*possibly triggering flashback*
I go downstairs like I do every morning at 5:30, my footsteps almost robotic as I make my way to the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet, the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl because you know it won't last. I hope I don't run into Jack. Every time I hear his name, bile rises in my throat, my stomach knots with the memory of every bruise, every insult, every night he made my life hell. There's barely anything in the fridge, so I settle on making eggs and tea, keeping my movements quiet, careful, as if the sound of a clinking plate could summon him. But as I'm plating the eggs, my hand trembling just enough to smear yolk across the counter, the door swings open with such force that it slams against the wall. My body goes rigid.
Jack stumbles into the room, his eyes wild, bloodshot from whatever poison he's drowned himself in this time. When his gaze locks on me, it feels like a knife twisting in my gut. His lips curl into that ugly sneer he always wears when he's looking for someone to punish. It takes seconds—less than that—for him to charge at me. His fist connects with my face before I even have time to raise my arms. The impact sends me staggering backward, my vision blurs, stars dancing in the corner of my eyes as pain explodes in my skull. Before I can recover, he's on me, a flurry of kicks to my stomach, my ribs. I collapse to the floor, curling up in a pathetic ball, my arms wrapped around my head, trying desperately to shield myself. I can't breathe. My chest feels like it's caving in under the weight of his boots. Tears spill down my face, and I sob between gasps of air, praying it will stop. But Jack never stops until he's satisfied.
Then, something cold hits me, soaking my hoodie. The sharp, unmistakable smell of gasoline fills the room, thick and suffocating. My heart skips. I look up just in time to see Jack holding a lighter, flicking it open and shut like a sadistic child playing with fire. His grin—oh God, that grin—stretches across his face as if he's savoring my fear. Everything slows down, like a nightmare you can't wake up from. The lighter drops. The flame ignites instantly. My clothes catch, and fire wraps around me, devouring me with its searing, ravenous heat. I scream, desperately batting at the flames, trying to tear my hoodie off as my skin burns. My body twists and writhes in agony as I roll on the floor, the acrid smell of burning fabric and flesh assaulting my senses. The pain is unbearable. Every nerve in my body is screaming, every muscle begging for release from the fire that's eating me alive. But then—mercifully—everything goes dark.
I don't know how much time passes before I wake up, but when I do, I'm lying on the cold, hard bathroom floor. My body feels drenched—water?—but the pain is still there, simmering under the surface like glowing embers waiting to reignite. My skin stings, raw and blistered, and I can barely move without wincing. But it's not the pain that terrifies me; it's the cold, empty look in my mother's eyes as she stares down at me, her arms crossed, an expression of pure impatience twisting her face.
She kicks my leg, hard enough to make me groan, and then—she laughs. She actually laughs, a sound so chilling it sends a shiver through my burned flesh. "Good, you're awake," she says, her voice dripping with sickly sweetness, her words laced with venom. "I've been waiting for you to wake up for the past fifteen minutes. Do you have any idea how much you've inconvenienced me?" She leans down, her breath hot and rancid against my ear, and yells, "I've got things to do, you little whore!" Her words hit me like shards of glass, each one cutting deeper than the last.
She paces back and forth, her fury building with every step. "I swear to God, you're like a fucking cockroach. You just won't die, will you? No matter what I do, you keep crawling back, pathetic and disgusting. You think anyone wants you around? You think I want you here?" Her laugh is sharp, bitter, laced with cruelty. "Even your own father couldn't stand the sight of you. That's why he left, you know. You were such a worthless little mistake, even he couldn't bear to be near you."
YOU ARE READING
Saving Isabella
Genç KurguIsabella'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...
