LUKE
Red. So much red. It flows over my palm—dripping through my fingers—uncontained. I watch in fascination as it stains my hands, my breaths sawing in and out of my body.
I’ve dreamed about doing this a hundred times over, but not once did I think I’d actually do it.
Until today.
After what feels like hours, her screams lower in decibels at the scene in front of her, and when I look up, I see her covered in red too.
Only this red is her own. Red I’m used to seeing come from her at the hands of the red that now covers me.
“Luke,” she gasps, using the wall to help her stand as she clutches her side. “What have you done?”
“I… I couldn’t hear it anymore.” I shake my head emphatically, dropping my hands to my side, causing the blood to rush to the tips of my fingers before it hits the floor.
I step forward, but she flinches and backs away, colliding with the wall.
“You should have left it alone, Luke.” Her gaze flits down to the body on the floor. “I had it under control.”
I laugh, but it’s not out of humor. “You had it under control?” My hands clench into fists by my sides, squeezing the blood out. “You didn’t have shit under control! He was gonna kill you!”
“No!” She lifts her hand, covering her mouth as a sob bubbles up. “He wouldn’t have… he loves me.”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t. If he did he wouldn’t have done... that!”
She drops down to the floor, her gaze focused on the man who has been a living nightmare all my life.
“I… I’m sorry.”
I open my fists before wiping away the blood on my sweatpants. “You don’t need to be sorry, Mom.” I step toward her and kneel before placing my hands on either side of her face. “You never have to be sorry again.” I turn my head and look at the pale face of the man lying on the floor. His eyes are wide open; the life drained from them. I take a breath. “It’s over… It’s… over.”
LILY
I’ve always loved the mirrors at the fun house; the ones that show you a distorted version of yourself—a version you don’t recognize. When I was younger, I’d laugh at the different ways it’d display my face, contorting it. Every mirror was different, showing a different version.
But there’s one thing that sticks in my mind when I think about them: you can walk away from those distorting mirrors and see your true reflection.
Only, I can’t.
Every time I look in the mirror, all I see is a me I don’t want to be—a me that hates herself. But what hurts the most is that the true me is locked away deep inside. I’ve pushed her down as far as I could, not allowing her to come to the surface.
It’s safer that way.
I’m meek, quiet. I do as I’m told, not questioning a thing. At least not outwardly.
I never used to be like that, not before.
I used to say what I wanted, having no filter, not afraid of the consequences.
So different to how I am now.
I take a breath as I come to a stop outside my house, the one place I should feel safest above all others.
The gray siding looks drab and in need of a fresh coat of paint, the dark, wooden door looms ahead, both calling me forth and warning me not to come closer.
My heart hammers in my chest at the thought of turning around and walking away, not looking back and starting over. So many times, I’ve been close to doing just that, but uttered words and threats have me staying put.