SILENT NIGHT BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER FOUR

ARIELLA [AGE 17]

The older guy swings first, but I’m faster.

I duck and drive an uppercut into his jaw hard enough to make him stumble. The crowd around the underground ring roars hungry for violence, hungry for blood. My ribs ache already, but I ignore the pain. Pain is normal. Pain is home.

I move again—jab, dodge, hook.

For a moment, I think I might win.

Then everything changes.

He catches me with a punch straight to my side. Something cracks. Heat floods my ribs. Before I recover, he grabs my arm, twists, and slams me into the floor of the ring.

White flashes dance behind my eyes.

Another crack.

My arm is gone—useless, numb, burning.

I try to stand, but he knocks me back down with a kick.

The referee calls it. The crowd cheers for him. The winner.

My breath comes in short, painful bursts as I’m handed the little envelope of cash. Before it even touches my fingers, my father snatches it away.

“This is all?” he snaps. “You can’t even lose properly, useless girl.”

He storms out, and I limp behind him, holding my ribs, swallowing the pain. He throws insults the whole way home—loud enough for people to hear, but nobody ever cares.

When we get home, I collapse on my thin mattress and close my eyes. My arm throbs. My ribs burn. I fall asleep fast.

Sometime in the night, voices wake me.

My father’s.

Two men I don’t recognize.

I don’t move. I just listen.

“Pay first,” my father says. “Then come for her tomorrow. She won’t give you trouble.”

My stomach drops. Cold spreads through my whole body.

I hear the rustle of money.

Low laughter.

Footsteps leaving.

I force my breathing to stay even so he thinks I’m asleep. When the house goes silent, I open my eyes and move.

I grab my small bag—two clothes, toothbrush, nothing else. I push my window open and climb out slowly. My ribs scream, but I force myself.

I’m almost down when—

“Where do you think you’re going?”

His voice is right behind me.

I turn just in time to see the knife. He charges at me, fury twisting his face.

We struggle. He pulls my hair, slams me against the wall. The knife glints, and I grab his wrist with my good hand. My broken arm hangs uselessly at my side.

“Ungrateful brat—”

I don’t think.

I can’t think.

My hand closes around the knife handle.

I shove.

He stops.

Gurgles.

Blood spills fast onto the ground.

He collapses.

I stare at him—frozen, horrified—but I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I can’t afford to.

He isn’t breathing.

I just stabbed him,in the neck.

I run.

I didn't look back.

I run with broken bones, down streets I know, streets I don’t, until everything is a blur. I stumble onto a quiet road, my legs shaking, and a car approaches.

I step out and wave desperately.

The driver—a woman—hits the brakes and gets out.

“Please,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Help me.”

She looks at me—my bruises, my arm, my clothes—and something softens in her eyes.

“Come,” she says. “Get in. Quickly.”

She drives me into a nearby city. I keep expecting her to kick me out, but she doesn’t. She listens to my broken, quiet explanation.

“I can work,” I tell her. “Clean… laundry… anything. Just help me.”

She nods slowly.

“I own a small pub downtown,” she says. “You can stay in the back room for now. Wash up first. We’ll talk after.”

I clutch my bag and follow her.

For the first time in years, someone shows me kindness.

I think maybe running was the right choice.