The Monster's Protégé

O N E

A U R O R A

17 years old, past

I ran.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, clutching the torn backpack like my life depended upon it. Actually, my life did depend on it. The men following me were no saints-actually criminals if I didn't know any better.

Two days back when I strolled inside the abandoned building looking for a shelter and accidentally discovered the basement where the stash of drugs was kept and guarded, I thought if I could steal some for myself, it would at least be able to pay for my food for the next month. So, I waited for a couple of days for an opportunity and managed to steal few packets so that I could sell some.

I wasn't a drug addict but I knew that selling these would definitely earn me some bucks.

And I needed them, desperately.

I had been hoping from homeless shelter to shelter for the past year, hiding from the police and every goddamn person who were eager to exploit a seventeen-year-old girl. I might have been an orphan and homeless but I wasn't helpless.

At an early age I learned it in a hard way that fairy tales didn't exist, there's no knight in shining armor and Hogwarts' magic only existed in J. K. Rowling books.

You only help yourself and save yourself-no one else was coming to save you.

And here I was-running for my life to survive another month without starving.

I was running on autopilot by now, completely breathless and frantic. A few minutes ago, I was shivering in cold and now beads of sweat crowded my forehead as I sprinted through the alley. I hadn't realized how numb my leg muscles were until I suddenly slammed into a human wall of solid muscles. And before I could even glance up, something pungent was pressed against my nose and the world went completely dark.

**

The next time I woke up I found myself on the cold floor, the backpack of stolen goods gone. Forcing my eyes open, as the blurriness cleared, I looked around. The place was like a prison cell, except too dirty and reeked of blood. Even the splatter of dried crimson on the walls was prominent. It almost looked like a slaughterhouse. There were only an iron door and no windows-not even a ventilator.

The winter was unforgiving this year, coupled with rainfall. And this prison-or whatever it was- was frozen hell. Dragging myself towards the door, I tried banging a few times but there wasn't a single peep from the other side.

Aching, hungry and cold-I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped the arms around and buried my head, almost defeated. No matter how much I tried to fall asleep, I simply couldn't-dreading what I had in store for me when that door opens.

It was probably hours later that I heard shuffling of feet and instantly my head snapped. Intuitively, I reached back to clutch the knife tucked behind the back of my tattered, old jeans. It was rather small but for me, it was perfect.

It was the only weapon I could afford.

For a girl who killed her alcoholic, abusive father, who saw her own mother getting beaten up and killed and someone who escaped a prison-there was still a lot of fight left in me to survive what was to come when that door unlocks.

I crawled to the side of the door and couched down as sore, cold fingers clutched the handle of the knife-ready to spring into action. For what it's worth, I'd still try and save myself.

Heartbeats drummed frantically and the instant the door swung open, my knife slashed the shin of the leg of the man. He tumbled down, clutching his legs. Another man behind him was a tad faster than the previous one, though. He quickly grabbed my free hand but the one holding the knife sliced through his biceps, drawing little blood.