Born to burn

2. ROTTEN REMINDER. __________________________

PHOENIX POV

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The car slides off into the dark like they were never here. It’s just me now, me and the silence that lives between the houses. The street is empty and the porch light’s off. Same cracked pavement, same ugly window, and same stench of cigarettes and rotgut beer bleeding through the siding like the walls themselves are drinking. I climb the drainpipe like I’ve done it a thousand times, because I have. Tiptoeing across the sagging roof tiles and sliding through the window like a shadow. I’m barefoot and silent, but the floor creaks anyway. It always does. My room’s the same. Cracked mirror, cheap dresser, and burn marks on the wall from that time I lit a towel on fire just to watch something burn. But the bed? That’s where the treasure lives. I pull the mattress back, not fully, just enough to reach under and dig my fingers into the slit I carved years ago. There it is. The envelope. And the next. And the next. And the next. Forty here, fifty there. Hundreds folded flat. Crinkled bills, new bills, blood-streaked ones I didn’t ask questions about. Tips. Trades. Jobs I didn’t want to admit I did. Deals made in classrooms, bathrooms, alleys, basements, and places where the light never reached. I count fast, not because I need to, but because it calms me. $93,600. That’s what I’ve got. Not in a bank. Not in savings. In my mattress. Under my spine. I don’t trust paper promises. I don’t trust anyone. Period. But this? This I earned. Every f.ucking dollar behind every blow, every deal, every pill sold, every look I turned into leverage, every man who thought he could own me and ended up paying just to get close. I didn’t inherit this. Didn’t beg for it. And I sure as hell didn’t get saved. I survived. I charged interest. And I’m not done. I stare at it for a moment. Just long enough to remember that this is my way out. My future, my hope, and my revenge. Stacked, folded, and laced with every sin I’ve committed to stay breathing. Then I seal it again. Shove the mattress back and crawl under the blanket that still smells like moldy fear and old sweat. It’s not safe here. It never was. But my blade’s under the pillow. And my money? It’s still mine.

„F.uck…” I breathe out. I should’ve stayed out longer, because the minute I shut my eyes, I feel the silence shift wrong. The air smells like something turned rancid. Sweat, cheap beer, old smoke soaked into drywall like it’s part of the structure. I freeze mid-breath. That sound and creak of the floor groaning under weight that shouldn’t be up at this hour.

„S-s.hit.” I breathlessly stutter. Pocketknife quickly clenched in my palm, thumb already wet with sweat, I reach for the dresser and press my back to the wall beside it. Then I hear it. His voice. Slurred, wet, crooked with something worse than anger.

„I heard you, s.lut…” It drips down the hallway like grease in a frying pan. Hot. Hissing. Hungry.

„I f.uckin’ heard you… giggling like a little b.itch. Like someone paid for it. You give ’em a show, huh? That’s what you are now? A f.uckin’ tease?” My breath knots in my throat. I keep still as he gets closer.

„I oughta teach you some g.oddamn respect.” He growls, voice rising, steps uneven. The doorknob rattles and I flinch hard as his hand slams the wood like it’s personal, like the door owes him something. Or like I do.

„You in there, you little two-eyed freak, huh?” He’s drunk, worse than usual. Slurring through his teeth like they’re barely holding words back. I hear the clink of his belt buckle. Not him undressing. Him unhinging. I don’t breathe when I remember that the door isn’t locked. F.uck. No. No, no… I press myself harder against the dresser. The blade in my hand hums like it knows. Remembers.

„Think you’re grown now, huh? Sneakin’ out, dressed like a f.ucking s.lut, walkin’ in smelling like them f.uckin’ w.hores. Like you want it.” He opens the door, sees me, and grins. That kind of grin belongs in nightmares and courtrooms. But I don’t shake. Not this time. He steps in and closes the door behind him. His breath is thick. Hot rot. Beer. And a look that isn’t seeing me, but something that’s already his. A thing he’s won more than once. I grip the knife tighter. His eyes drop to my hand, then back up to my face.

„You gonna stab me, huh?” He sneers.

„C’mon then, make daddy bleed.” He takes another step. I raise the blade. My voice doesn’t shake when I say it.

„Try me.” He doesn’t laugh. Not this time. Because something in my face changes. I see it in his eyes. The twitch of hesitation. The way his smirk falters for half a second. But he’s too drunk to stop. Too cocky to know fear when it’s earned. He lunges. I slice. Fast. Not deep, but messy, across the side of his cheek. The blade carves through skin like wet paper. Blood spurts. Hot and black in the moonlight. It hits his shirt, his neck, the edge of my bedpost. He howls and grabs his face.

„F.UCK! You b.itch…” I bolt. Try to twist past him, toward the door, but my foot slips on the blood. He catches my arm hard and slams me into the dresser. My head bounces off the edge. White light. Hot pain. I collapse onto my knees and the blade flies from my hand, sliding under the bed.

„S.tupid little freak!” He roars, lurching over me, hand pressed to his cheek.

„You think you can pull a f.uckin’ blade on me? Think you’re grown?!” I crawl back, blood in my mouth. My palm scrapes the floor as I reach blindly for anything, anything to fight back. He kicks the dresser and it topples halfway, drawers spilling.

„You wanna act like a big girl, huh?” He growls.

„Lemme show you what big girls get.” His voice sounds like it’s been dragged through sewer water. His fists are clenched, his eyes wild as he steps forward, reaching for my hair. The lights flicker. The ceiling bulb stutters like it’s choking. The shadows pulse. The air thickens with something that doesn’t belong. But he’s too drunk to notice. I’m not…He grabs me, his hand strikes my face again, hard. My cheek explodes in heat and sound as I taste blood before I realise I’ve hit the ground again. Another hit, this time my ribs scream and my body folds like it’s forgotten how to hold itself upright. I gasp in pain, but his knee to the stomach forces breath into me as I choke on blood.

„Not so tough now, huh? You little b.itch.” He spits the words and kicks the bedframe.

„You think you’re better than this? You think anyone’s gonna save you?” He grabs my collar, dragging me upright as blood drips from my mouth and my eye is swelling shut. His grip tightens on my collar, pulling me up until my feet barely touch the ground. I gasp and choke as blood trails from my lip, hot and coppery, the swelling in my eye sealing it shut like flesh knitting too fast.

„You think someone’s gonna come in here and save you?” He spits, his voice rasping with rage and liquor.

„Ain’t no white knight, girl. Just you, me and the mess you made. F.uckin’ tease a.ss b.itch.” He slams me against the wall and the plaster cracks behind my skull. I don’t scream, not anymore. My body’s gone beyond that, pain is background now just static. What matters is the air, how thin it is or how heavy? His fist c.ocks back again, knuckles raw and stained red as he hits me again in the stomach, but then something changes. Not in him, in the room. The air hums, it's faint at first, like the sound television used to make when it was on with no input. The shadows crawl in the corners, pulsing in sync with my heartbeat. He still doesn’t notice, but I do. My head lolls. I blink the blood away. There’s something behind him. Just… standing. Watching. A woman? No. I’m hallucinating or at least, it feels like it. The room spins, heavy with sleep, whiskey and heat. My thoughts are swimming, messy, scattered, not quite anchored to the moment… before I know it, he grabs my hair and shoves me down. The carpet is rough against my knees and I whimper more instinct than protest as the noise is soft and pitiful in the stillness. My heart thumps hard in my chest, a rabbit’s heartbeat, fluttering and frantic. His grip stays twisted in my hair, firm, controlling, forcing my neck to arch back so I have no choice but to look up at him and I know what comes next.

„You wanna be a big girl, huh?” He growls, voice thick with liquor and mockery. I could smell the whiskey on his breath sharp, sour and I felt the heat of him radiating through his bare chest. His eyes are bloodshot, glassy, but there was nothing unfocused about the way he looked at me. Predatory. Intentional.

„Let me show you what they get.” My breath caught. I didn’t speak and I didn’t move. Just stared up at him, wide-eyed, small. Trembling the way he liked, that fear which made him even meaner. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, the metal clinking like a threat. Then he stepped closer, forcing his c.ock against my lips before I could blink. He didn’t ask, didn’t wait, always just pushed forward, using the grip in my hair to keep me still. I gasped, lips parting out of shock, out of instinct and he seized that opening. Thick. Hot. Heavy. He shoved himself into my mouth with no patience at all, filling me fast, hitting the back of my throat before I could even adjust. I gagged hard, but he didn’t pull back. He liked it like that…

„Yeah, f.uck!” He hissed, his voice low and cruel.

„Big girls can take it, right?” I whined again, hands planted against the floor, bracing myself as he rocked his hips forward, driving deeper with each thrust. His grip in my hair was merciless, guiding me, forcing me down until spit ran freely from my lips, dripping down my chin, soaking into the carpet. He didn’t slow, he just used me.

„Scared now?” He growled.

„Not so fierce with your mouth full, are you?” I couldn’t answer, not with him f.ucking my throat, but I didn’t need to. My whimpers, the trembling in my thighs, the tears that welled up in my eyes, it all said what he wanted to hear. That I was small. Helpless. Owned. He held me there, deep, groaning as he felt me struggle, not enough to break, just enough to make it real. The edge of pain and the raw hum of submission tightening and making everything inside me scream. His hips were relentless now, slamming forward with ragged rhythm, chasing the edge with all the control of a drunk man starving for dominance. My throat ached, raw from the stretch, from the sheer force of him f.ucking into it over and over again. Tears streamed freely down my cheeks now. Part reflex, part helplessness and every time I gagged around him, he groaned louder, filthier.

„Yeah, take it s.lut.” He spat.

„Choke on my c.ock.” My scalp burned from the grip he refused to loosen. I could feel his body tense, that sharp coil of muscle and heat just before the finish. He held my face down on him, forcing my lips flush to his skin, nose crushed against his body. I couldn’t breathe as he came deep, pulsing, groaning something between a curse and a growl as he emptied himself down my throat, forcing me to swallow every drop. I shuddered, throat tightening, helpless to do anything else. My eyes blurred completely, lips trembling around him. He held me there for a moment too long, hips twitching, c.ock still pulsing faintly between my lips. My lungs screamed. My body shook. Then, just like that he yanked back and shoved me off him. I collapsed to the floor, coughing, gasping, spitting and c.um spilling from my mouth onto the carpet. My hands shook. I wiped my face with the back of my arm, chest heaving, trying to blink through the mess of tears, blood, sweat and blurred vision. He stood over me, looking down like I was nothing but wreckage, something used up and tossed aside. He zipped his pants. Belt half-done. Breath uneven.

„Now you know, s.lut.” He spat, voice flat. Cold. Satisfied. I flinched, but not at the words, at the way he turned and walked out without another glance. Just the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall, leaving me on the floor, alone. Used. Shaking. Exactly how he wanted me. He’s gone. The sound of the door slamming still echoes in my skull, but the silence that follows is worse. It presses in from all sides suffocating, heavy, hollow. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears louder than anything else. I can’t move, my face is half-buried in the carpet, painfully swollen, cheek flattened against the rough fibres, mouth sticky with spit, c.um and blood. I taste copper, thick and wet, my lip’s split and everything hurts. My knees are burning. Skin rubbed raw. My scalp is on fire where he’d gripped it so tight, dragged me around like a toy. My jaw aches, stretched and numb. My throat throbs and my ribs feel pushed inside. My body is bruised, violated down and there’s still something coating it that makes me want to gag. I shift, just barely and the motion sends a jolt through my stomach. Hot. Wrong. Rising too fast. No. No, no… I roll over, barely able to breathe, my arms useless and trembling. I drag myself toward the bathroom, elbows grinding against the floor, knees slipping, the carpet biting into my scraped skin as every inch of my body screams. I hit the tile like a dead weight. Cold. Bright. Silent. The toilet’s a blur of porcelain. I get my hands on the edge just in time before my stomach turns inside out. I vomit hard, violently, bile, acid and emptiness. It splashes, burns my throat on the way up, fills the air with the sour stench of something ruined. I keep retching long after there’s nothing left. Tears run hot down my face, not from crying. I’m already too hollow to cry, but from the heaving, the force of it. My body’s punishing me for surviving it. Every muscle is clenching like it’s trying to wring something out of me that’s still buried too deep. When it finally stops, I slump sideways, too weak to sit up. The cold floor feels almost merciful. I press my cheek to the tile and just breathe slow, shaky gasps. Blood’s drying on my chin. My skin’s sticky with it, mixed with spit, with him, with everything. I want to clean myself. I want to scrub every inch until I’m raw, but I can’t even lift my arm.

„F.uck…” I groan and close my eyes. Not to sleep, well not really. I just want to disappear for a while. At moments like this, I remember the first time this happened. The first time he hit me…I was ten. He beat me since then here and there, and I got used to it as time went by. But the first time he touched me, yeah…I remember that night. I was freshly thirteen and he forced me to give him a hand job holding my hand and jerking him. I cried for days after that and felt so dirty and used that I couldn't look at myself in the mirror for weeks. Since then it was quite a regular thing…so with this memory, I slowly, quietly drift to darkness.