Finding Lily

14- Lily

That night, I had the same nightmare. Me standing over Jane's broken body, laying on the kitchen floor, blonde hair fanned out in blood, green eyes drained of life. Jane, dead, alone, gone.

I woke up with tears running down my face. There was no light outside, not yet, it was too early. Still, I couldn't bear going back to sleep.

Gathering my strength, I wiped my cheeks and stepped in front of the dresser. I found some clothes that Daniel had apparently bought for me, and changed for the first time in days. Wearing shorts and a grey t-shirt, I went outside into the woods surrounding the cabin with only moonlight as a guide.

Taking a deep breath of fresh air, I walked around the house, looking for something to hit. My sadness had transformed into anger, a pattern that seemed to be emerging since so much had been taken from me. A new thought entered my mind since waking up from the nightmare. What if Daniel was right? What if keeping up with my training meant I could have saved her?

On the opposite end of the house, I saw a punching bag hanging underneath the awning. Next to it was a table with a pair of gloves on it, so I put those on. Thinking back to past instruction, I took a stance and started to punch it with all of my strength, ignoring the soreness still present in my body.

It wasn't long before muscle memory came back. I'd learned how to hit a punching bag when I was eight and practiced off and on until Daniel left. Granted, my practice sessions slowed down as I got older, but I still knew how to do it. I practiced hooks, jabs, and kicks until the sun rose in the distance.

"So you do remember."

I turned when I heard Daniel's voice behind me. I had been going for a while and was sweaty and tired, but was also proud that I had been doing it right and hadn't completely forgotten.

"I'd remember more if you hadn't stopped teaching me." I threw back at him.

"I want you to try some moves on me." Daniel ignored my statement and stood next to me.

"I don't think so."

"Hit a bag all you want. That won't prepare you if you ever get attacked again."

Maybe he was right. I knew he was. Still, taking lessons from him would be too reminiscent of the old times. Back when he was a father to me and taught me out of love. I didn't even know what this was. What did he care if I died? I was pretty much dead to him, anyway.

Regardless, I had to admit I liked the idea of being strong. Of being able to take care of myself. I didn't have any other goals to work toward, so after taking a deep breath, I agreed.

For the next hour, we went through all of the self-defense moves we could think of. He showed me how to get away when someone was holding my arm, or my neck, or my waist. We practiced headbutts, nose-breaking punches, and that move where you stick your fingers in somebody's eyes. By the time they were done, I was sore but for a whole different reason.

"Rest up. Soon we'll start training with weapons." Daniel told me before going inside to prepare breakfast.

Sweating and dirty, I went to the shower stall that was attached to the outhouse. Once inside, I stripped off all of my clothes and looked at my unbandaged body for the first time since that night. Most of my bruises had healed but I noticed a lot of small scars that I got from sharp knuckles and falling into furniture, but none were significant. What made me cringe was the thick scar that stretched diagonally from just over my belly button to the far side of my left breast. I didn't remember getting it, but could still feel the pain that it brought afterwards. It stripped everything I had left. My step-sister, my home, my sense of self.

I didn't recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. Her eyes were too cold, too empty. Her lips were set in a frown and her face still had scars from the attack.

I didn't know who I was anymore.

I was angry at my father, sure, but images of the man who attacked me had started to light up more fires in me than anything else. I would never forget his face as he watched the men beat me. Or the way he lightly stroked Jane's cheek. My feelings toward my father may have been complicated but for him?

I wanted that man to die.