The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die (GirlXGirl)

Chapter 20: The Second Fall

The door clicked shut behind me, sealing off the outside world with a heavy thud. Silence wrapped around me like a chokehold, squeezing out any trace of hope I might've dragged home with me. Shadows crept, everything suddenly bigger, louder. Each floorboard groaned under my weight, and the stale stench of beer and dirty laundry turned my stomach.

There he was, as always. My father, a permanent stain in that godforsaken armchair. His slumped body bathed in the soft, flickering light of the TV—some mindless drama droning on. The sight of him always felt like walking into a crime scene, except the corpse was still breathing. I hovered in the hallway, trying to keep my heartbeat steady while my face wore that blank mask I'd perfected. Don't give him anything. That was the rule.

"Where the fuck were you?" His voice cracked through the silence, scratchy and thick with booze. He didn't even look at me—just stayed glued to whatever was rotting his brain this time.

"School," I muttered, moving like I was trying not to trip a minefield as I hung up my backpack. My entire body was coiled tight, every muscle on alert. The trick was to be invisible, to slip by without making waves.

"School?" He spat the word like it was a joke. A hollow clink as his beer bottle hit the side table. "Then who the fuck dropped you off? Your mother sure as shit ain't here to let you run around wild anymore."

His words punched me in the gut, harder than anything he'd actually thrown at me. My mom—don't think about her. That hurt too much. The second she left, she took all the warmth, all the light, and left me with *him*. I felt the familiar grief clawing its way up my throat, but I swallowed it down. Instead, I turned and started toward the stairs. Always moving, always running from him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" His voice sharpened, and I could hear the shift, the anger bubbling up like some sick volcano. "You don't get to walk away from me, you little bitch!"

I froze. That word. That tone. It was a warning, and I knew it. But I was so fucking tired. My fists clenched at my sides, and before I could stop myself, the words came out like a shotgun blast. "Why the hell should I stay? You're not even a father anymore!"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Then, in a flash, I heard him rise—faster than I'd expected. The beer bottle hit the floor with a dull thud, and before I could react, his hand cracked across my face. My head snapped to the side, stars bursting in my vision.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" His breath was hot, rancid, as he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, yanking me off balance. "You think you can talk to me like that?" He hit me again, this time harder, and I stumbled, catching myself on the wall.

The pain radiated through my skull, but I swallowed it, glaring at him with every ounce of defiance I could muster. "Fuck you."

The words weren't smart, but they were the only thing I had left. His face twisted, and for a second, I thought he might actually strangle me right there. Instead, he shoved me hard, sending me crashing against the wall. I didn't cry. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

"Get the fuck outta my sight," he growled, turning back toward the TV like nothing happened. "You ain't worth shit."

I stayed on the floor for a second, tasting blood in my mouth, but I dragged myself up. I wasn't gonna stay here and let him think he'd broken me. My legs were shaky, but I forced them to move, practically running up the stairs, slamming the door behind me when I reached my room.

Once inside, I collapsed onto my bed, shaking. The pain, the anger—it all crashed down like a tidal wave. I stared at the ceiling, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I couldn't stay here. I couldn't keep doing this.

The drawer beside my bed called to me. It always did when things got too dark. I opened it with trembling hands, revealing the blade I kept hidden, its cold, metallic gleam catching the dim light. That tiny thing, it had saved me before. It was an escape, a release when the world got too heavy.

I picked it up, turning it in my hand, but tonight, something felt different. AnnMarie's face flashed in my mind. Her laugh. That stupid, unrelenting kindness she showed me, like she actually believed I wasn't as fucked up as I felt.

"What would she think?" I whispered to the empty room, the blade heavy in my palm. The pain in my chest threatened to suffocate me, but as I sat there, AnnMarie's concerned eyes kept cutting through the haze. She'd seen me, the real me, without judgment.

I stared at the blade, my mind spinning. Would she forgive me if I gave in? Would anyone even care?

A part of me wanted to say "fuck it" and just end the pain, but another part—some buried sliver of defiance—whispered that maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to let this win. I imagined telling AnnMarie about my dad, about this shitty life. Her reaction. Would she see me differently? Or would she still be there, her hand reaching out like it always did?

With a shaky breath, I placed the blade back in the drawer and slammed it shut. I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. Even if I didn't have all the answers, there was something in me—some dumb, stubborn part—that still wanted to fight.

I lay back on the bed, my face still stinging from where he hit me, and tears finally spilled down my cheeks. But this time, I didn't let the darkness pull me under. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a flicker of hope. Fragile, yes, but real.

Tomorrow, I would figure it out. Maybe I'd talk to AnnMarie, let her in a little more. Let her see the bruises. Let her know just how deep the hurt ran. And maybe she'd still laugh, still smile, still tell me I wasn't as alone as I thought.

The weight of everything pressed down on me, but I kept breathing, kept holding onto that small, flickering light AnnMarie had sparked. No more letting him, or anyone, beat me down without a fight.

I wiped the tears from my face and stared into the dark. Whatever tomorrow held, I'd face it. I had to. There was still something worth fighting for.