Charly
I couldn't be scared.
The television was blaring in the living room, my foster dad never missed anything broadcasted on the news, and he always drank beer until the hour grew ungodly late. It was his ritual, I guess. He would drink until he passed out.
It was one of the few nights that my foster mom wasn't home and he had nothing better to do. I glanced up at the clock on the wall across from me. It was nearing three am. He had started drinking around midnight, his tolerance was only so good.
I exhaled, my shaky fingers touching the tip of the emancipation papers that rested on the kitchen table. I had planned it all out in my head. It should be flawless.
I needed my plan to work.
"Char!" He hollered.
It was now or never.
I grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator, he had already had two packs. My plan was moving along, even if it was a bit slow. I held the emancipation papers behind my back and entered the living room. It was filled with cigarette smoke but I was used to it.
"Here, sir," I utterly quietly.
His bloodshot eyes met mine before he snatched the beer from my extended hand. "About damn time," He muttered and took a swig. When I didn't immediately leave the room, he snarled at me, "What the fuck do you want?"
I swallowed, "The fostering administration is offering an additional $350 to low-income families." It was such a lie but I was hoping the influence of alcohol would make it sound better.
"More money?" He echoed with interest.
"Yes, sir."
He sat up, "How do I get it?"
I set the emancipation papers down in front of him. "Just a signature," I said. Without giving him a chance to read, I held up a pen.
He grunted and then snatched the pen from me. He scribbled a quick signature at the bottom of the paper and I instantly folded the paper up. I tried not to feel triumphant because I was still in the lion's den.
I still had to be careful.
His glassy eyes studied me for a long moment. It made my skin crawl. I thought he was figuring me out. Then, he patted the cushion next to him on the couch. "Sit," He demanded.
I didn't dare disobey. Not when I was so damn close.
I wanted to throw up being in such close proximity to him. He didn't shower regularly and he seemed to like wallowing in his own disgust. Still, my mind couldn't forget the things he did to me.
I almost didn't dare to breathe.
His hand was on my chest before I could stop it.
My muscles froze.
He squeezed me and something akin to pleasure rumbled in the back of his throat. It was the kind of chuckle that told you that you were fucked. It was the kind where the predator knew they had their prey and they would enjoy the kill.
The more his hands wandered, the more my thoughts whirled. Ever since I was a little girl, I had endured this kind of abuse because I never knew any better. I endured it as a teen because I had no other choice.
But now?
I could fight.
My hand snatched his from my jeans and I twisted his pinky finger until I heard it snap. I knew that there was no going back once I fought. It was all or nothing. Fight till you can't or give up before you even try.
While he was howling in agony, I sprung away from him. It was funny because the amount of pain he caused me only made him laugh, but when he dealt with any pain he acted like a big fucking baby. I stopped when I was out of reach.
I hated him.
My papers rested in my hand, I was quite literally putting my life on them. I hoped the judge who took up my case would deliver the justice that was needed.
"You dirty bitch!" He hollered, "You're gonna pay for that, get your ass over here. Now!" I paused, he really thought I would listen like a dog. I faced him for a brief minute, anger heating my blood.
"I am not a fucking doll," I snarled, "Enjoy poverty, you twisted son of a bitch."
We both knew I was the only money income.
He jumped up from the couch with crazed eyes. I knew them on my worst days. His reflexes were slower from the intoxication and I was easily able to evade him when he tried to grab me.
I tucked the emancipation papers in my bra and I sprinted up the stairs.
Just survive, I told myself, you've done it for sixteen years.
I slammed the rickety door shut and leaned back against it. I heard him crashing around downstairs, his uneven footsteps matching the thunder of my heart. My breathing was quick and short as I listened.
"I'm gonna kill you!"
His voice almost paralyzed my body. I had never heard him scream so loud. It was then I knew that he wouldn't stop. If I let him get me down, I'd die there.
My flight instinct kicked in and I bolted for the other side of my dingy, messy room.
I found my backpack and started throwing in everything I could grab. I didn't have much, just the bare necessities. The racket my foster dad was causing grew louder and louder until I heard his fist pounding on my door. Fuck, I thought.
"Open up, Char, I'm not playing these games anymore," His words were slightly slurred. "Either open this door or I will. Don't fucking test me."
I didn't move.
Suddenly, a loud noise ruptured my eardrums and I felt splinters of wood pelt my skin.
I hit the floor. My ears were ringing and I wasn't entirely sure what the hell just happened. Panic flooded me and I looked up to see a perfect circle blown through the door. It was then I could smell the fresh gunpowder.
He had a gun.
Without even thinking, I jumped to my feet and headed towards my window. I didn't have time to consider the fact that there wasn't anything but concrete below my window. I didn't have time to think about how I was two stories off the ground.
I just leaped through the window.
I covered my face with my forearms and held the back of my head. Glass shattered around my body and then I was falling. I crashed onto the narrow street that ran by the side of my house and rolled awkwardly. The light sound of glass falling on concrete accompanied me.
Pain flared in multiple places but I had so much adrenaline pumping in my blood, I didn't acknowledge any of it. I forced myself to my feet. I swayed for a second, light-headed from the last five seconds of my insane life, and then I solidified myself on my feet.
I saw a shadow move in the window and I glanced up just in time to see my foster dad pointing the gun out the window at me.
He pulled the trigger and I leaped to the side.
I heard the bullet make an impact on the concrete a few inches away from me. For a drunk person, he sure did have a good aim.
It was enough to send me running into the black of night. His shouting and cursing faded behind me. There weren't many street lights in this rundown neighborhood.
Only my panicked breaths and the soles of my shoes frantically slapping against the concrete echoed in my ears. I ran until my lungs burned. I didn't know where I was going, I just knew I needed to get away.
I was terrified he was chasing me. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure and I only saw the dark street behind me. They always say it's stupid to look over your shoulder while you're running forward for a reason.
Because I suddenly slammed into someone.
I grunted when my cheekbone scraped the street and I felt someone's body weight partially land on me. It was an awkward fall and our limbs were tangled beneath the heap of our bodies.
Thank god there weren't any cars at this hour because we would have been hit for being in the middle of the street.
My instinct kicked in when I realized it could be my foster dad. I don't know how the hell he moved so fast and got ahead of me but I wasn't done fighting.
I totally dismissed the fact that I didn't smell alcohol, instead, he smelled like a burning building of sorts. He also had a backpack because my head was almost resting on it and it felt hot like it had been in an actual fire.
I was squirming to get free when he groaned.
"Fucking hell," He shifted his weight off of me, trying to get himself free as well, "Can you watch where you're going, or are you just blind?"
I froze. It wasn't my foster dad.
But I knew that voice.
I managed to get one of my arms loose and I reached up to yank his hoodie off his head to confirm my suspicions. I sucked in a sharp breath.
"Hey! What the hell!?" He protested.
"Rowan?"