Up in Flames (Flames #1)

One

I'm under a table.

No – my arm, the one that was dislocated just yesterday, is being pulled. The table legs clear my vision and I'm in the open once again.

Heavy breathing.

In. Out.

Footsteps echo above me, a deep roar shaking the foundations of the house. A closet door opens, and my body is shoved in, the door bashing against my side. When the light still hits my face, I'm pulled out again.

"I'm sorry my baby. I'm so, so sorry."

Hysterical sobbing, turning into laughter. My hair being pulled tightly, the strands holding onto my scalp with all the strength they possess. A little whimper leaks from my lips, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

Ice-cold eyes meet mine, their pale blue depths stinging me with their emotion. "Oh, my baby. There is nothing more we can do."

The footsteps are getting louder.

My heart will surely beat out of my chest.

Arms push me behind solid warmth.

Curiosity and terror combine, and in that moment I am nothing more than slave to my emotions.

Just one peek around, I tell myself.

Just one peek.

***

I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath on the crappy single mattress I purchased with the last of my funds. My eyes search the waning darkness, looking for signs of the danger that used to lurk behind every corner. Despite twelve years of semi-respite, I still wake each night in the same manner.

Rolling over, I check the clock set up on the floor next to my mattress. The numbers blink at me unintelligibly and I groan, rolling back over. Staring at the ceiling, I take a few moments to allow my eyes to clear before looking at the clock once more.

5:45am.

I sit up, sliding back until I meet the wall and tuck my knees to my chest. I survey my new space, a small smile peeking out of the corners of my lips. This space is mine – there is absolutely no one here to tell me what I can or can't do. I get out of bed and walk the five steps it takes me to cross the room, flipping on the light switch and flooding my space with light and warmth.

I take a seat in front of the centrepiece of my room – a white dresser, worn with age, featuring a large mirror across the top. Scattered across the top of the dresser is all of my makeup – my most prized possessions. I reverently run my fingers across the multitude of brushes, coming to a pause at the old, worn blush brush – the first brush I ever received. Grasping the brush tightly, I'm struck immobile with memories.

A yellow package dropped straight to the door, my name spoken quietly.

" – Lyla? No one here by that name –"

" – the child...her package...deserves –"

" – chuck it out with the rest of –"

A yellow package at the top of a dumpster, my name stamped across the top.

I shake my head quickly, dislodging the memories as I drop the brush and instead use the brush I bought last week – a gift to myself for settling in on my own so well. Soon enough, I'm encapsulated with the each sweep, tap, and slide of makeup across my face as I focus on the physical ritual I've done every morning since the age of thirteen.