Born to burn

6. NEW PLACES TO HURT. __________________________

PHOENIX POV

•

„Get up, w.hore.” He says, and the door slams behind him. Hard. I don’t flinch. The mattress jerks and I’m thrown off, my body colliding with the carpet. The air punches out of my lungs and my skull rings, but I stay quiet. He wants a reaction. Always does. He doesn’t get one. I lie there, blinking. Staring at the faded ceiling stain like it might whisper an answer. He’s gone before I get up. His rage never lingers. Just flashes. Sharp. Hot. Gone. I don’t need to wait for calm. He only leaves when he’s empty. I stand slowly. My side is screaming. Everything feels cracked, splintered. But I move anyway. I always do. Bag over my shoulder. Photo of my mother tucked under my hoodie, right above my heart. No one’s ever touching it again. No one. That’s all I’ve got now. This backpack. My mother’s face. My money. My silence.

•

The car smells like p.iss and liquor. We’re not even out of Seattle and my stepfather’s already b.itching. His voice is the poison that never leaves your ears, the kind you start to hear even when he isn’t speaking.

„You wanted to k.ill us, didn’t you?” He says, laughing like it’s a joke. It isn’t.

„Try that s.hit again and I’ll make sure you don’t see sunlight, you ungrateful little b.itch.” He spits the words like gum on pavement. I don’t respond. I watch the blur of pine trees outside the window, pretending they’re something else. I fold myself into the seat. Not small. Just quiet. There’s a difference. My body aches in places I didn’t know could bruise. The burning in my ribs keeps syncing up with my heartbeat. It hurts to breathe, but I breathe anyway. The back of my throat tastes like copper. Not blood. Just the memory of it. I wonder what he’d say if I turned around and told him the truth. That the fire wasn’t an accident. That I didn’t start it…But maybe I finished it. He’d probably call the psych ward right away. With a smile.

„Better f.ucking pray the agency gave us a decent place.” He snarls as we turn off the highway.

„You don’t want me p.issed again, do you, s.lut.” He says through gritted teeth. The woman beside him doesn’t even blink. She’s slouched in the passenger seat, eyes glassy, fingers twitching like she’s still seeing stars behind her lids. Her silence is the loudest thing in the car. She hasn’t said a word since last night. Or maybe since the pills. Whatever. She’s not worth the thought. SILVERTON. We pass the sign around noon. “Welcome to Silverton.” It says in peeling paint and fake optimism. What the f.uck is Silverton? It sounds like that kind of place where dreams rot in flower boxes. I sigh loud enough for no one to hear. What a s.hithole. Population? Possibly bored, white, and feral. Probably three high schools, one church, and more broken promises than job listings. Perfect. He parks in front of the new house. It looks better than the old one, which just means less mouldy. The lawn’s patchy but not dead. The windows actually lock. The stairs creak but don’t scream. I’m not d.umb enough to think it’s safe, but I’ll take less haunted over bloodstains any day. There’s a note from the social worker. A manila folder stuffed with transfer papers. School info. Silverton High. Great. New halls. New lockers. New looks. New chances to get shoved. New bathrooms to cry in. New places to hurt. F.uck my life.

•

I wait until they’re both passed out. The TV hums low in the living room, casting blue light across their sunken faces. He’s drooling into the couch cushion. She’s limp in the recliner, bottle still half-clutched in her hand like a comfort blanket. I slide the mattress back and carve open a hole underneath. Quiet. Careful. My money, folded tight. The photo of my mum, wrapped in an old T-shirt so the corners won’t bend. I press it to my ribs for a second. Just one. Then stash it. Safe. Then backpack on, and I’m moving. The house is… nice. For a change. My room’s got a clean bed. Wooden desk. A window that opens to the roof. There’s even a little bathroom with working taps and a mirror that doesn’t mock me. The view? Trees. Forest stretching behind the house like a promise that maybe, just maybe, not everything here is rot. There’s a giant tree right outside the window. Climbable. Watchable. Something about it makes my bones settle a little, but it doesn’t hold me. Nothing ever does. So, I slide into my hoodie. Fingers trace the frayed edge of the front pocket. My shoes hit the pavement like a rhythm I forgot I knew. I don’t know where I’m going. My feet move anyway. Anywhere. Nowhere. Just… away. As always. But not just because of them. Not just because of bruises, threats and a house too clean to trust. There’s another reason. More absurd. More impossible. Something inside me hasn’t stopped moving since yesterday. I don’t know if I’m chasing it… or if it’s chasing me. But either way? I’m not stopping it. Whatever it is. Not anymore. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care what it wants…my sanity most probably, but I don’t care anymore. Did I ever? Maybe not, but now? Now I burn. Even if it’s only on the inside.

•

The streets are quieter than I expected.

Like the whole town’s holding its breath. Silverton’s not big, but it pretends. The sidewalks are clean in a way that feels performative, like someone’s out here every morning scrubbing away the truth. Downtown’s only a few blocks long. Vintage signs. Dusty window displays. A bookshop with lights still on, even though no one’s inside. A secondhand music store blasting classic rock through half-cracked windows. A mural of a waterfall peeling at the edges, painted across a red brick wall. I pass a place called Silver Falls Coffee & Goods… closed now, but there’s still a half-drunk latte on one of the outdoor tables. A moth circles it like it’s sacred. The smell of burnt espresso and cinnamon lingers in the air, and for a second, I wish I liked coffee. Just so I could sit and pretend I belonged here. There’s a huge tree downtown too. Real old, gnarled as hell, roots crawling over the sidewalk like they’re trying to escape. A plaque calls it The Story Tree. I roll my eyes, but I touch it anyway. I don’t know why. There’s something in the air here. Not peace. Not exactly. Something that feels like it's watching me, or like maybe the ground remembers every footstep… almost like maybe it remembers mine before I ever stepped here. I pass an antique shop full of cursed s.hit and overpriced ghosts. A florist with dying roses in the window. A bar called The Hollow Oak where men with calloused hands and tired eyes pretend not to look when I walk by. Good. Look away. I don’t belong here, but I’m here anyway. And maybe that’s enough. The houses start to shift after a while. Bigger. Prettier. Newer paint. Trimmed hedges. Welcome mats that don’t lie. This part of town smells like quiet money and family dinners no one fights through. Where porch lights stay on late and curfews are just suggestions. I slow my steps, keeping to the sidewalk, letting the dark pull me forward. Then I hear it. Bass. Low. Rhythmic. Music bleeds out from the windows of a two-story colonial with ivy crawling up the side. Lights flicker from the backyard. Laughter. Voices. The buzz of teenage recklessness, loud enough to drown a little bit of pain if you let it. There’s a party. Cars line the street. Someone just cannonballed into a backyard pool. Someone else is arguing about stolen beer. I stop on the sidewalk. Just outside the fence. And I smile. Just a little. Just enough to taste it.

„Maybe it’s my lucky day after all.” I whisper, voice low like it might startle the moment. Not because I believe in luck. But because sometimes? You need a new place to burn. And h.ell… a party? That one’s a place to burn.

•

I don’t knock. I don’t need to. Places like this are open for girls like me. Hoodie off. Hair down. Lip gloss cherry-pink and dangerous. I walk through the door like I own the lease. Inside? The air is wet with heat, sweat and tequila. Someone’s dancing on the kitchen island. Someone else is throwing up beside a fake potted plant. A couple’s making out like the apocalypse is moaning their names in the background music. And me? I’m home. No one asks my name. No one cares who I came with. Which is perfect, because I came alone. And I like being alone in a room full of people. Like smoke at a wedding. Like a secret wrapped in lace. I don’t need to belong. I just need to move. The beat drops. It’s Tempo by Lizzo. Lights strobe blue and magenta, hips grinding against hardwood, sweat glittering like holy oil.

The music isn’t just sound. It’s a spell. A rhythm for the hungry and I’m starving. I drift through the crowd like something looking for prey. Or maybe just looking to forget. Bottle gets passed. I drink without asking. Someone offers me a smoke. I take two. The world slides softly around the edges. Livin’ Wrong hums in my skull. "I just wanna smoke till I’m gone…"

Yeah. That. Exactly f.ucking that. I’m not trying to make friends. I’m trying to exist without crumbling. And this? This is the only church I’ve ever known. Music. Sweat. Glow-in-the-dark sin.

•

Two hours later…

•

I’m somewhere near the edge of the living room, leaning against the doorframe, drink sloshing in one hand, the other tracing invisible circles on my thigh without even realising. That’s when he steps into view. Not loud. Not sharp. Just there. Like the kind of shadow you only notice once it’s too close to run from. He’s got that dead-calm aura. The kind you get from dealing too long in the kind of s.hit that ruins people. He’s leaning in the archway between the kitchen and the hallway. Cigarette smouldering between his fingers, a mouth made for sin tilted into a lazy grin. Black shirt. Gold chains. Tattoos up his arms like spellcraft etched in bone-deep ink. Everything about him says danger. But not the kind you flinch from. The kind you step toward. Eyes like burnt honey. Warm and lethal. The kind that’ve seen too much, and don’t regret a second of it. He looks at me like he already knows. Not my name. Not my face. But the weight behind my silence. The taste of violence when it’s still in your mouth.

„Careful, little dove.” He says, voice low and almost teasing. I blink. Not because I’m startled. Because it’s the first time someone’s looked at me tonight like I belong here. I smirk, shoulders rolling back.

„Is that supposed to scare me?” I look up at him, tone like broken glass wrapped in satin.

„If it did, you wouldn’t be worth talking to.” He takes one step closer. Slow. Deliberate. Like a goddamn panther wrapped in street magic.

„New here.” His smirk never leaves his face.

„That obvious?” I take a sip of my drink, head tilted just enough to look unbothered.

„No. But I would’ve remembered you.” My laugh is low. Dry. Not sweet. I don’t do sweet.

„C.ocky much, dealer boy.” That grin curves sharper. But not mean. Just true.

„You have no idea.” Maybe I don’t, but I want to. There’s something about him. Something in the way he watches the room like he’s not part of it. Just letting it happen around him. Like he’s seen it all before and still keeps showing up. I don’t know his name yet. But I know his type. Street prophet. Chaos dealer. The kind of man who can smell your secrets and still offer you a light. And maybe, just maybe…This city won’t be that bad. Maybe I walked straight into the fire. And for once? It’s the kind that might burn right.

•

The music is smoke and bass. Something slow, thick, and primal crawls through the speakers while the party thrums like a beast with too many heads. But we’re in our own world now. He hands me a drink. I don’t ask what’s in it. If he wanted to poison me, he would’ve done it with a smile already.

„So…” He says, watching me over the rim of his cup.

„What’s your name, little fire?” It slips out easily, but the moment it lands, it’s real.

„Phoenix.” I say. He pauses mid-sip. Brows lifting, just barely. Not like he’s shocked by the name itself. More like something about it just rang too loud.

„Phoenix…?” He echoes. I shrug. Then I say it. Slow. Watching him.

„Blackwood.” Boom. Not a noise. Not a flash. Just that tension. That stillness. His jaw tightens, just for a second. Like the name pulled a memory out of his back pocket and punched him in the gut with it.

„Say that again.” He says, more still than before.

„Blackwood.” I tilt my head, lip curling into something that’s almost playful, almost defiant.

„Why? Something wrong with it?” He blinks once. Twice. Then the tension breaks like a wave rolling off him.

„Nah…” He says, smiling slowly. But it’s softer now.

„No problem. Just didn’t think I’d hear that name again.”

„Guess I’m full of surprises.” I say, and sip again.

„Yeah.” He murmurs.

„You really f.ucking are.”

•

We don’t talk about it. Not right away. He doesn’t press. I don’t offer. Instead, he lights up. The joint smells like something illegal and delicious. He takes a hit. Passes it. I hold it like it might bite me, then drag deep. The burn is sharp. The high hits clean. Like someone scrubbed the static from my brain. Next is a mirror. A glass card. A line. He doesn’t force it. Just lays it out like an invitation. I look at him. He nods once. Quiet permission. So I take it.

Because f.uck it. My ribs still ache. My life is still on fire. But for one second? I feel good. And him? He laughs easily. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t hover. Just sits beside me like he’s keeping watch. Like if someone touched me wrong, he’d end them mid-beat drop and still be cool enough to finish his drink.

„Fez.” He says it casually, like it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. It fits him.

Short. Sharp. Burnt on the edges. I nod.

„Phoenix.”

„I remember.” He smiles again.

„That name’s not one you forget.”

•

Two hours later… the back porch.

•

Someone’s passed out near the pool.

Music’s still pounding inside, but it’s quieter out here.

„Drink that. You’re not dying on my watch.” Fez hands me a water bottle and a half-assed grin.

„Are you always this heroic?” I ask, but my voice is looser now. Softer.

„Nah. Just for you, Firebird.” He answers without hesitation. I don’t respond. Not with words. I just lean back, stretch my legs across the railing, and let the night wrap around me like it’s finally mine. Because maybe this city is still rotten underneath. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and everything will be just as f.ucked. But tonight? There’s laughter in my throat again. Smoke in my lungs. Gold chains beside me. And a dealer who watches me like I’m something worth guarding. And that? That’s enough.