Wronged

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- Anna's POV -

In the end, you always go back to the people that were there in the beginning.

It doesn't matter if these people were good or bad. Wrong or right. Kind or cold. They always come back to haunt you. You will one day remember them in your mind, see them in person, or just think of the particular name in general. The past always repeats itself.

That phrase, "the past always repeats itself," terrifies me. Because I don't ever want my past to repeat itself. That can be left where it was two years ago. I prefer my miserable life now over the grueling one I had seven hundred twenty-eight days ago.

Yet it once again, proves itself to be true. Because my father left this guitar in my next foster home. Again. He left something that reminds him of me again. It's taunting. It's a threat.

But every time he does leave something, it's harmless, empty. There's nothing that happens afterwards. His face has never shown itself to me in the events that he's brought items to me. Still, I can't prevent the chills that crawl up my arms and spine. I can't stop my brain from running off of the dock and jumping into this black cesspool of assumed conclusions.

What if he does come to me? What if he takes me back to the basement? What if he hurts me again? What if-

What if. What if. What if. It's vain to even use the two words together. It makes you sound ignorant and presumptuous. I need to keep on a firm head atop these shoulders.

I shake my head and release a breath. Common sense leads to good results. I just need to be calm. What is my father going to do to me when I have law and foster care on my side? I'm protected here. I have to be. And on top of that, I've been taking self defense classes for a year. They've become less rigorous training sessions, and less frequent since I've learned enough. But that was made on one condition: I have to be in a gym at least twice a week, practicing with someone or by myself. Staying in shape, sparring, and all that other good stuff is what needs to be muscle memory for me. An instinct. Second nature.

And it has been. I stay committed to working out and going over the moves my different instructors have taught me. But the one thing that concerns me is the lack of reality they insert into their training methods.

Any self-defense trainer will teach you what to do. They will tell you what moves to use in the variety of situations you can be caught in. They will demonstrate the different techniques you can use and how to throw a punch with your left and right hand. But what they cannot teach you, is human emotion.

What I mean by that, is in a life or death situation, the human brain goes haywire. Anything you learn in those classes goes straight down a memory fire pit. You're scared and will do anything to save yourself. These trainers can't teach you human emotion.

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror. I quickly shift my gaze away, not enjoying the view, and turn off the faucet. My fingers shake into the sink before I walk over to the paper towel dispenser and pull two brown sheets out. I dry my hands, dispose of the dryers, and leave the bathroom to join Hayley back in the booth.

She's slurping on a chocolate milkshake with crushed Oreos on top when I come back, my own beverage I ordered sitting on the table as well. When Hayley sees me, though, she stops drinking and looks up at me, eyes alight. I watch her throat as it intakes the content of the diner glass.