I want to run but my legs won’t move.
They’re stuck to the floor.
Moonlight glints off the piece of metal and my eyes widen at the sight of the bloody knife in his hand. A scream bubbles up but gets stuck in my throat as my entire body shakes and little black spots dot my vision. He takes a step toward me and before my mind even has a chance to catch up, I spin and take off running as a scream trails off behind me.
“HELP!”
I run into my daddy’s study and turn toward the dining room but I don’t have time to stop because I can hear his loud, clumping steps as he chases after me.
“Mama! Daddy! Help!” I scream, tears streaking down my face and my chest feeling tight like my heart is about to burst. His footsteps are louder on the hardwood floor of the dining room and I whimper and beg my legs to go faster as I turn toward the kitchen and freeze. Mama is lying on the floor next to Daddy and her eyes are wide open, staring at me, but she can’t see me. A large pool of blood surrounds them and I shake my head as more tears fall and I run to them, dropping to my knees.
I don’t even care that I’m getting blood all over me.
I have to help them.
Grabbing Mama by the shoulders, I give her a little shake but nothing happens and a sob bubbles out of my chest as I shake her again.
“Mama,” I whisper through my tears, shaking my head. When I was six, my grandpa died and at his funeral, they brought him into the church in a big wooden box so everyone could see him but all I could think was that he didn’t look right. Mama looks the same now and even if I don’t want to admit it, I know, deep down in my heart, that she’s gone. Tears pour down my face in torrents as I shake my head again. “Mama.”
“Gotcha.”
I scream as the man grabs my arm and rips me away from my parents. With the blood, it’s hard for him to keep his grip on me and I fight back as hard as I can, hitting and kicking at him with all my strength. I land a kick between his legs and he grunts as his grip on me falters, allowing me to slip my arm free. As I turn to run again, he slices the knife through the air. A burning sensation scrapes down the side of my neck but I don’t stop to see what it is as I start running again. The pain follows and I press my hand to my neck, hissing as it stings and blood trickles through my fingers. Pulling my hand away, I stare down at my palm and shudder. My blood mixes with my parents’ and a sense of dread washes over me.
I’m going to die tonight.
“Come here, you little bitch,” the man growls from the kitchen and it’s the kick in the butt that I need. My gaze flies from the stairs to the front door to the living room.
Where do I go?
When the sound of his boots smacking against the kitchen tile fills the house, I bolt toward the front door with my hand pressed to my neck. I need to keep running but it’s getting so hard to make my feet work and all I want to do is close my eyes and go back to sleep. Shaking my head, I push myself forward and unlock the front door before ripping it open as red and blue lights fill the night.
Tears pour down my face and I suck in a stuttered breath before a sob overtakes me. I remember crashing into the police officer that was walking up my sidewalk that night and begging him to please help me. I run my fingers over the scar on my neck again. The doctors said that I was incredibly lucky since the attacker just barely nicked my artery and if the knife had gone any deeper, I would have joined my parents in the ground. I don’t feel lucky though. That man and that horrid night have haunted my life ever since. I was only nine years old but as soon as I was woken up, I could tell there was something different, that something was very, very wrong. The air was thicker, more ominous, and it almost felt like the very thing that I needed to sustain my life was slowly choking me to death and still to this day, I can feel that dread pushing down on me when I think about the events of that night.
I can still hear the sound of my mother’s gurgled scream as the man plunged the knife into her chest and the eerie silence that followed. They are both still so loud in my mind and my stomach rolls. I spent two weeks in the hospital, first for the cut on my neck and then for my mental health before I was moved to a group home to wait for any family to step forward to claim me. It took a year for them to locate and convince my great Aunt Myra to take me in. I had only met her once before and she wasn’t a huge fan of kids so I suppose that I should just be grateful she took me in at all.
Closing my eyes, the image of my parents lying on that kitchen floor floods my mind and I suck in a stuttered breath as I remember sinking to my knees and the slippery feeling of their blood against my skin as I grabbed them and tried to wake them up. The rich scent of iron fills my nose and I open my eyes again, shaking my head to clear the memory. The man, who I later learned was named Clinton Wood, was arrested that night and charged with two counts of murder in the first degree, one count of attempted murder, and one count of breaking and entering. At his trial, his lawyer painted a story of a good man who got addicted to drugs and lost his way but I’ll never forget the evil in his blue eyes as he stared down at me with that bloody knife in his hand. Despite my fragile state, I gave a compelling testimony about what happened that night and although I couldn’t meet his gaze, it felt good to know that I had a part in putting him away for the rest of his life. He was convicted and sentenced to three life sentences so I never have to worry about him getting released and being out in the world but it doesn’t really help when he’s free to run rampant through my mind and torment me.
The tears fall, unchecked, down my cheeks and into the pillow as the memory replays in my head again and my chest aches. It’s been so long that I can’t even remember what my parents’ voices sound like and if I didn’t have photos of them everywhere, their faces would be fuzzy in my mind. I never got to go prom dress shopping with my mama or have my daddy walk me down the aisle when I married Wyatt. No one stood up and cheered for me at my high school graduation and when my life fell apart, I didn’t have anyone to help me pick up the pieces. The ache of missing them and the void they left behind in my life never really goes away. It’s just one more thing that became part of who I am. I fell apart that night and I didn’t have the love of my family to put me back together. All I had was pain and fear and that is what I became.
And then I met Wyatt.
My phone rattles across the bedside table with an incoming call and I scoop it up, not even bothering to check the caller ID as I frantically swipe tears off my face.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Pip.”
I release a breath as my body melts back into the mattress. “Wyatt.”
“You okay?” he asks, genuine concern lacing his voice and I whisper a curse as I sit up and clear my throat while I try to dry my tears.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I clear my throat again. “What do you want?”
He chuckles. “Back to business as usual, I see.”
“What do you want, Wyatt?” I repeat, rolling my eyes and he sighs. I can picture him running his hand through his hair and I wish I could do the same. Back before I left, Wyatt always had to keep his hair short because of the Marines but I love how it looks now, long enough to fall into his eyes and a little unkempt. It just makes me want to run my fingers through it again and again.
“Can I come in?”