I gripped the door handle, hesitating. Freshman year had chewed me up, and I needed a break. But coming back here? Hell in four walls.
Still, my wallet was dry. A few blows were cheaper than starving.
The moment I stepped in, the stench hit—alcohol, smoke, and something rotten. My stomach lurched. Nothing had changed. The mess waited, same as always, because I wasn't here to clean it.
On autopilot, I got to work. Spilled beer. Cigarette burns. Vomit that made my throat clench. I tossed bottles, scrubbed the worst of it, and drowned the smell in my perfume. When the place almost resembled human living, I allowed myself one proud breath.
That's when my aunt stormed in.
"Tom! Where the hell is my stuff?!"
She meant her booze. Always.
Her husband staggered down the stairs, smiling at me in a way that made my stomach twist harder than the vomit did.
"I didn't take it, you know I wouldn't," he slurred.
"Then who—" Mandy's eyes snapped to my back.
She grabbed my arm. "Where is it?!"
"I don't know!" I yanked away, choking on the stench of her breath.
"Green bottle. Half full. Where the hell is it?!"
"I just got here—"
She shoved me, storming toward the kitchen. My heart plummeted. I knew where it was now—outside, with the trash.
"You ungrateful bitch!" Her hand cracked across my face. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
She hit me again. And again. Spitting about how worthless I was.
I snapped. My foot slammed into her stomach, and while she doubled over, I bolted upstairs.
"You bitch!" she screamed, voice shrill with pain.
I locked myself in the bathroom, nose bleeding, chest heaving. At least this room was halfway decent.
I tried to breathe it out, washing the stink off in the tub. I wrapped in a towel, fighting with the useless blow-dryer. That's when a hand slipped around my waist.
"Kayla," a voice murmured, too close. "Don't scream. It's just me."
Tom.
Ice crawled down my spine. I'd been through this before—once at twelve, twice last year.
His lips brushed my neck. My body snapped into fight mode. I swung the hairdryer hard, the cord cracking against his arm. He stumbled back, startled.
"Kayla, what the hell—"
I didn't let him finish. I grabbed the broom and slammed it down. The handle snapped in two.
He groaned, but before I could run, his fist tangled in my hair, yanking me back.
"You arrogant little wench—"
Pain exploded across my face as his fist landed. Warm blood trickled down.
The door banged open.
"What's going on?!" Mandy shrieked.
A grown man, naked, hovering over his battered niece. Even she should've connected the dots.
But no—she wasn't that bright.
"You slut! Trying to steal my man?" She lunged, nails out.
---
Later, I stared at my reflection. One eye swollen, lip split, nose throbbing. Still better than earlier, though pain lingered sharp as ever.
I bit back the tears. Failed. Cried until exhaustion dragged me under.
The buzz of my phone pulled me awake. A message: some department was running a week-long campout. I didn't care what kind—just away from here.
Bankrupt. Beaten. Cornered. I needed out.
I crept downstairs. Tom was passed out on the dining table, snoring.
Quietly, I searched their room—shoeboxes, cans, under the mattress. Bingo. A chip can stuffed with cash. I shoved the wad into my jeans.
My backpack swallowed the rest—pads, deodorant, hair ties, whatever I could lift. I raided the pantry too. Not much, but enough.
Then I slipped out the door, heart pounding.
This time, I wasn't coming back. Not for a long, long time.
---