Page 2 of Unstoppable


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My turbulent thoughts and worries won’t help. He taught me not to jump to conclusions and that the only certain thing in life is reality, not the worries in my brain. The only accurate things are what you can taste, see, feel, and explain.

Facts.

Why jump to conclusions? Why worry about what you can’t control? Focus on what you can. What can you analyse from the situation? Do better, notice more, and react without emotion.

The command floats into my mind unbidden, like it often does since I heard the news. I had gotten good at pushing the memories away and unlearning everything he taught me, even when it was an impossible task. I settled and even lived a normal-ish life, even if no one ever truly knew me. But then he died, and it was like opening a floodgate. All that fear and pain came back, drilling into my body until I couldn’t even slouch without his annoyed command filling my ears like he was actually here.

I duck my head under the spray and crank the temperature higher, hoping the shock of the burn will wash away everything but the present. Grabbing the cheap soap, I lather it up and methodically wash my body, noting every raised scar—some of which have been dissolved thanks to his miracle serum.

Can’t have a perfect being with scars, after all.

Everything had to be perfect and in its place. Everything was carefully controlled based on his whims, and I was designed to appeal to whatever he needed at the time—make me older, younger, more sophisticated, or a street kid.

My first rebellion when I ran away was to dye my once boring blonde, shoulder-length hair midnight black. Now it reaches my hips thanks to him not keeping it trimmed to his desired length. His opinion was that long hair was unkempt, and as I push it back, I see the shimmer of dark blue woven in the curly locks.

Continuing to wash, I run my hand over my defined abs. I could never escape the need for rhythmic exercises, cardio, and weights he trained into me, not to mention survival training and weapons expertise. Jujitsu and every other martial art still live inside my head like a routine I can’t escape. At first, I hated the fact that I would wake up at 6 AM and need to run and work out. It was like I’d not escaped him, but now I revel in my strength, in the bliss and nothingness I find when pushing my body to its limits.

Reaching my tattoos, I hesitate. He would hate them and say they make me stand out when I need to blend in. It’s the very reason I got my first one at just seventeen, the month after I left. Since then, I’ve covered my entire left arm in an intricate sleeve of lines, dots, flowers, and mandala, my hand too. Over my right hip, I have a gun, and a skull wraps around the top of my thigh before fading into the black and white piece stretching all the way to my toes. I have a few more here and there, like an under boob one and a piece behind my ear, but they were the most important and beautiful. The black ink stains my skin forever, reminding me I’m not that perfect creature he tried to create.

I’m real, right down to the chipped, black nail varnish on my toes, my nipple piercings, and the new, unhealed scar running diagonally across my foot from my new bike.

I’m not the same scared Novaleen who huddled before the man who was supposed to protect and love her.

I’m Nova, the badass bitch he created down in those torture chambers, one he could never contain.

I’m his biggest mistake, his loudest enemy, and, if he had lived, his death.

After conditioning my hair, I rinse it away before climbing out and wrapping a cheap, tiny towel around my waist. Swiping my hand through the condensation on the mirror, I stare at myself. I seem more determined and . . . free.

Is that the feeling?

Is that the glint in my emerald-green eyes?

Pursing my thick pink lips, I tilt my head as I analyse myself. I’m tall, like him, at nearly six feet. I used to be lanky as a child, but as I grew, I gained muscle and some curves, with a tight waist, flared hips, and double D boobs. I have long, lean legs, strong arms, and toned abs. Ana was always smaller, and I wonder if she still is.

Stop.

Focus.

Ignoring my invading worries and thoughts, I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and plait it back before putting on a bra and my tight black workout shorts. Moving into the other room, I push the double bed aside to create room, and then, like every morning, I conduct my warm-up routine to fully energise my body and get my adrenaline pumping.

I stretch first before doing cardio with running, jumping, and burpees. Next, I do my sit-ups, Russian twists, and push-ups. Once my workout is done, I stretch out my muscles, feeling the strength running through me as I cool down. I slowly work through some jujitsu, mixing it with Krav Maga and traditional karate. I can never be too prepared, and the moves are second nature as I work through all of my training, highlighting hold, attack, and defending movements.

Once I’m done, I take a moment to meditate and control my breathing. When my eyes open again, I feel better, and I remember why I am doing this—for her, always for her.

Removing my workout gear, I change into tight black leather trousers and don my steel-toed military boots with knives in each one. I add a somewhat appropriate plain black shirt, which is loose to hide my holsters with small handguns, and as always, I slip my long, handmade necklace over my head then conceal it beneath my shirt—a habit from when I hid it from him so he wouldn’t take it, crush it, or use it against me. It is a constant reminder of why I survived.

Of why I still fight.

Grabbing my tight leather jacket, I pack the rest of my duffle, and with one more look to check that I didn’t forget anything, I head out of the cheap hotel room. I check out under a false name and a false credit card before heading outside to the one joy in this world I allow myself—my bike.

My Suzuki GSX-R750 is finished in black and fades to red. Riding is the closest I’ll ever get to feeling happiness as I race through the world.

There is nothing like it.

Grabbing my helmet, I pull it over my head and crank up the volume of my rock playlist. Everyone else might be sad and mourning . . . but me?

I’m fucking celebrating. I just have to make sure the old bastard is really dead first.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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