movement as I hobble to the small, grimy bathroom attached to my room.
I pull off my bloodstained shirt, wincing as the fabric sticks to the fresh burns on my leg. The mirror, cracked in the corner, reflects my haggard face—bruises blooming in shades of purple and blue around my eyes, my split lip swollen. I glance at my arm, where Jack's knife had carved out a "lesson." His handwriting is as sloppy as his spelling, the word "Dont" etched in jagged letters. He forgot the apostrophe, but I'm not about to complain—less pain for me.
The sleeve of my shirt is drenched in blood, the fabric clinging to the raw wound. I scrub it under the rusted faucet, the water running pink as it washes away the evidence. I should probably explain to Jack that at this rate I'm not going to have any more shirts to wear; I doubt he will listen or care.
Hobbling back to my room, I pull open the top drawer of my splintered, wobbly dresser. Inside, there's only one shirt left, faded and threadbare from too many washes. I put it on, biting back a cry as the fabric brushes against my bruised ribs. I'm pretty sure they're broken at this point. Yay!
The yelling downstairs escalates, and I sit on my bed, trying to listen. My heart pounds as I make out the sound of more feet rushing through the house. Someone screams, "Police, turn around, hands above your head!" followed by, "Put the gun down!"
Oh, shit. I'm screwed. If the police find me like this, Jack or one of his buddies will kill me for sure. My eyes widen in fear as I hear a gunshot, then more yelling, another gunshot, a pained groan, and a loud thud. My body freezes, cold terror seeping into my veins.
I pull my sleeve down hurriedly as I hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. My breathing becomes fast and shallow as panic takes hold. What the fuck is happening? I want to cry, but I can't—I only cry when Jack or Mom hit me.
I stay on my bed, wrapping my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth like a lost child. My breath quickens until I'm practically hyperventilating. I try to calm down, but my mind races with thoughts of what will happen next.
The officers are checking every room. The last one is mine. I'm screwed. I hear them say "Clear" every time they check a room, the word sending shivers down my spine. Finally, the door to my room swings open, and an officer looks in, his expression shifting from determination to something softer—pity, maybe. I can't bring myself to look at him, so I stare at the floor instead.
He calls out to his buddy, "Mark, come here! You're gonna want to see this."
I scowl internally. Great, like I'm some freak show attraction at the circus.
Mark steps into the room, and I swear I hear him mutter, "Oh, shit."
The first officer crouches down next to me, his hand hesitantly resting on my back. I flinch and tense up, my body instinctively recoiling from his touch.
"Hey, it's okay," he says, his voice gentle but unsure. "Don't worry, everything's fine."
Yeah, right. Like I'm going to believe that. I'm pretty sure you just arrested my mother and her psycho boyfriend. I'm not scared for them—I'm scared of what comes next. Foster care? Some other hellhole?
"What's happening?" I ask in the tiniest voice, barely above a whisper.
The officer's face softens even more, his eyes filled with something like sympathy. "Your father and your mother were busted while selling drugs to an undercover cop. Unfortunately for them, they're now in custody. Do you have any other family members you could stay with?"
Family members? I rack my brain, but no one comes to mind. My father, maybe, but I don't know who he is or where he is. And from what my mother's said about him, he doesn't sound like someone I'd want to meet. But what choice do I have?
"My father—not Jack, he's my Mom's boyfriend—but I don't know who he is or where he is," I say, my voice trembling. "Can I ask you something?" The officer nods, encouraging me to continue. "I heard gunshots...is everyone okay?"
His face tightens slightly. "Well, um, Jack shot at a fellow officer, and we were forced to shoot him before he hurt someone else. He wouldn't drop his gun. But don't worry, Jack's fine. We just shot him in the arm to make him drop the gun. He'll receive medical treatment soon. Your mother is fine."
As if I care if Jack or my mother are alive. I wish they would hurry up and die.
The other police officer, Mark's buddy, who's been standing by the door of my ragged bedroom, interrupts him. "Chief says to bring her down to the station and to pack her things while we try to track down her family members."
I stand up, my legs shaking beneath me. The officers step out to give me some privacy as I pack my things. I throw all my clothes, even the wet ones, into my battered backpack. I grab my old phone, painkillers, my knife for protection, weed, and a couple of pads. On top of everything, I add my journal and pencils. I almost forget my wallet, but I grab it at the last minute and stuff it in the bag. I know bringing weed into a police station is probably the worst idea ever, but I have no clue where I'm going to end up, plus I need it. Better safe than sorry.
"I'm done," I yell at the officers, my voice barely steady. I take one last look around my dingy bedroom. My old bed with its paper-thin mattress, the splintered dresser that wobbles if you so much as breathe on it, the cracked mirror barely hanging onto the thin wall. This place is a dump, but it's been my haven—my safe place. I'm not sure I'll miss it, but part of me aches to leave it behind.
As I step out of the room, I hear more shouting downstairs. I follow the officers down, my heart pounding as I brace myself for what comes next. In the living room, I see my mother, her wrists cuffed, sitting on the torn-up couch with a look that could kill. Jack, pale from the blood loss, glares at me as he's escorted out on a stretcher.
"This is all your fault, you little bitch," my mother hisses, her voice dripping with venom. "You've been nothing but a curse since the day you were born. If it weren't for you, none of this would have happened."
Jack, even in his weakened state, manages to spit out, "You think you're safe now? You think they're gonna take care of you? You're nothing without us. Just wait—you'll be begging to come back."
The officers exchange uneasy glances, but they don't intervene. They just lead me out of the house, their hands gentle but firm on my shoulders as they guide me toward the waiting squad car. As I step outside, the morning sun blinds me for a moment, the light too harsh after the darkness of the house.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. This is it—the end of one nightmare and the beginning of who knows what. I look back at the house one last time, the door swinging shut behind me, and with it my past, or at least I hope so.
A/N
Update on my dog: My dog managed to lose his tennis ball on his morning walk, but of course because it's my dog your taliking about he managed to make it sink to the bottom o the little lake/swamp/sewer we have in the park so he had to dive in the water and digg in the mud to try and find it. He was unsuccesfull in finding it but managed to turn into a stinky rat and my dad had to wash him. Spoiler, he wasn't happy.
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Saving Isabella
Teen FictionIsabella'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...
