Chapter 1
Willow
The ticking of the wall clock was the only sound I truly heard in the classroom.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Every second pounded in my ears like a dull hammer. Five minutes remained until the final bell. Around me, everyone shifted in their seats, whispered, and made plans for weekend parties. I just stared at the scratches on the floor and tried to breathe evenly.
Every breath hurt.
My ribs on the left side throbbed from the kick I had taken last night. Without thinking, I pulled my oversized gray knitted sweater tighter around myself. It was two sizes too big and the fabric was rough against my skin, but it was my shield. It covered the purple bruises on my arms, the small cuts on my shoulder, and most importantly, it hid me.
Being invisible was my only means of survival.
The teacher’s voice was nothing more than a distant hum. My mind was somewhere else entirely.
I was calculating. Planning.
If I left through the back door as soon as the bell rang, I could avoid the crowds in the hallway. If I walked fast, I could be home in fifteen minutes.
Home.
What a ridiculous word for the dark hole I lived in.
My stomach twisted as I thought about what might be waiting for me behind that door.
Was Victor already home?
Had he been drinking?
If I was lucky, he would be snoring on the couch, passed out drunk after last night’s shift. Then I could quietly slip into my room and lock the door behind me. I could sit there in the darkness without making a sound until morning.
But if he was awake…
If he was awake and in a bad mood, I would not get away that easily.
Yesterday, he beat me because I had closed the refrigerator door too loudly.
Last week, it was because the store had run out of the kind of beer he liked.
I never knew what would set him off.
I only knew his rage.
And his heavy, bony fists.
Ever since my mother died giving birth to my little sister, Victor’s soul had completely rotted away. Grief and alcohol had turned him into a real monster.
And I was his punching bag.
The sharp sound of the bell cut through the air.
Everyone jumped to their feet. Chairs scraped against the floor and books were shoved into bags. I moved slowly. I did not want to draw attention to myself. I waited until loudmouthed Chloe and her friends had left, then quietly pulled my worn backpack onto my shoulders.
As I stepped through the school gates into the cold autumn air, I closed my eyes for a moment.
Just one more day, I told myself.
Just survive today.
I hurried down the street with my eyes fixed on the toes of my shoes. I did not look up when a loud black sports car sped past me. I did not care about the lives of the rich, popular students at school.
There was only one person I cared about.
Ellie.
My little sister’s face appeared in my mind, and my heart beat a little faster.
She was four years old, a little angel with curly blond hair. She was staying with Aunt Sarah, safe and far away from Victor.
But it could not last forever.
Aunt Sarah could barely afford her own bills, and legally, Victor could demand Ellie back at any moment, if only to use her to torment me.
That was why I needed the money.
That was why I endured the beatings, the hunger, and the fear.
Every dollar I hid away from my afternoon dishwashing job was another step toward our freedom. I almost had enough for a tiny apartment.
I just had to hold on a little longer.
When I turned onto our street, my steps slowed.
Our house stood at the very end of the row. Paint peeled from the walls, and the yard was overgrown with weeds and littered with empty beer cans.
The knot in my stomach turned into a cold, hard stone.
Carefully, I stepped onto the wooden porch.
I avoided the third step because it always creaked loudly.
My hand trembled as I slipped the key into the lock. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I turned it.
The lock clicked softly.
I opened the door.
The suffocating smell of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and an unwashed body hit me immediately.
The hallway was dark.
I held my breath and listened.
Nothing.
Only the sound of a dripping faucet coming from the kitchen.
Please, God. Let him be asleep.
I moved toward my bedroom on tiptoe. The floorboards felt cold through the thin soles of my shoes. I moved like a ghost.
Silent.
Barely breathing.
I was almost at my bedroom door.
My hand was already wrapped around the cold metal handle.
I could almost taste safety.
I thought I had made it.
I thought I had escaped him today.
“Where the hell have you been?”
The rough, deep voice sliced through the silence from the darkness of the living room.
The blood froze in my veins.
He was not asleep.
Heavy footsteps pounded against the floor behind me.
And from that slow, aggressive rhythm alone, I knew exactly what was coming next.
I squeezed my eyes shut, dug my nails into my palms, and prepared myself for the pain.
Today was no different from any other day.
The shadows had failed to hide me again.
