Prologue
760 Words
A U R O R A
17 years old, past
I ran.
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, clutching the torn backpack like my life depended upon it. Actually, my life did depend on it. The men following me were no saints, actually criminals if I didn't know any better.
Two days back when I had strolled inside the abandoned building looking for a shelter and accidentally discovered the basement where the stash of drugs was kept and guarded, I thought if I could steal some for myself, I would be able to pay for my food for the next month. Selling crack in Chicago would be easy. So, I waited for a couple of days until an opportunity presented itself and I latched onto it.
I wasn't a drug addict but I knew that selling these would definitely earn me some bucks.
And I needed them, desperately.
I had been hoping from one homeless shelter to another for the past year, hiding from the police and every goddamn person who was eager to exploit an eighteen-year-old girl. I might have been an orphan and homeless but I wasn't helpless.
At an early age I learned it the hard way that fairy tales didn't exist; that there's no knight in shining armor and Hogwarts' magic only existed in J. K. Rowling's books.
You only help yourself and save yourself, and no one else was coming to save you.
And here I was, running for my life to survive another month without starving.
I was running on autopilot by now, completely breathless and frantic. A few minutes ago, I was shivering in the cold and now beads of sweat crowded my forehead as I sprinted through the alley. I hadn't realized how numb my muscles were until I slammed into a human wall of solid muscles. And before I could even glance up, something pungent was pressed against my nose and my world went completely dark.
The next time I woke up I found myself on the cold floor, the backpack of stolen goods gone. Forcing my eyes open, as the blurriness cleared, I looked around. The place was like a prison cell, except too dirty and reeked of blood. Even the splatters of dried crimson on the walls were prominent. It almost looked like a slaughterhouse. I spotted an iron door to my left with a small opening and nothing else.
The winter was unforgiving that year, coupled with rainfall. And this prison or whatever it could be called, was frozen hell. Dragging myself towards the door, I tried banging a few times but there wasn't a single peep from the other side.
Aching, hungry and cold, I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around and buried my head, feeling almost defeated. No matter how much I tried to fall asleep, I simply couldn’t, dreading what I had in store for me when that door would open.
It was probably hours later that I heard the shuffling of feet and instantly my head snapped. Intuitively, I reached back to clutch the knife tucked behind the back of my tattered, old jeans. It was rather small, but for me, it was perfect.
It was the only weapon I could afford.
For a girl who killed her alcoholic, abusive father, who saw her mother getting beaten up and murdered and someone who escaped prison, there was still a lot of fight left in me to survive what was to come when that door would be unlocked.
I crawled to the side of the door and couched down as sore, cold fingers clutched the handle of the knife, ready to spring into action. For what it's worth, I'd still try and save myself.
Heartbeats drummed frantically and the instant the door swung open, my knife slashed the shin of the leg of the man. He tumbled down, clutching his legs. Another man behind him was a tad faster than the previous one though. He quickly grabbed my free hand, but the one holding the knife sliced through his biceps, drawing a little blood.
But I didn't get one more chance at escape.
The third man clutched the wrist of my knife hand in a death grip and twisted it so painfully that the weapon dropped. He wasted no time in kicking the knife away across the room and far from my eyesight even.
And now I was absolutely powerless and defenceless.
"Get my brother, now!" he gritted at the man who was bleeding from his biceps.
- Writer
