Mistake ♦ Romitri

Chapter 1

A/N

Just to clear confusion later on in the story, it is legal to be with your legal guardian once at the age of 18. This is when their guardian status is revoked. Much like the mentor, student, role. 

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The bell chimes and the grimy door creaks open. The shop ahead of us is dim but then again, it always is. I peer behind me, watching my parents take cautious steps as they speak in hushed voices.

I approach a small aisle in the corner of the shop, veering off the path my parents take on the daily occurrence of coming to the shop around the corner. I glance around warily and snatch a generic look chocolate bar from the shelf, laughing quietly, and greedily unwrap it, pushing it into my mouth and chomping on the precious gooiness with an un-feminine grace. Why I'm not paying for it, I'm not entirely sure. I guess I like the thrill of it. I like the thrill that allows me to escape my mundane life.

It's about to happen. I thought, my conscious surfacing slowly.

The back of the confined store reveals a line of cash registers illuminated only by the setting sun shining drearily through the filthy glass. My mother stands there, waiting in line, carrying an almost empty basket containing nothing but essentials- nothing different than the normal. I feel suffocated by the repetitive cycle of my mundane life and I want to escape. I want to escape now.

I didn't want to escape the way I did.

I join the queue- swallowing the thick glue-like substance in my mouth. I take a step forward, one more mundane step to pass the time. I take another; the door creaks open. I take another, the bell rings, echoing forebodingly throughout the corner shop. And then, I hear that oddly familiar sound, the sound of gunfire.

I hear the agonising scream of a dozen bullets flying through the air. I see the man standing before me, hunched and trembling, a gun in his hands. I can't fathom how such a small object can trigger such fear.

He moves his hand and the gun is aimed at my mother's chest. I hear the click of the safety turning off and we are now targets. We are his aim and we have no time to run. 'I'm sorry. I can't say it enough. It's an order. The Mazur's can't be left alive.' The man's voice is pleading, desperate as if asking us to move- but, we are paralysed.

It doesn't stop him from pulling the trigger. Click. A pause. A delayed explosion and a splat. The bullet hits and as I open my mouth, silence rolls out. There is no scream, no shout, no noise. But, what was once aimed at my mother's chest had hit something else. Something was in its way. My father was in its way. And now, he was sprawled across the ground, this chest no longer rising and falling. Blood pools onto the floor, oozing from the cavity the bullet created in his head.

Worse than my silence is my mother's heart-wrenching scream. Her scream is like a siren, unending, agonisingly loud. Then, there's silence. The bullet had dug deep into her chest, her blood now uniting with that of my father's.

I bring my hand to my face; I feel blood. I feel it roll down my cheek as if they are tears, maybe they are tears. I pause and stare down the barrel of the gun and without hesitation, I run. I run as fast as my legs will take me.

'Happy birthday!' They cheered and the nightmare was finally over. It was as if I had been trapped within a cage even if it was not night time. The daylight shined through the small windows and I knew that it was day. I glanced around, the room was bustling. It was full of other children begging for a slice. I would give it to them, I didn't think I could stomach it anyway.

Except, I realised, staring back down at my hand. That wasn't a nightmare- it was a memory.

The foster kids surrounded me in the kitchen, hoping for a piece of cake and nothing more. It had been eight months since then and I was blowing out the candles that would declare me seventeen.

I didn't want to pity myself but it was my first birthday without my parents and the idea itself was weighing heavily on my shoulders. I blew out the candles, wishing for the impossible, and let the adults hand out the cake.

They all cheered once again as the first cut was taken as I kept a fake smile plastered on my face. I stood from my chair and handed out the first piece of cake before stalking back to my room, keeping none for myself.

My room was down in the basement of the building and had earned the name cave from most of the children who lived in the home. Being the oldest, I only had a year left and there was little to no chance of being fostered before I reached eighteen and was faced with the harsh reality of the real world, not that I wasn't already.

I wasn't delusional and I knew my future wasn't a bright one. I had been the bad girl at school and I hadn't passed many of my exams or any at all that I could remember. I hadn't gone to school since the incident; I was told I was bright but I had a lack of academic ability in school and they had said I would work better being homeschooled.

The foster system agreed on the thought that one of the foster carers could help me. None did, none had time. I didn't blame them, of course. I was difficult, I knew that already and I wasn't going to make their lives any harder by forcing them to give me lessons.

Then, instead of them, they had told me I could use my parents' money to pay for tutors, which I immediately declined. I didn't want to use my parents' money; I didn't want to go near it. When I was eighteen, I would look into it but for now, I left it and all that came along with it alone.

Most days, I entertained myself at the cafe around the corner. I bought a coffee with the little money I had, sat in a booth and watched as customers came in and out, having nothing better to do. I had no phone and no money to go somewhere else and not once had they kicked me out so I had been content to sit and listen to the music they played as customers flooded in.

I often spent the nights somewhere else, though, the nightclub- mostly. I saved enough money to buy something somewhat alcoholic and danced the night away: danced my life away. I got in with a fake ID that didn't even look like me but I had charmed my way in enough times for the staff to give up and hope that no law-enforcement were in the area- which there never were.

Tonight, though, I sat alone on my bed just wallowing in the memories of a life that now seemed distant. I feel asleep soon after, dreaming of being free- running away- from the harsh reality of life. But, even dreams ended and I was faced with the truth of it all. Nothing was ever that easy.

If I left now, I would live on the streets for at least another year- if not longer. I would be alone and hungry, desperate for donations from strangers on the streets. I would not wish that life upon anyone and I would not wish it upon myself, nor would I push myself into something so pointless when I could avoid it.

My life was bad but there was worse and I never wanted to get to the point where it was worse. Although my current housing had a low budget, it paid me daily to buy myself a coffee and seeing as I wasn't going to school, they were glad to be free of children if only for a few hours.

I had woken up at eleven and I already knew that my buzzing mind was not about to go back to sleep so, with the twenty dollars I had been given for my birthday, I made my way to the club. I first got dressed suitably before sneaking out without so much as a goodbye, they had learned that I wasn't one to say goodbye.

It was only a thirty-minute walk and I traipsed along the streets, my shirt buttons slightly undone and my skirt hardly touching my thigh. This was my life now and I was beginning to accept it.

word count: 903

edit 1- 19.02.17 - new word count - 1338

edit 2 - 23.03.17 - new word count - 1497