I stopped a block away from my home. Every day it was the same. Panic started inside of my chest, choking off my breathing and sending my vision into a tunnel of memories I couldn't always swim out of. It was getting better, but it was only through massive self-discipline and a tiny shred of hope that I hadn't fallen completely into despair.
The same as I had the last two years, I quietly told myself this wasn't forever. I would get out of this house. I would free myself.
They wouldn't always be able to hurt me.
But those days were looking to be far ahead of me, and it was all I could do to make myself believe it. I bent over for a moment, allowing my head to hang close to my knees and I breathed.
In. Out. Slow and steady.
Breathe, Cassidy.
When I was ready, I stood up, adjusted my backpack and made the short trek to the corner house.
I stood in front of it, again marveling at how such an adorable, idyllic dwelling had turned into such a house of horrors for me. My parents died when I was twelve, killed by a mercenary band of pirates delighted to discover they'd accidentally stumbled upon the legendary Rogue of Resendra and his paramour, a powerful witch named Isadora.
I was later told I'd been swept out to sea, unnoticed by the band, and miraculously found by a woman who happened to know my parents. She'd dropped me off at my aunt's doorstep and left without even a word of encouragement, though as she walked away, I'd noticed something in her eyes. Sympathy perhaps.
Looking back, I think the woman knew exactly what she was dropping me into. On one hand, I could understand her not wanting to raise someone else's whelp. On the other, how could a human being, a mother especially, leave a little girl in the sadistic hands of a woman like Aunt Tilda?
I planned to find out as soon as I figured out a way to break away from this house. Because I planned to kill that woman.
With a deep and shaky breath, I plastered on my best I don't give a crap expression and pushed through the door.
The house was dark, but I knew everyone who lived in here well enough to know this didn't mean anything. I'd grown complacent too many times and suffered for it enough to do it anymore. I gently set my backpack down into the cubby my aunt had specifically made for me and stood stock still, straining to hear any noise, any whispers, anything that could tell me their location and whether I was about to be ambushed.
It wasn't just my aunt though she was the cruelest. She had two daughters: Kirsty and Martina. They liked to talk with their fists. Probably because they were so stupid they could barely string two sentences together. I couldn't escape them and when I tried, all they did was scream to their mother about how I was being mean, and then it would be twice as bad. So I endured their fists, their kicks, the suppers they stole from me, and their vicious barbs.
I would get them back one day, too.
All of them.
I couldn't hear anything. Not a peep, not an exhaled breath.
This made me even more nervous than usual. I took one hesitant step forward.
The old wooden floor beneath me creaked. I cringed, even as I knew they already knew I was here. The old front door needed oiling for goodness knows how long, but it wasn't like I could make my entrance completely quiet. Even though I really wanted to.
There was no movement anywhere in the house.
My brow knit together as I moved further inside.
Nothing.
