Heather
Ten Years Earlier…
The tattoo on my shoulder is new and still sore.
A viper, ready to strike.
That’s what I am.
I’ll never tell anyone what the tattoo signifies. Not even the people who swear they won’t leave if I do.
Because they always do.
I already survived one man who promised to protect me.
I don’t need to survive another.
Outside, the air is damp and quiet. Not cold but chilled enough to raise goosebumps along my arms. I inhale deeply. For the first time in years, I don’t taste fear.
The duffel bag is light on my shoulder. It holds the bare minimum—cash, burner phone, a change of clothes, and the fake ID in a name no one has ever called me before.
The name doesn’t matter. Not yet. What matters is that it’s nothisname. Not the one I was born to.
The house disappears behind me, swallowed up by thedarkness. The gravel crunches beneath my sneakers, loud in the stillness, but it doesn’t matter. The nearest neighbor is half a mile down the road, and he never had visitors. Not unless he called someone to come clean up his mess.
But tonight?
Icleaned it up.
The bus station is forty minutes away. I’ll walk until I’m close enough to hitch a ride. I memorized the bus schedule. Two routes run west by morning. I don’t care which one I take as long as it gets me far from here.
I keep walking. Past the twisted mailbox he never fixed. Past the sagging fence and rusted gate.
I did it.
The realization doesn’t hit all at once.
It comes in pieces. In the silence. In the scent of gasoline on the road.
In the absence of his voice in my head, mocking me, directing me, punishing me.
No more. He took something precious from me, and I’m done.
He’sgone.
And I’m not broken.
Not anymore.
I walk until the sky starts to gray. Until the outline of civilization begins to appear—billboards and storefronts.
I duck into a gas station. The clerk barely looks up. Just as well. I head for the bathroom and change my clothes—jeans, hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low. I cut my sandy brown hair short a few days ago. I’ll color it black—I’ve always wanted black hair with blue tips—as soon as I can.
It’s over.
Though I feel something weighing me down.
Not guilt. Hell, no.
