ROSES AND RUIN

Chapter Two:

~They say heaven is a place on Earth, but my Earth is hell itself.~

September, 2014. Seven years ago.

~Willow~

I know I shouldn't say this, it's a bit cruel to admit, but I'm glad it wasn't me. The one they'd violated. The one whose future was wrenched away.

It's a really selfish relief I can't help but feel, even though it haunts me. The memories of that night.

I'd been the main target. I know this, having overheard those overeager bastards talking about it so casually like I was nothing more than a piece of cheap furniture at an auction.

"The younger one. Less resistance," they'd said, as if I wouldn't have resisted at all. If they'd thought I'd go quietly, they were dead wrong.

I would've fought, biting and clawing my way, and would've at least gotten some kicks in as good as any feisty twelve-year-old could.

I'd have tried to make them regret it, tried to hurt them somehow until the numbers I'm aware they'd intended to have on me finally overwhelmed me. And I know I would've died in the process.

I'd stood, shocked still and so petrified with terror after hearing them, my first instinct had been to run. So I did.

I bolted, as quickly and quietly as I could, the second I'd regained control of my frozen limbs. I didn't stop to think. My only instinct was to flee, to hide, to disappear. And I managed it. Through the narrow hallway of our crumbling apartment, I stumbled down the stairs, my heart racing with every step.

The basement; dank, dark, and full of dust, was the only place I could think of. I hadn't even realized how familiar I'd become with the place, often coming down here to escape the chaos upstairs.

The creaky wooden steps seemed to echo louder than my pounding heartbeat. I paused, so sure they could hear. When no sound came, I continued. The air was damp with the smell of mildew; the upstairs alone was bad enough and down here was worse, but I didn't care. I needed to be anywhere but up there.

I crouched low the moment I reached the bottom, keeping myself as small as possible. It was pitch black except for the dim light that crept in through the cracks in the floorboards above.

Then I froze again to listen.

Through those tiny gaps, I could see them; shadows moving above me in the living room, pacing back and forth. Every time one of them stepped over the spot where I crouched beneath, my heart slammed into my throat, and I feared they would hear it, hear me. Their boots thudded against the wood, the creaks making the floor shudder above my head.

I held my breath.

From below, I could see their dirty and worn boots. But there was one that was neither. So out of place with the rest, the deep, rich mahogany and expensive-looking shoes gleamed as if polished to a near-mirror finish.

I frowned. I hadn't seen shoes like those since we left high society. Custom made and shiny, it was such an anomaly with our current surroundings, that I immediately knew the owner wasn't someone that belonged in, or anywhere near a place like this, for that matter.

I squinted at the imprint on the side sole; 'W&W'. Whatever brand it was, the craftsman was talented.

The man wearing them didn't fit with the others either. The little I could make out of his voice, low as it was, was how smooth and sure it sounded. Other than that, I couldn't understand anything he was saying either. He seemed less involved in the chaos, almost detached. Made me wonder what the hell he was doing here.