The living room was darker than I remembered. Uncle Luke sat on the sofa, the flickering bulb above
him throwing restless shadows across his face. His stare crawled over me, cold and familiar, and my
stomach twisted. He whistled softly. "You've grown up," he said, his voice oily and slow. "Prettier than I
remember." My heart pounded so hard I thought he could hear it. I stayed silent, clutching my glass of
water like a shield. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a crooked smile forming. "You know, my
friends said there's money to be made. They told me I could earn something from you." His tone was
almost playful, almost casual—like he was talking about selling old furniture. I froze, the glass trembling
in my hand. The air felt thick, too heavy to breathe. He kept talking, words melting into the sound of my
pulse. I stepped toward the hallway, pretending not to hear. My fingers brushed the kitchen table where
a bread knife lay. Without thinking, I slipped it beneath my top and pressed it close against my skin. But
bastards like him never stop easily. Before I reached my room, a hand gripped my wrist—tight, strong,
unrelenting. I tried to twist free, but he yanked me back hard, forcing me against the table. Panic clawed
its way through me, cold and sharp. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the heat of his anger.
"Let me go!" I gasped, struggling. He only laughed—a short, ugly sound. My fear fed his amusement.
Can you imagine? A six-foot-three man and a four-foot-eleven girl. I knew that if I didn't act now,
something far worse would happen. I slammed my forehead into his. Pain exploded through my skull,
but it made him grunt and stumble back, his grip loosening just enough. I slipped away and dropped
from the table, my hands shaking. My fingers caught the base of a lamp—I swung it with all the strength
I had. The lamp shattered against his head. He screamed, clutching his face as blood ran down his
temple. A shard of glass sliced across his cheek near his eye. I knew it would scar. I didn't care. He was
still standing, staggering, cursing. I couldn't let him reach me again. My body moved before my thoughts
caught up. I grabbed the larger kitchen knife from the counter, still holding the smaller one in my other
hand. He raised an arm toward me—whether to grab me or steady himself, I never knew. I lunged
forward, fear turning into fire, and drove the big knife deep into his stomach. His eyes widened in shock.
With the smaller knife, I slashed his raised arm to stop him from fighting back. He groaned, collapsing to
the floor with a heavy thud that seemed to echo forever. That was my cue. I ran. The door banged open
as cold night air rushed in. I didn't look back. I just ran—barefoot, breathless, desperate—through the
silent streets. My lungs burned, my heart thudded like thunder, and still I kept running. Only when I
reached the edge of the street did I stop. The knives were still in my hands, my arms shaking
uncontrollably. My whole body trembled, not from the cold but from the truth of what had just happened.
I had escaped. But even as I stood there, gasping for air, I knew the fear would never truly leave me.
That night didn't just change my life—it became the line between who I was and who I had to become.