AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 1
The musty scent of dust and mold fills the air.
A feeling of grogginess dulls my mind, adding to the sense of disorientation and panic begins to settle in my chest as I survey the familiar space with growing unease.
Not this again, not here.
My heart pounds relentlessly as if it’s a wild drumbeat of fear and I tightly tuck my arms close to my body, summoning the strength to push myself up from the cold, dirty wooden floor.
A loud creak shatters the stillness, reverberating through the room and I freeze in place with my teeth clenched, stifling the whimper that threatens to escape my throat.
The ensuing silence is deafening as I strain to detect the slightest indication he’s noticed my movement.
One second passes.
Two seconds.
Three-
My body jolts at the sound of heavy thuds, each one closer than the last. Panic tightens its grip on me as the rhythmic footsteps approach the sole entrance of the room. I remain frozen, still holding my breath as the doorknob clicks and turns.
Cold sweat drenches my entire body and every fiber of my being screams for me to break free, to run, to do anything to escape.
My mind is alert and aware of the impending danger, but my body feels heavy and sluggish, as if my limbs are made of lead. I forcefully propel myself upright and gasp for air, sucking in desperate breaths as I’m thrown from the dream.
Another nightmare, Lara. It’s not real. Not anymore.
Memories of my past flood through my mind, unwelcome and persistent as I peel the sweat-soaked sheets from my legs and sit on the edge of the bed with my head bowed in exhaustion.
I reach for my phone, taking a deep breath to steady myself as I open the messages to find my conversation with Claire, my therapist. Typing out a two-word text before I press send.
Lara:Another nightmare.
Rubbing my eyes, half-awake and still groggy, I squint at the bright screen as the message shows delivered and sigh deeply. It takes conscious effort to gather my strength and slowly make my way out of the bedroom, navigating through the familiar surroundings.
It’s been 17 long years since the brutal murder of my parents, an event that shattered my world and thrust me into witness protection. Due to my age at the time and lack of any other relatives, I was thrown into the labyrinthine system of foster care.
“This will be a fresh start.” they all said.
“It’ll be hard to adjust but you’ll be treated well. Promise.” they assured me.
In hindsight, I see now that their certainty and promises were shit.
For a decade, my life was a constant cycle of upheaval. Whenever the detective assigned to my case deemed my safety compromised, I was whisked away in a matter of minutes, relocated to a new town, and thrust into the care of a different family.
The initial weeks were typically quiet and unremarkable. I would enter a new school with a fresh identity, while maintaining my distance from others. Making friends became an impossibility as I clung to the certainty of my imminent departure.
Embracing the role of an outsider became second nature to me, shielding myself from the hurtful taunts and bullying that accompanied my status as an outcast.
Despite the constant turmoil, I somehow managed to excel academically, consistently earning exceptional grades as a quiet testament to my resilience.
As the months passed in each new location, my paranoia grew. Shadows danced under the cover of trees and buildings, triggering a constant sense of being watched. I quickly developed a habit of glancing over my shoulder, never truly at ease regardless of the fact that I’d yet to see any sign of my parents’ murderer’s return.
In fact, the criteria for determining when it was time to uproot my life remained a mystery to me. All I knew was that the cycle of relocation seemed to occur every twelve to eighteen months.
When not in school, my foster parents confined me to a room or a closet, sometimes a basement, or at times in the shed with the animals. Oddly enough, being housed with pets became one of my preferred situations. It wasn’t just because they are better than people but moreover due to the fact that, since the foster families consistently fed them, I’d get more opportunities to eat by stealing their pets’ food.
Where I was held and how I was treated would typically depend on the available space and how charitable they felt in any given moment. Any time I dared to respond with even the slightest hint of defiance or independence, I would face the consequences—beatings or worse.
