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So I bide my time, waiting for my body to heal, and weigh my options. Which are quite limited.
Who am I kidding? They’re fucking non-existent. I have no education, no qualifications. No skills. I’m an adult—turned eighteen in June—but don’t even have a driver’s license.
So where do I go from here?
I need to move out of Zane’s apartment. Only problem is, I called all the homeless centers and shelters and they’re full. I didn’t expect that. I counted on them, because I don’t have money to rent a place.
Where can I stay? I have no family I know of. I vaguely recall an uncle living on the other side of the country. And my brother, who vanished into thin air.
Okay, then. I’ll find money and rent a place, but how? I’ve lost my job at the cafe, and I can’t borrow from Zane or anyone else I know. They aren’t rich people, not even close. Even Tessa prefers not to ask her controlling parents for anything.
I get it. She wants to be independent, to be free to make her own decisions. But at least she can go back home if things get hairy.
Not an option for me anymore.
Add to the problem the fact my wallet with my ID is still at Dad’s house. My cell, too. I know I have to return and get them at some point, but I’m not ready yet.
Just the thought of going back brings on panic that makes my lungs lock and my head spin. Too soon.
I can’t deny how scared I was that day. Scared of dying. Of not having a chance to see more, do more.
See Audrey again. Fuck.
Zane mentions something about Christmas and his sister, and dimly I know he’ll be leaving soon. I can see the multicolored lights of Christmas trees flashing through the windows of the houses across the street.
Festive days.
They mean nothing to me. Haven’t meant anything for a very long time, not since I was little and Mom was healthy. When Tyler was there for me. When I felt safe at home.
Feels like light years ago.
I sprawl on the sofa, thinking, rubbing the old scars on my hand. I was four when I put my hand through broken glass. Tyler took care of the wound. He was the one who told me scars are cool. I’d looked up at him. He was so strong, so confident, training with Dad. I wanted to be like him. I wished to be like him.
And then he left and Dad turned all his attention on me.
Joy.
I often thought since then what strange things wishes are.
So, yeah, there is something I know how to do. One thing. I tend to dismiss it, hating it, hating the memories that go with it.
Dad trained me in fighting. All those years, he taught me boxing and wrestling, with elements of kickboxing for flexibility.
I can fight. I’m good, even Dad grudgingly says so on occasion. Even though he’s much bigger than me, I can take him on and he knows it—unless he catches me by surprise, like last time.
Thinking back, maybe I shouldn’t have been taken unawares. I was lulled into a feeling of fake security for a while, and the encounter with Audrey had been on my mind, making me careless.
Normal people feel safe at home; they don’t expect an attack as they step over the threshold. Not from their own dad.
But now I’ve learned my lessons. There’s no Santa Claus and no home.
It’s time to steel myself. Time to get my life back on track.
Part II
Audrey
In my memory, I must be twelve. I know because I hurt my elbow during that summer break. Mom, Dad and I had gone to a cabin by a lake and I managed to fall on a sharp stone and tear my elbow open. It took ten stitches at the closest emergency room to stop the bleeding.
