CELESTE
I reached the rusty house that stood across the harvest field. I remembered when I was ten and my mom died handing me some money. I knew we would be kicked out of the colony because of all the unpaid bills. So I brought some trees to build the house.
Tragic but yes, I had built it myself, stacking the logs one by one. I took me a while but I sealed every gaps with plaster, moss, and maybe even some dried manure. Not that it mattered. It was still home. A rough home, but mine. And now, I had to leave it.
Sierra stirred uneasily, reluctant to abandon the den we had built. But we must do it.
Lantern light flickered on the porch as I stepped onto the lawn. I looked further and it wasn't just the cold that made me shiver anymore. I knew someone was there.
A man. Again. He was pacing the porch, thumping his fist on the wooden railing.
I kept walking, steadying my breath. The barn groaned behind me, the cattle made uneasy noises. They could sense trouble. I did too.
I stopped at the door and dug into my coat pocket for the key, pretending he wasn't there. My fingers grazed cold metal, but I didn't pull it out yet.
"Hurry up." He muttered, flinching his shoulders impatiently. "I have been waiting an hour. It's freezing. Open the damn door."
I gripped the key tighter but didn't pull it out. "Get lost."
Sierra prowled under my skin, low and silent, ready to strike if I gave in to her.
He blinked. "What?"
"I said, get lost." I didn't even raise my voice, just looked him dead in the eye. There was no need to yell when you meant every word.
Guys like him showed up often. Always late. Always with excuses. Always wanting something they didn't deserve. Sometimes they would force me.
His eyes narrowed. "I told you to unlock the fucking door."
"And I told you to fucking get lost. Didn't you hear me?"
He laughed and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. I didn't cry out. I had felt worse. I had been through worse. Just earlier. "You know…" he sneered, "Now I see why your dad killed your mother but kept you alive. A pretty daughter like you could buy him a fortune."
His words didn't hurt. Not anymore. Because right now, it was the truth. He had sold me.
I wanted to laugh. But instead, I met the man's eyes, I dug my nails into his wrist and yanked his hand from my hair. And then without wasting another second, I moved my knee fast and kicked his groin.
"AHHH—!" His face twisted in pain as he held his crotch.
Good. I hoped it stung like hell.
Satisfaction rolled through Sierra like a victorious snarl.
"Now. Get lost." Saying that, I opened the door and entered the room, locking it from inside.
For the first time, the warmth of the house felt like a small hug. Maybe because it was my last night here.
With a sigh, I peeled off my corset and drawers, letting them fall in a heap before tucking them away in the trunk. Now I was just in my thin shift.
I walked over to the bamboo table and chair. These too, I built years ago with my own hands. The wood creaked when I leaned against it.
On the table, I touched the old diary. It was a birthday gift from Amelia. I wasn't great at writing. Father never cared enough to teach me anything useful. But Amelia did what she could. I didn't know how to write proper sentences, but I could write words. That was enough for now.
I picked up the bird feather I used as a pen, dipped it into the little inkwell, and scribbled down a new word beneath all the others I had collected.
Trapped. Storm. Murder. Money. Creditor. Raped. Hurt. Bruised. Support. Gift. Swamp.
And now: Slave.
Each word was a part of me now. Some were ugly, some were soft. They were all pieces of my story. Writing them helped. Even if I couldn't write full pages like Riggs could, even if I broke a dozen feathers trying, I kept going. And I would.
A sudden cold wind slipped in through a crack in the wall, making the lantern flicker. I quickly shielded the flame with my hand.
It was when I noticed my palm. I still had blood there. Just like that, everything came rushing back.
The swamp. The dead body. The blood rain. The stilt house. The painter… and his painting.
My skin broke out in goosebumps.
I turned back to the diary and scribbled more words with a shaky hand.
Blood. Dead body. Stilt house. Painter.
Villagers here believed vampires live on the other side. Undead, blood-hungry monsters. They had believed it for generations. The king even made it illegal for anyone to go near the land. Said it was cursed. Said it was forbidden.
But why? That's what I wanted to know when I got there but I came out with more questions. At last, I even got sold.
Tears were forming in my eyes. But I didn't want to cry.
Shaking my head, I closed the inkwell and pushed the diary aside. My body ached. I walked over to the straw mattress I called a bed and dropped onto it. For the last time. I yanked the rough wool blanket over myself and pulled it up to my chin. A tear slipped from my eyes. I wiped it off immediately.
No, Celeste. You won't cry. You weren't born to cry. You were born to survive.