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Reboot—Verb
To restart by loading the operating system; boot again.
Ninety-nine percent of the time you can right your wrongs.
Sometimes all it takes is a simple apology.
But what about that one percent?
The wrong that you can’t make right.
The wrong that will haunt you.
The wrong that seemingly defines the very core of you.
Starting over and putting the past behind me is all I want to do. But girls like me—with pasts like mine—are fated to live in the shadows of their mistakes.
So what happens when you’re given that second chance? At life… at love?
Do you take it?
Or do you stay in the shadows?
Good people who do bad things deserve second chances.
Don’t they?
This one is for my readers!
My bare feet slap against the dirty, tiled floor as I run away from her—the woman who is meant to love me above all else, but instead hates me more than anything. My heart beats so hard in my chest that I swear it will explode out of there at any second.
I can hear her voice getting closer… louder—the raspy tone from smoking two packs of cigarettes a day making me shiver as fear flows through me.
I run down the hallway, slipping through the gap of her bedroom door when I reach it, careful not to make a sound as the slice of bread drops from my hand and onto the floor. My eyes flit around the messy room, trying to find a spot to hide in as I forget about the hunger pangs that started this. I shouldn’t have come in here, but my only other choice was my room—if you can even call it that.
My pulse skyrockets as I hear her footsteps near, my breaths becoming gasps as she gets closer and closer.
I need to hide.
My eyes land on the space between the bedside table and the wall, and I make a dash for it, knowing it will be a tight squeeze but seeing no other option.
I fold my arms around myself as I bend down, bringing my knees close to my chest before slamming my eyes shut and hoping that she won’t find me.
“Where are ya, ya little shit!”
I cringe at her voice, my eyes opening of their own accord and looking down at my dirty, bare feet.
I can’t remember the last time I was allowed to wash; the thought of water on my skin, taking away all of the grime and dirt makes me feel at ease, but when I realize it’s a mere fantasy, my mood takes a nosedive.
“You can’t fucking hide from me, ya dirty, little bastard!”
Keep calm, Evan. Don’t move an inch.
