Chapter 1
The step beneath my foot screeches sharply and loudly like a cat’s yowl after its tail has been stepped on. I jump back instinctively, my heart hammering in my chest—stupid mistake. Hunger dulls my judgment, clouding my thoughts. Two days without food, and here I am, sneaking up these stairs.
Most kids love a four-day weekend—an escape from school. But for me, school isn’t the thing I want to escape from. It’s my refuge, my shelter from the suffocating weight of life in my mother’s house. I’ve made friends with the lunch staff. They slip me extra snacks, which I stash in the broken-down dresser at my hideaway. But halfway through this so-called break, I didn’t stockpile nearly enough.
Uncle Dane’s house might have something—maybe a box of cereal, his idea of fine dining. I refuse to call his place “home.” It’s a house of harsh words, unsettling stares, and unwelcome touches that always make my skin crawl. Other kids have it worse, I remind myself. No bruises, no broken bones. Words shouldn’t hurt, and the different things… I’ve trained myself not to cry over those. Avoidance is my shield, my armor.
Dodging my mother and her brother has become my second life goal. First? I graduate from high school and get out, preferably on a scholarship. I’m no athlete, though I can run—being small and fast keeps me out of trouble often. But sprinting from one hiding place to the next doesn’t win college scholarships.
I replay my choices endlessly, scolding myself for choosing the hideaway over returning here. And now I’m back, standing in front of my mom’s back door’s peeling, chipped gray paint. I haven’t set foot here since September, before school started.
The creaking step beneath me protests again, snapping me out of my thoughts. My heart races, and I silently curse whichever president we’re supposed to be celebrating this February. I wouldn’t be risking all this for a bowl of cereal if not for this stupid four-day weekend.
The lock clicks. Someone’s home. Damn it. My stomach churns nervously. Who do I dread more—Mom or Dane? It’s a toss-up. I hate them both.
The door opens, and Mom steps into view, her lean, curvy figure filling the doorway. I look at her in disgust at her tight red crop top and distressed jeans. Her sea-green eyes, an unsettling mirror of my own, lock onto me while dark brown curls spill down over her chest, framing the cleavage she’s clearly showing off.
I hate how she dresses—like a version of the girl I might be if I could afford the trendy outfits other fifteen-year-olds wear. Instead, I’m stuck with thrift-store jeans, faded T-shirts, and oversized hoodies. Still, even I can’t deny it: Raven Brielle is beautiful.
“Well, lookie, lookie. Storie’s come crawling back,” she sneers. Her voice cuts through the cold evening air, as sharp as the wind prickling my skin.
Her cold glare slices into me, her sea-green eyes filled with something harsher than disdain. As I shift, the step groans under me again, its protest betraying my nerves.
“You’re here for food, aren’t you?” she says, her voice jagged and grating. It carries none of the comfort you’d expect from a mother. I nod, unable to meet her gaze. “Yes,” I mumble, the word barely escaping my lips.
I’ve never known what feeling a mother’s love is like. The nurturing moms you read about or see on TV? They feel as foreign as speaking a language I don’t know. Swahili and Vietnamese make more sense to me than the idea of maternal affection. Some nights, lying awake in my hideaway, I wonder how I survived infancy without it. It’s a mystery I’ll never solve, like a puzzle missing too many pieces.
Mom steps out onto the porch, towering over me. The wood creaks under her weight as she leans closer, snapping her hand around my arm. Her grip tightens, biting into my skin as she yanks me forward, dragging me up the steps.
We both freeze, staring at each other. When did I start towering over her? The last time I stood here, I had to tilt my head to meet her eyes. Now she has to tilt hers up at me. I must’ve grown five inches—maybe a foot—since summer.
A flicker of something sparks inside me. Power. Defiance. It’s faint, buried under years of fear, but it’s there—a tiny ember glowing in the shadows of everything she’s done.
I press my lips together, swallowing the sarcastic thought in my chest: How does it feel to be looked down on for a change? But I know better than to say it aloud. I don’t have to; Mom can see it written all over my face. Her dry laugh slices through the cold night like a blade.
“Well, aren’t you just predictable,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. “Come in, then.”
She doesn’t acknowledge my growth spurt as she shoves me toward the door. The moment I step inside, the stench of stale grease and mildew slams into me, an invisible wall of filth. It’s worse than I remembered—or maybe time had dulled my memory of how bad it could be.
The kitchen is a wasteland of chaos and neglect. Dirty dishes teeter precariously in the sink, threatening to collapse in an avalanche of crusty remnants. Grease clings to every surface, and the sticky floor clutches at my shoes with every hesitant step. Cobwebs droop like ominous decorations in the corners, while the walls, once white, now wear a sickly yellow stain. The serene night outside feels light-years away, reminding me exactly why this house could never be home.
Raven gestures for me to sit at the table. I hesitate, my eyes locked on its sticky surface, smeared with stains I’d instead not identify. Reluctantly, I lower myself into the wobbly chair. My stomach growls, but eating in this filth twists my gut into knots.
“So, how’s school?” she asks, her tone feigning interest, though her gaze betrays her disinterest as it darts toward the cluttered pantry. She pulls out a cereal box and a milk carton, and the sour stench hits me immediately, making my nose wrinkle.
“Fine,” I reply flatly, barely glancing at her as my eyes sweep over the moldy bread on the counter and the decaying remains of half-eaten meals scattered on neglected plates.
She pours a bowl of cereal and pushes it toward me, milk spilling over the edges and pooling on the grimy table. “You should be grateful, baby girl,” she sneers, her words laced with mockery. “Not everyone gets to eat this well.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, swallowing hard against the lump rising in my throat. I keep my answer short, giving her nothing she can twist or throw back at me. I take a cautious bite, the stale cereal crunching between my teeth. It’s far from comforting, but it quiets the gnawing hunger clawing at my stomach. It’s better than nothing.
The kitchen door creaks open as I force another spoonful into my mouth. My stomach clenches. Uncle Dane steps inside, his presence thick and oppressive, filling every corner of the room. The sharp, sour stench of alcohol clings to him, mingling with the stale air. His bloodshot eyes land on me, wild and glassy, like a predator catching sight of vulnerable prey.
“Well, if it isn’t little Storie,” he drawls, his words soaked in mockery. “Decided to grace us with your presence, huh?”
“Yeah,” I whisper again, my voice barely more than a murmur as if I’m some parrot trained to repeat the same hollow response. My throat tightens, but I force another bite down, the mushy cereal turning to cardboard on my tongue. Still, it’s better than starving.
Dane strolls farther into the room, his dark brown curls an unsettling mirror of Mom’s. But his piercing sky-blue eyes starkly contrast with the shared sea-green ones that bind me to her. I glance between them, noting again how much of Mom I see in myself—something I’ve worked hard to ignore.
Her sea-green eyes are identical to mine, but her full, springy curls are far from my softer waves. My hair, an ombré blend of light blonde and dark strawberry hues, spills past my shoulders, smooth and natural, unlike her styled and dramatic ringlets meant to draw attention.
Dane towers over Mom, but as I take him in, I realize I’m no longer much shorter than he is. That thought might’ve sparked some confidence if his presence hadn’t sent shivers crawling under my skin. As I chew, I can feel his eyes roving over me, his gaze invasive and heavy, making every bite harder to swallow.
The only sound is the crunch of cereal between my teeth. Dane inches closer, dragging out the chair beside me with agonizing slowness. The metal legs screech against the linoleum, setting my nerves on edge.
He drops into the seat, pushing the chair closer until his elbow nearly knocks over my bowl. His hand lands on my upper thigh, heavy and unwelcome, while his other hand props up his chin. My stomach churns, and my mind screams, “I should have just stayed hungry.”
Anger surges within me—at Dane for his audacity and myself for being here. My grip tightens around the spoon, and I stab it into the cereal harder than necessary.
Mom settles into the chair across from us, her expression unreadable. I don’t waste energy hoping she’ll intervene. She’s never stopped him before, and she won’t now. Dane’s hand stays where it is, unmoving for the moment. At least it isn’t wandering or tracing patterns on my skin.
Raven leans in, her sea-green eyes locking onto mine. “You sure you understand that feeding you requires something in return, right, baby?” Her voice drips with syrupy sweetness, but the venom beneath it is unmistakable.
The mocking tone and the way she calls me “baby” make my blood boil. I slam the spoon down with a loud clank. “Yes, Mommy!” I snap, my voice thick with sarcasm. If she wants to play games, I can play them too.
Dane’s fingers dig into my thigh, his grip tightening like a vice. His other hand clamps my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Storie, don’t disrespect your mother,” he growls. “She’s feeding you, so you better show her some respect! We haven’t seen your ass in months.”
I can’t take it anymore. The cereal, the insults, the unwanted touches—it’s too much. I shove Dane’s hand away and push my chair back from the table, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “I told you I can’t live here, and you’re both proving why right now. What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not a kid anymore. Your manipulative crap won’t work on me. A bowl of cereal isn’t worth this!” My voice shakes with anger as I gesture at both of them, my hand trembling.
Before I can stand, Dane grabs me. His hands clamp down hard on my shoulders, spinning me around and pulling me tight against his chest. His arms lock around my stomach, squeezing me in a crushing grip.
Raven rises from her seat and steps closer, her gaze flicking between Dane and me. Her voice sharpens with exasperation. “Storie, why do you always have to make everything so difficult? I’m not asking you to work a street corner! I’m asking you to come with us to Dew’s bar and sing a few songs for his poker friends. It’s damn well worth a bowl of cereal!”
Her words ignite a fire in my chest. I laugh bitterly, the sound dripping with defiance. “Maybe I should ask my school counselor if it’s okay for Mommy to have me do her special favors in exchange for food. Think they’d approve?”
The anger I was holding back finally spills over, unchecked, and the second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. Telling them I’d speak to my school counselor wasn’t just an act of defiance—it was a threat, and we all know it. No one in this house wants the outside world to glimpse the reality of my living situation. The lack of supervision, the suffocating control, the things that happen behind closed doors—those secrets stay locked here. My words are a match, and I’ve just struck it against the gasoline they’re already drenched in.
Their fury ignites instantly, and I know I’ve made a dangerous mistake. Dane and Raven never tolerate challenges to their authority, especially not from me. But after months away—months of shelter at school, of quiet refuge in my hideaway—their grip feels even more unbearable. Hunger dragged me back here, but their control is a weight I can’t carry anymore.
The next moment, pain explodes in my skull. Dane slams my head into the wall with brutal force, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. The world spins as bright sparkles dance in front of my eyes. Distant yelling echoes around me—Raven screaming at Dane, or maybe at me—but it’s all muffled like I’m underwater.
When my senses return, I’m lying on my lumpy twin bed. Something cold presses against my left eye, dragging me out of the haze and back to reality. My head feels like it’s filled with lead, each shallow breath intensifying the relentless throbbing.
The tension in the room is suffocating, pressing against me like a heavyweight. When I try to push myself into a sitting position, the world tilts violently, and alarm bells scream in my mind. No, bad idea. I lurch forward, barely managing to keep from throwing up on my knees.
When the retching finally subsides, I gulp in the air, desperate to steady myself. My hand trembles as I reach up to touch my face. My cheek is swollen and tender, the skin around my left eye pulsating with sharp pain. Slowly, I trace my fingers toward my temple. The sharp sting makes me hiss as I brush against a massive, warm bump near my hairline. Pulling my hand away, I see my fingertips wet and sticky, coated in blood. I can feel it sliding down my face—warm, slick, and unsettling.
Raven’s eyes flick toward the door, her lips tightening into a hard line. Unease flashes across her face, subtle but unmistakable. I can tell she’s wondering where Dane is or if he plans to return. She’s always been the buffer, the one who tried to rein in his temper, but now it’s clear: she’s losing control of him—or maybe she’s just stopped trying.
She shifts her weight, the heels of her boots grinding against the dusty floorboards. The room feels just as desolate as I do. The once-white walls are streaked with grime and scratches I don’t even remember making. A single, flickering bulb dangles from the ceiling, casting uneven shadows across the cramped space. My twin bed, sagging in the middle, hasn’t felt like mine in years. The broken dresser with missing drawers, the flimsy curtain barely concealing the window, and the stale air clinging to everything all remind me how little I belong here.
Raven’s gaze flickers back to me, meeting mine briefly. For a split second, I think I see something unexpected in her expression—concern. It’s so fleeting I almost convinced myself I imagined it, but the flicker is enough to make my chest tighten. Against my better judgment, I hope, maybe, just maybe, she cares.
But the moment vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Her face hardens, her features shifting into the familiar mask of irritation. “You’re a mess, Storie,” she snaps, her voice sharp and dismissive, as though any concern she might have felt is an inconvenience she can’t afford to entertain. “You can’t just fall apart like this. What would people think if they saw you like this?”
That fragile flicker of hope fizzles out, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in its place. I turn away from her, swallowing the lump that rises in my throat. Of course, she doesn’t care. She never has. I feel foolish for letting myself believe—even for a second—that she might.
Raven’s gaze flicks toward the door again, her jaw tightening as tension thickens. The weight of it presses down on me, heavier than the pounding ache in my skull. Her eyes snap back to the mess on the floor, narrowing with frustration. “Storie, do you know how hard it’s going to be to clean that up?” she snaps her tone sharp and cutting. “You’re lucky I even let you stay here, and this is how you repay me?”
Her words hit harder than the wall ever could. Blood drips down my face, my head throbs relentlessly, and yet she’s more concerned about the vomit on the floor and Dane’s absence than the fact that I’m injured. My chest tightens, and a bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop.
“Are you serious right now?” My voice cracks as I force the words out. “I’m bleeding, my head is spinning, and you’re mad about the mess? About how I look? Your brother slammed my head into a wall, and somehow, that’s my fault?” My hand trembles as I gesture weakly at my face. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you realize how twisted this is?”
Raven waves a dismissive hand, already turning away. “Stop being dramatic, Storie. Clean yourself up. I don’t have time for this.”
The room is spinning, and with the pain in my skull and nausea, I may have a concussion. Going to the hospital isn’t an option for me. Too many questions, too much attention. I can’t risk it, and Raven wouldn’t bother anyway. She’s focused on the mess, the inconvenience, and how I reflect on her. I’m not her daughter right now—just another problem she doesn’t want to deal with.
Fear coils in my stomach as I sit there, my mind racing. Dane could be anywhere in the house, his temper simmering just out of sight. The thought of him coming back sends a shiver through me. I need to leave—away from him, Raven, and all of this. But I know the only way out is to lie. I have to play along, agree to whatever Raven wants, and wait for the right moment to escape.
The shock of Dane’s violence reverberates through me, settling like a dark weight in my chest. I feel raw and exposed.
I focus on the vomit pooling on the floor. It’s easier than looking at Raven. My eyes sting with unshed tears, and my vision blurs as I blink them back.
“Storie…” Raven’s voice softens, almost genuine, but I’m not fooled. “Are you okay?” She's only putting on her act of being a mother.
I shrug weakly, refusing to meet her gaze. She tosses a kitchen towel onto the mess before stepping closer. I sense her standing beside me, her presence looming. Slowly, I lift my head to glare at her. My expression says everything I can’t bring myself to say: You were supposed to protect me. How could you let this happen?
Her sea-green eyes mirror mine, but the resemblance only deepens my resentment. The words spill out like venom. “I can’t stay here. You know that, right?”
She glances toward my bedroom door, her expression tightening. The tension between us feels combustible, teetering on the edge of an explosion. Finally, she sighs and crosses her arms. “Fine. Go. But you know what we need in return.”
The demand lands like a slap, but it doesn’t surprise me. She still expects me to perform at Dew’s bar. She hasn’t changed, and she never will. I force myself to nod, regretting I moved my head. I’ll say whatever she wants to hear. But I have no intention of going to Dew’s bar or coming back here, not for food or anything.
I push myself upright, ignoring the nausea and the relentless pounding in my skull. “I’ll sing at Dew’s bar,” I say coldly. “But after that, I’m gone.”
Her arms remain crossed. “Alright, baby. But remember, you owe us,” she says, her tone dripping with control.
A scoff escapes my lips as I grip the wall for support. Each shaky step I take away from her feels like a small victory, even as pain radiates through my body. I wobble down the hallway, her occasional grip on my arm steadying me just enough to keep me moving. As we pass through the kitchen, my gaze lands on the blood smeared across the linoleum and the dark stains marking the wall where my head struck. The sight of it tightens the knot in my stomach.
I pause at the back door and turn to face her one last time. Her eyes briefly flick to the blood, but her expression remains frozen, cold, and unflinching. No apology comes, not even a flinch of regret.
“You head to the back entrance at Dew’s on Saturday night,” she says, her voice detached, almost mechanical. “They’ve got a new piano. You’ll love how it sounds.”
I study her face, desperate to see anything resembling love, concern, or remorse. But there’s nothing—no acknowledgment of what just happened, no sign of guilt. My heart doesn’t feel as heavy as I imagined it would at this moment, knowing it’s the last time I’ll ever see her. We lock our identical sea-colored eyes on one another. She knows I am not coming back.
As I walk out the back door, I know I won’t allow myself to come back here, to her.
I enter the cool night, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. For a moment, I can’t tell if the spinning is from the crisp air brushing against my face or the aftermath of the injury throbbing at my temple. The sharp chill stings my lungs, but the weight on my shoulders begins to ease. The oppressive atmosphere of the house fades into the darkness behind me, leaving me lightheaded but strangely relieved. I steady myself against the doorframe as the lock clicks shut behind me, loud and final. The sound echoes like closure, a signal that I’m finally walking away—for good.
I thought leaving would hurt more, but it doesn’t. My head throbs in a dull, persistent rhythm, the pain a tangible reminder of everything I’ve endured to reach this moment. But I don’t care. There’s no sadness, no hesitation—only relief. I’m free and know with certainty that I’ll never return—not for food, safety, or anything else.
The streets stretch out before me, silent and empty. The cold air brushes against my skin as I travel across town. My thoughts tumble over one another, replaying everything that just happened. I left! I left! The words echo in my mind, their meaning slowly taking hold. A faint ache lingers in my chest, but it’s eclipsed by the overwhelming wave of liberation coursing through me. I feel like I can breathe.
With every step, the heavy burden that’s weighed on me for so long begins to lift. The house shrinks into the distance behind me, fading into irrelevance. I know exactly where I’m headed—back to my real home. My hideaway. It is the only place that has ever truly felt safe.
