Broken Ashes

The Race

Prologue

I thought this would never end. Each breath was like a fight for my life. The pain overwhelmed my thoughts, and the screaming helped nothing. A single string that kept me alive was in his hands. It rested in his palm, his skin beginning to bleed as he watched my eyes. I stared into the eyes of the man who used to be my stepfather. His drunk-ringed eyes looked into mine as his words were slurred. “Come on darling, just have a little fun…” I shook my head, feeling the blood drip on me as I pushed away from him, grabbing the first thing I could get my hands on.

“Don’t get away from me!” He screamed, trying to pull me back by my legs. My body squirmed—anything to get away from him. I kicked my legs, my shot at least hitting something that was close to his wound. My kicking had no effect, no matter how hard I tried.

I felt the pressure of his fingertips against my legs as he pulled me back, and the shiny object near the floor lay so close to my fingertips. I had almost been there, just about to reach for it when he pulled me against him once again. Screaming out more, I found there was nothing else I could do except try to fight him off me until he would give up.

“Why are you trying to leave? You have nowhere to go!” he slurred heavily with a laugh. I cried out more, pushing against his strong burly arms that wrapped around me.

Tears lined my cheeks as I screamed again for someone to hear me. Nevertheless, it was no use; I knew that the people who lived next door to us were always drunk and never cared to listen if anyone around them was all right. They never cared about us; even knowing my stepfather’s history, they never looked in on us to make sure my mother and I were all right. They did not care at all. I had to face the stupid fact, the hard way.

I felt the heartbeat in my head. No sound but the beating of a heart—my heart—pounded in my ears. I could feel his hands going at my clothes. Feelings of urgency spread through my desperate calls, hoping that someone would finally hear them. Still fighting, I pressed further, reaching and pushing, against him, until I realized. He was stronger and I was not getting away easily.

Pressing my fingers harder against the tile, I kicked him just hard enough in the right spot that it gave me just enough time. I wasted no time reaching for the knife in hope of scaring the man away. Instead, it only gave him a better reason to hit me harder.

If I had let myself hesitate, he would have killed me with the same knife I held in my hand. My eyes met his and I felt nothing but victory and anguish in my limbs. Not even a few seconds later, I mumbled the last few words he would ever hear: “Say hi to the devil for me.” Then I lifted the knife and stabbed him in the neck, killing him almost instantly. Once done, I pulled away from his sudden, stricken grasp.

I watched, the tears running down my face as I saw his eyes go wide, then become lifeless. His body fell limp on the kitchen floor only feet away from my mother’s. I felt my fingers go numb as I pushed myself away far enough to touch my back to the wall. My whole body shook with terror before I screamed once more as the reality of what I had just done sank in.

Then the tears fell as I just crumbled and pulled myself together in a tight ball on the kitchen floor where right next to me, my mother lay. Blood and her tears surrounded her dead body. Some tears were still roaming her motionless and pale face. It was soft and calm, which was unlike her personality.

She brought us into this situation, and at that moment, I blamed her. She would be out at bars, meeting random people. None of them came up to the standards I held. Ever since my father died, my mother’s insanity heightened quickly. My father was her light, her life, until that fateful day when he died.