First Blood
The first rule about surviving this fucked-up world? Don’t let anyone you don’t trust touch you. The second? If they do, make sure they never touch anything again.
I learned both lessons before I turned sixteen.
People love pretending monsters are born different. Like there’s some mark under the skin, some warning sign in the eyes. But monsters aren’t born. They’re carved out slowly, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left inside a person except sharp edges and survival instinct.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut that night.
I should’ve lowered my eyes like I always did. Should’ve swallowed the words the same way I swallowed everything else in that house: fear, humiliation, the metallic taste of blood after biting my tongue too hard. I should’ve nodded, apologized, made myself smaller.
That’s what survival looked like back then. Shrink. Stay quiet. Don’t provoke him.
But something in me had been rotting for years, and rot eventually spreads.
“You’re drunk,” I said.
Three words. That was all.
The room went still.
My father sat at the kitchen table with a half-empty bottle dangling from one hand, his expression slack for half a second before fury sharpened it into something ugly. He looked massive in that tiny kitchen. The yellow overhead light flickered weakly above him, buzzing like it was trying to escape, too. The air smelled like stale beer, cigarette ash, and spoiled food rotting in the sink.
My mother leaned against the counter across from him, arms folded tightly over her chest. Watching. Always watching.
The corner of my father’s mouth twitched.
“What’d you say to me?”
Every instinct screamed at me to back down. My pulse pounded so hard it hurt. I could already feel tomorrow’s bruises forming beneath my skin.
But I was tired.
God, I was so fucking tired.
“Told you you’re drunk.”
The chair scraped violently across the floor.
I stepped back automatically as he stood, my body reacting before my mind could. Years of conditioning. Years of learning the warning signs: the twitch in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes, the dangerous calm right before he exploded.
He moved slowly toward me, deliberate in the cruelest way possible. He liked taking his time. Liked watching panic settle into people. Especially me.
“You think you’re brave?” he asked softly.
I didn’t speak.
His fist answered for me.
Pain detonated across my ribs. A sickening crack echoed through my chest as the hit sent me slamming into the counter hard enough to rattle dishes. The breath left my lungs in a violent gasp, and for one horrible second I thought something inside me had collapsed completely.
I gripped the edge of the counter, trying not to fall.
Trying not to cry.
Crying only made it worse.
My father grabbed my shirt and yanked me upright before I could catch my breath. His face was inches from mine, hot with alcohol and rage.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” he snarled. “Everything I do for you–”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny. Because something inside me had finally snapped so badly that the sound just escaped.
His expression darkened.
Behind him, my mother laughed too.
Gods, that sound still haunts me.
Sharp. High. Cruel.
Like a crow in heat.
She didn’t stop him. She never stopped him. Sometimes I think that hurts worse than the bruises. A stranger hurting you is one thing. A mother watching it happen like it’s entertainment? That kind of damage settles into your bones.
“You hear that?” she sneered. “She thinks she’s tough now.”
My father shoved me again, harder this time. My spine slammed against the counter edge. Pain shot upward, white-hot and nauseating.
Memories crashed through me all at once.
Being ten years old and locked outside in the rain because I spilled milk.
Being twelve with fingerprints bruised around my throat while my mother smoked a cigarette two feet away and pretended not to see.
Being fourteen and learning how to sleep without moving because cracked ribs healed wrong when you tossed around too much.
Every insult. Every threat.
Worthless. Burden. Freak.
Nobody will ever love you.
You should be grateful we let you stay.
Grateful.
The word echoed in my skull until it became unbearable.
Something inside my chest split open.
At first, I thought it was another broken rib. But this wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was pressure. Massive and ancient and alive. Like something enormous had been buried beneath my sternum my entire life, clawing desperately to get free.
My heartbeat stuttered.
Then doubled.
Then became something that no longer felt human.
Heat flooded through my veins so fast it burned. My fingers went numb. My vision blurred around the edges. The overhead light flickered violently above us, dimming and brightening in erratic bursts.
The shadows in the kitchen stretched.
At first, it looked like a trick of the light.
Then they moved.
Not naturally. Not possible.
The darkness pooled beneath the cabinets and crawled up the walls in slow, deliberate waves. Thick black tendrils curled across the floor toward me like smoke underwater.
Toward me.
Not him.
Not my mother.
Me.
My father finally noticed. His grip loosened slightly.
“What the fuck–”
The shadows wrapped around my wrists.
Not restraining.
Claiming.
A sharp inhale tore from my throat as cold spread across my skin. But beneath the cold was something else. Recognition. Like the darkness knew me. Like it had been waiting patiently for this moment my entire life.
My mother stepped back from the counter, fear finally cracking through her expression.
“Stop it,” she whispered.
I stared at my hands as black smoke coiled between my fingers.
“What’s happening?” I breathed.
Then the voice answered.
Not from the room.
From inside me.
Kill them.
The words slithered through my skull in an ancient, starving voice.
My father lunged before I could react. Maybe fear finally overpowered his anger. Maybe he saw what I was becoming and panicked.
Or maybe monsters recognize bigger monsters when they see them.
He grabbed a broken beer bottle from the counter, jagged glass flashing beneath the kitchen light, and drove toward me with a roar.
Straight for my throat.
My hand lifted instinctively.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t hesitate.
The shadows exploded.
Not drifted. Not spread.
Exploded.
Darkness slammed into my father with enough force to throw him backward across the kitchen. The bottle shattered from his hand as black tendrils wrapped around his body like living chains.
He screamed.
The sound cut off abruptly when the shadows forced themselves into his mouth.
I stumbled backward in horror as darkness crawled beneath his skin. His veins blackened instantly, spiderwebbing across his arms and neck in grotesque patterns. He clawed at himself violently, sobbing and choking as if something inside him was tearing him apart from the inside out.
And I felt all of it.
Every second.
Every ounce of terror.
Every pulse of agony.
The shadows fed it to me like a gift.
The worst part?
I liked it.
After years of fear, helplessness, and pain, power tasted intoxicating.
My father dropped to his knees, gasping wetly as the darkness consumed him inch by inch.
“Please,” he choked.
Please.
The man who taught me mercy was weakness was begging for it now.
Something cruel unfurled inside my chest.
My mother shrieked.
The sound snapped my attention toward her just as she grabbed the broken bottle from the floor. Her face had twisted into something feral with panic and rage.
“You fucking monster!”
She rushed me.
The glass sliced across my forearm before I could move. Pain flared sharp and immediate. Warm blood spilled down my skin.
Except it wasn’t my blood.
I stared in confusion.
The cut on my arm was shallow.
But my mother screamed.
A thin red line had appeared across her own arm.
Then it split wider.
And wider.
Like invisible claws were ripping her apart from beneath the skin.
Blood poured onto the tile.
She stumbled backward, clutching her arm in horror as flesh continued to tear open impossibly deep.
“No– no, stop–”
The shadows lashed out again.
Cabinet doors ripped off their hinges with explosive force. Plates shattered against the walls. The kitchen table splintered down the middle as darkness tore through the room like a hurricane.
The air vibrated violently enough to make my ears ring.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The power pouring through me was too much, too fast, too alive.
My screams mixed with theirs until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
The shadows spun around me in vicious spirals, smashing glass and twisting wood apart like it was paper. Blood coated the floor. The metallic smell of it filled my lungs until I thought I’d choke on it.
My mother collapsed first.
Her knees hit the tile with a sickening crack before the rest of her body followed. Her eyes were wide and glassy, mouth frozen open in silent horror.
My father fell seconds later.
The darkness drained from him slowly, leaving his body twisted unnaturally against the ruined cabinets. Black veins still stained his skin like poison burned beneath it.
Then silence hit.
Not gently.
Violently.
The shadows receded inch by inch, curling back toward me obediently. They slid over my skin like affectionate serpents before disappearing beneath the surface of my body entirely.
The kitchen looked like a war zone.
Broken glass glittered across the floor. Blood pooled beneath my bare feet. Cabinets hung crooked from shattered hinges. The overhead light swayed slightly, still flickering weakly.
And in the middle of it all, I stood untouched.
Breathing.
Alive.
For a long moment, I just stared at my hands.
No trembling.
No fear.
Only power.
A terrible truth settled into me then, heavy and absolute.
I am not prey.
I am not powerless.
And I am not something that can be controlled anymore.
Most people would probably say I should’ve felt guilt.
Maybe some broken, human part of me did.
But all I really felt was relief.
The fear that had lived inside me for years–the constant terror of footsteps in the hallway, slamming doors, raised voices–it was gone. Burned out completely. In its place stood something colder. Sharper.
Freedom.
My parents spent years trying to beat the fight out of me.
All they really did was teach it how to kill.
I stepped over shattered glass carefully and looked down at their bodies one final time. The people who made me. The people who broke me.
And still they never understood me at all.
A laugh escaped my throat, quiet and disbelieving.
Not prey.
Never again.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky even though the forecast promised clear weather. Shadows pooled unnaturally at my feet, swaying softly like they were breathing with me.
Waiting.
Hungry.
Whatever happened in that kitchen changed me forever. Maybe it awakened something ancient buried in my blood. Maybe it cursed me. Maybe it revealed what I’d truly been all along.
I didn’t know yet.
But I understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
Mercy is a luxury.
Fear is a weapon.
And I am done being afraid.
So if anyone ever tries to cage me again–if anyone ever thinks they can put their hands on me and survive it–
I won’t just break free.
I’ll bury them where they stand.
