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My ribs.
My knuckles.
My heart.
Shit…
Especially that.
A few hours earlier, I ran away from my second foster home of the year, fleeing into the freezing night with blood on my hands and rage burning in my chest after beating the hell out of a pervert who was supposed to protect me but tried to take advantage of me instead.
What a sick fucking joke life is.
I walk for what feels like an eternity and when the pain becomes too much, I switch between counting my steps and counting my breaths.
One. Two. Three.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Lately, even breathing feels like a privilege. It feels like it’s something my body might take away if I don’t fight hard enough to keep it.
That’s the thing, though.
I fight.
I fight really fucking hard.
Life just keeps hitting harder.
Glancing around the street I notice the city’s Christmas lights blinking overhead. They hang above the cracked sidewalks, trying their best to convince everyone who passes by that these streets are warm, safe and joyful.
Happy couples walk hand in hand, smiling like nothing terrible has ever happened to them. Families hurry past with shopping bags swinging from their arms and children laughing so loudly it echoes through the streets.
To them, the holidays are magic.
To me?
They are a reminder of everything I’ve lost and of everything I’ll never have again.
“Fucking Christmas,” I mutter, kicking a red plastic Rudolph ornament that has fallen near my foot. I watch as it skids across the frozen sidewalk before disappearing beneath a parked mini van.
A vicious gust of wind slices through my thin Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, making every bruise ache all over again. I wrap my arms around myself, fighting to stay upright as another wave of pain twists through my stomach.
Then I hear it.
“Such a good boy…”
I freeze mid-step.
“Shhh... This is what boys do when they like a pretty girl. Do you like this, honey?”
Her awful voice. It slithers through my head like acid. No matter how far I run, that bitch’s voice finds a way to follow me.
“Shit,” I mutter, shaking my head as if I can rattle the memory loose. As if one hard shake will be enough to silence her cruel voice.
It isn’t.
Niza’s hands surface in my mind without warning.
