Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

A CRACK IN THE GLASS

MALACHY

Seeing Tara go limp in her brother's arms was all it took for me to lose my temper.

A white-hot rage surged through me, my hands balling into fists as I fought to keep myself from exploding right there. The sight of her lifeless body flooded my mind with memories I hadn't dared to revisit in years.

She's not dead, Malachy

She couldn't be.

She's a fighter.

She's alive.

She had to be.

God only knew what she had sacrificed and bled for silently, ever since the moment I'd met her. And I remembered exactly how I met her—battered, bruised, but never beaten. Only back then, it wasn't her brother holding her in his arms, it was her father, the fucking bastard who had hurt her then and the one who had scarred her now.

I couldn't forget it.

I didn't want to forget it.

Thirteen years ago, Tara Lynch saved my sister's life.

If I closed my eyes, I could still see that moment clearly—the day she walked into that dark room, dressed in an innocent little white dress, her blonde hair held back by a white bow. Her green eyes held a confusion, but something darker too—defiance. It blazed in her, an untamed fire she hadn't yet learned to control.

I was drawn to her instantly, like a moth helplessly drawn to a flame, burning hotter than anything I'd ever known. Even at five years old, Tara Lynch walked like she owned the room, her head held high, chin lifted defiantly, as though the weight of the world had tried to crush her but failed. Her movements carried a confidence that seemed three times her age, and the way she glanced around—disinterested, almost bored—was unnerving. It was as though she had already seen the worst the world had to offer and found it wanting.

The second her eyes landed on me, it was like a jolt of electricity shot through me. She arched an eyebrow, her chin tilted up just slightly as if to say, What the fuck are you looking at? It wasn't a question; it was a challenge. Her dull eyes, which had been empty seconds earlier, sparked to life, ignited with something wild and uncontainable. It completely floored me.

I remember standing there, frozen, locked in that moment, staring back at her. I couldn't look away. I refused to look away. There was no way I was about to let her win our silent contest. She wasn't going to get one over on me. When she realised I wasn't going to back down, something happened—the corner of her lips twitched, curving into the faintest hint of a teasing grin.

And that was it. Without warning or permission, I was hooked.

We hadn't even spoken a word to each other, but something deep inside me knew—knew without a doubt—that she was special. She wasn't like anyone else. She was different. She was the light I had been searching for, though I hadn't realised it at the time. My whole life had been filled with darkness, with misery and fear, and then, there she was.

She was my light in the darkness.

But not just any light.

No.

She was a blinding, all-consuming light that burned brighter than anyone else in that hellhole. The kind that scorches everything in its path but draws you in regardless, even if it means getting burned.

I remember the exact moment the fear first appeared on her face. The gunshot rang out, splitting the air like a crack of thunder, followed by the echoing boom of doors bursting open. The barking of dogs tore through the silence, mingling with the cruel, guttural laughter of those bastards. I'll never forget the way her green eyes widened, her confident mask faltering as she realised what was happening.