Page 23 of Spitfire

Furious rage wells inside of me, wishing that he would just stop breathing, fall over, and die. Even if that happened, I know that it would be nothing more than a momentary reprieve in my miserable life, and I would just be shuffled to the next house, maybe even somewhere worse than here. At least at this one, there are other kids, even if they mostly ignore me, and whisper to each other behind their hands.

"Clean the floor, girlie!" He demands, his heavy-booted foot kicking out and slamming into my leg. Tears flow faster down my face, my hands trembling as I turn my back to him, hoping to keep even a minuscule amount of my modesty intact, as I use my dress to wipe my pee-stained legs and the floor below. The move must anger him further, because I get a booted foot to the middle of my back that makes me fall forward into the urine. "Stupid whore, thinking she can deny me."

He's on me in the next instant, his hairy arm wrapping around my chest, attempting to lift me off the ground and press my body flush against his. I can feel his disgusting penis pressing into my lower back, as his other hand attempts to rip my wet underwear down my legs. I fight him with everything I have. Biting every part of his arm I can reach, kicking, scratching, and snarling, and it causes his momentum to falter. He shifts backward, my weight putting him off center, and I use the opportunity of his disorientation to headbutt him hard. He stumbles into the side table, its contents crashing to the ground, including the lit cigarette, which rolls out of sight.

He releases me for a brief second, and I've just regained my feet when he catches me by the hair again, and forces me to halt my movements. "ENOUGH!" His fist connects with the side of my face, and I crumple to the floor, white spots appearing before my eyes, and darkness threatening to take me.

No! Stay awake! You have to stay awake, Scarlett, the voice inside me screams, but my head spins, and the taste of warm pennies fills my mouth.

"We could have done this the easy way, but now, no more Mr. Nice Guy." His foot lands on my thigh, crushing me below his weight into the dirty floor. A scream tears from me, and the pain helps to push back the darkness rapidly accosting me. A movement from the doorway catches my eye, just a streak of blinding white, and then it's gone. I'm not even sure if I actually saw it.

He drags me towards the recliner in the corner by my hair, walking me like a dog on a leash. My body's movement is filled with pain and nausea, as I attempt not to faceplant. Just before we reach the chair, and he plops himself heavily down with a groan, I realize his cigarette from the overturned table has made its way to the edge of the dirty curtains pooling on the ground, and a wisp of smoke is beginning to emanate from them.

He seems completely unaware of what's happening behind him. His attention is now entirely on trying to hurt me. My sight becomes utterly focused on that curtain, even though I can hear the sound of his zipper, and the groan he releases. His grip on my hair tries to force my face closer to his lap, but I use the last bit of strength I have left to resist. I can't seem to pry my eyes away from the bright orange, red, and blue flames that are eating up the fabric. The flames seem to writhe and dance, and they are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I'm so focused on them that I stop fighting him, and he manages to get the tip of his penis inside my mouth, before I regain my senses and bite down hard.

"FUCK! STUPID BITCH!" He pounds his fist into my face, and blood instantly spurts from my nose as he pushes me away from him. Something inside of me makes me grin back at him, blood coating my teeth and mouth, as I scramble on my hands and knees away from him.

The fire lashes out like a trapped beast, roaring to life and making it up the side of the wall to the ceiling, only to devour everything in its path. He finally realizes and shouts, trying to use a discarded blanket to put it out. An acrid wave of heat sears into my lungs, and has sweat beading on my flesh, as the embers leave a choking trail in their wake. Fire alarms are screeching through the house, and I can hear the distant sounds of feet running and slamming doors. Good, they are all escaping. I'm giving them a chance at freedom from this monster.

My gaze slides down his body, seeing the front of his open pants, and his cock hanging limply and abandoned between the folds. The darkness threatens me again, but this time it's different; it's all-consuming, and intimately wrapped in rage. I quickly search for something, anything to hit him with, but other than a few small items, nothing is going to make a real impact. I'm about to give up when a small voice breaks through my panic, and I turn to stare to the side.

A small child who can't be more than four or five, with almost white blond hair, stares back at me calmly with the largest gray eyes I have ever seen. He swipes at his snotty nose with the back of his hand, and trembles in the doorway in just a t-shirt that is two sizes too long for him, and bare feet. Even from where I'm standing, transfixed, the fire heating my flesh, I can see the red welts on his legs and neck. "Here!" He screams, and I realize he's holding a wooden rolling pin, the kind you use for baking, in his trembling, skinny arms.

I don't stop to think about what I'm going to do next. I grab the rolling pin from him and push him back toward the front door. "Go, get out before the fire spreads." He hesitates for a brief moment before running off, and I turn back to my foster father.

He's still too preoccupied with attempting to put out the fire, and doesn't see me coming up behind him, or swinging the rolling pin at the back of his head. It makes a sickening sound, and at first, I don't believe I've hit him hard enough. He stumbles forward with a cry, and turns to glance at me over his shoulder, dropping the burning blanket.

Fuck, what do I do now? I swing again, this time catching him on the shoulder, and he sways and falls to his knees, the fire blazing mere inches away from him. "Please..." he groans, and the sound of the word is my undoing. I swing again, hitting him awkwardly on the side of the head, before dropping the rolling pin and escaping out the door without a glance.

"SCARLETT! WHAT THE FUCK!" Jasper shakes me so hard my teeth rattle, and I'm pulled out of the terrifying memory. I stare up into his deep blue eyes, filled with concern, his skin pale as if he's seen a ghost. "What the hell just happened to you? It was like you were in some sort of trance."

I force the scream down and gulp huge, ragged breaths, trying to dispel the feelings of long ago that still terrorize me whenever I think about that moment in time. It's been so long since I had one of those nightmares, and I've never had one while awake. "I'm... I'm sorry," I croak, but that's when I realize what I'm holding in my shaking hand.

"Put the gun down, Scarlett, slowly," Jasper demands firmly, but I can see the fear in his eyes and the strain on his face. I instantly place my gun beside me on the table, and take hasty steps away from it, shock racing through my limbs and making me tremble.

"I... I don't know... what just happened," I admit as I slide down the wall and cradle my legs tightly. I try to take a deep breath, but it's as if I'm breathing through a straw, and I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

He darts forward, grabs the gun, and quickly shoves it into the back waistband of his pants, before crouching on the floor a few feet away from me. I notice that he doesn't make any attempt to touch me, and I'm grateful for the small mercy. I meet his gaze, a warm tear sliding from the corner of my eye, and making its way down my face. "It's going to be okay, Scarlett. It's all the stress of this case. It's getting to us. I promise it will all be okay."

His words should reassure me, and maybe in another lifetime they would, but right now, from where I am sitting, realizing that I could have shot him while I was in a blackout, I don't believe him. Something is very wrong with me, and I don't think it's just the stress of this case.

A shard of the memory tries to resurface, a flash of white, but before I can make heads or tails of it, it's gone, and all I'm left with is the shock of what I've done, and Jasper staring back at me like I'm some exotic animal he's never seen before.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

SEVENTEEN

SCARLETT

Irefused to stay at Jasper's, despite his insistence, when he demanded I get some rest after the complete shock of my actions. The minute we pulled into my driveway, he was reminded of my punctured wheels. He angrily protested my decision, but I was at my threshold of what I could handle, without a complete mental breakdown, and I was afraid I would confess that it was actually me who punctured them. I quickly exited his vehicle without a backward glance, locked myself in my house, and allowed my body to slide down the nearest wall, until I was cradling myself on the floor. I was finally able to take a deep breath when I heard his car pull away.

I'm not sure how long has passed since that happened. My exhausted body has been bombarded with chaotic thoughts and trepidation. I try to replay everything that transpired before I realized the gun was in my hands over again, but it's as if it occurred to someone else, and I was watching it happen from the outside. The terror of the memory is still too fresh and close to the surface, and I'm terrified to close my eyes and have to relive it once again.

Why is this happening to me? Could it be what Jasper is suggesting, just a result of all the pressure and stress I'm under? I've had difficult cases in the past, none as high profile as this one has become, but I don't ever remember blacking out like that. The reminder that I woke earlier, with no recollection of how I got home, or where I'd been, brings a further element of dread. I drag my hands down my weary face, and force myself up from the floor, determined to start a cup of tea, and see if that helps settle my frazzled nerves.

Just as I walk into the kitchen, my doorbell rings, and I let out a huff of frustration. I knew he wouldn't stay gone for long, or even listen to my request for time alone. I march back to the door and rip it open, a bratty remark ready on my lips for Jasper, when I'm brought up short 'cause it's not him. Instead, a delivery man stands on my stoop with a large white floral arrangement. "Scarlett Lyssa?" He questions, practically thrusting the flowers into my hands.

When I nod in confused confirmation, the idiot pulls out his phone, snaps a picture of my aghast mouth, the flowers pressed to my chest, mutters something about the delivery being fulfilled, and rushes to his delivery van, then speeds away. What the serious fuck?