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My steps are wobbly due to the massive amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a sip of my drink anyway.
I feel light and free, and I don’t have the brain capacity to think about my life.
Maybe alcohol isn’t so bad, after all.
Hushed male voices catch my attention and I freeze when I hear, “…It’s Devil’s Night. They won’t suspect we burned it.”
Shit.
I was definitely not supposed to hear that.
I must hiccup, because there’s a pause before someone roars, “Who the fuck is there?”
My legs twitch and I don’t think about it as I run, causing the drink to spill all over my hand, then I hide behind the bushes.
My breathing shatters when footsteps approach my hideout. If they find me, I’ll be in huge trouble.
I’m very familiar with being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve experienced it first-hand and have the mental and physical scars to prove it.
I also used it to my advantage and made my father disappear from my life.
Some would call me too cunning for my age; but when you come from the wrong side of the tracks, the first thing you learn is to survive.
Even if it means locking away your abusive father.
“I’m sure I heard them go this way,” one of the male voices says and I shrink into my hiding place.
My mind crowds with fight-or-flight options and just when I’m considering where to escape to, a leaf crunches right next to me.
I stare up at the larger-than-life shadow hovering not far from me. Even though I’m partially camouflaged by the decorative tree, I’m almost sure he can see me.
“No one’s here,” he says with a calm that chills me to my rattling bones.
His face is veiled by the darkness, but I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a mask. Before I can make him out, he turns around, and the sound of retreating footsteps echoes in my ears like a symphony gone wrong.
My shaky fingers release the plate and cup. They hit the grass with a muted thud, the alcohol slowly soaking into the ground.
Despite my plans to stuff myself full so that I don’t feel hunger for a few days, I abandon my haul and inch toward the back door. I have no doubt they’ll continue searching for me until they find me.
My hands are clammy as I retrieve my phone. My teeth chatter—not sure if it’s due to the cold or the haunting fear—and my vision is blurry, partly because of the alcohol, partly because of the unusual kick of adrenaline surging through me.
Bodies are special like that, they know danger, even if our minds are oblivious to it.
I retrieve my old phone that Uncle Bob got for me. To say that made me suspicious would be an understatement, but he told me they needed to know where I was at all times and that if they called and I didn’t pick up, they would kill me.
Sure enough, there are five missed calls from them. I wince at the thought of a beating, but it’s better than being in this unfamiliar place.
Ignoring them, I type a text to Caroline. She said she received her phone as a gift from a boy she was talking to, and her father has been trying to sell it ever since.
Aspen:There’s been a complication. Let’s leave.
No reply.
Aspen:I’ll wait at the back door for fifteen minutes, then I’m taking the subway home.
Aspen:Callie, please. Let’s go home. I’m scared—
I delete the last text before sending it.
