New and Old Blending In

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story about a girl discovering her past and burning a way to her future.

Submitted: May 23, 2017

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Submitted: May 23, 2017




I stood looking out over the vast field of burnt rubble, feeling so empty after what had happened so many years ago. I wonder if I could have stopped what happened all those years ago, or whether it was just meant to be. It all started on December 23, 2010.  That was the date we'll never forget; that year, that month, that day. That's when everything changed.

I awoke on that cursed date to have my foster dad yelling at me. He thought it was me who had begun another fire in the bathroom and he screamed in allegation at the top of his lungs. I really could have cared less about what he had to say, so I just walked into the bathroom with no comments or responses as he continued shouting like a little baby who did not get its nap that day. Hopefully, I thought, he will shut up soon so I can take a nice shower, and get to school on time. 

As soon as I turned on the water, it shut off so quickly that I barely had time to blink. The first thing I thought was, “Hell no. He is so not doing this to me, again,” and I ran out of the bathroom, irritated as ever. As soon as I got down stairs, I went straight up to his smug face.  he just said two words;

“Tough luck!”


He was getting on my nerves, and I hated him for thinking I lit the bathroom on fire because I did not do it. He always thought I did everything wrong, that I plagued his life. He reminded me that he ruled the household and he could make my life a living hell or a peaceful heaven, the latter ofwhich never happened. Ever since I was a little girl he would think of me as nothing more thana pain in his side; my foster mother was the same, but she always held a hint of guilt in her eyes when yelling at me for something. My foster dad had the most insincere and false innocence to his eyes when he wasn't blowing up on me that it would make any honest man gag.

Today he was even more of a jerk to me. “At least he isn't hitting me today,” I had thought. But, that did not mean he wouldn't find a way to hit me and send me broken and bleeding into the emergency room. Just as I tried reassuring my safety to myself again, he picked up a bat and swung it straight at my head. I quickly held my breath and threw my hand over my head, then heard an egotistic laugh that sounded so wicked that my whole back shivered.


He said viciously, “You get that from your mother, you know, you little twerp?” That's when something crossed my mind, a single thought.

“What do you mean by my mother? You said she gave me up at birth, and you guys never met her!”  All of a sudden, he smacked me straight in the jaw, and the impact caused me to fly backward, and hit my head on the wall;Just as this was happening, my foster mom came in yelling.

 “What the heck is going on? Oh, my gosh! What happened in here?”I helped myself up and simply pointed at her husband and said with as much accusation a voice can hold, “You and your husband have been lying to me this whole time!”

All of a sudden she started pacing and babbling random things, like “She knows about what happened! What can we do now?” “We should've just killed her along with her parents!” “She is going to report us and then we'll get the chair! The chair, sweet heart! We can’t get the chair!!”

  I froze right then and there, speechless, not being able to do anything but just stand there staring, my mind reeling over what I now gathered; these two-people killed my parents. They actually murdered them. I felt my stomach churn and my eyes water at the mere thought of it. I'd been living in the household of my own parents' murderers.

“You.. You killed them! Both of them! H-How?! When?! Wh-why kill them?! They did nothing to you, did they?!” I stuttered out, willing the water in my eyes to sink beneath my eyelids as I glared through my blurred and teary vision at my foster father. His whole air about him seemed to morph and shift into something eviller than I ever could have imagined, a dark and unsettling reality befalling his entire being so I could only see him as a creature of the dark that somehow sneaked out of the shadows to torment people, existing just to terrorize.

He finally broke the thick, deafening silent in a voice filled with so much hatred, it would make children cry. “It was quite simple really; they were at the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all. I really didn't want to keep you, but of course my sweet wife did always want a kid. Too many health problems to ever have one. And there you were, hiding in the corner, too young to be able to remember anything when you got older, so I took you for her. A little present.”

“You monster,” I gasped, grabbing the first object around me—which happened to be a plate—and throwing it straight at his head before I started running for the closet to my far right, but he was faster; he merely winced at the shattering glass against his beefy forehead and lurched forward, grabbing my arm tightly and launching me against the wall. I hissed and whimpered at the sharp pain exploding in my side and arm now as I slid down the wall. He yanked me close just before my body could slink comfortably to the floor and, with his foul breath in my face, said slowly, “I guess we should finally get rid of this problem, right honey?” His eyes turned to the side as if he could see the shivering woman he addressed behind him. The suggestion suddenly seemed to calm her, making that guilty part of her die just then and there like my parents had years and years ago. She nodded.

“Of course, dear. What's the best way, hmm? Should we beat her to death? Cut her to bits? Shoot her brains out? Or how about make it something simple, look like a suicide?”

He responded, “Look like a suicide.. That, my wife, is an excellent idea. Get some rope. We'll hang her body like she'd hung herself.”

  She'd quickly turned on her feet and galloped out of the room like an overexcited stallion at a racetrack. Before I could really react to the situation beyond screaming my head off, his large hand was clasped tightly around my throat. I tried finding a way to let the air flow into my lungs just a little bit, maybe a spot he wasn't squeezing so hard in my neck, but it only made me wheeze and retch. He was choking the life out of me. My vision was getting black around the edges, everything I saw was moving funny, I couldn't move my arms or legs anymore and my body slumped worthlessly, and my mind jumped and raced all out of sorts. Nothing was making much sense as this struggle for oxygen continued on. How was I going to get out? Was this really gonna be the end? Is this what dying's like? Why can't my arms move? What's that thing in my stepmother's hands? Is it a snake? Did I clean out the backyard yesterday? Did I miss the bus?

I cried out incoherently—I don't even think I had an idea of what I was trying to say—but he crushed my windpipe tighter and my eyes flicked shut as the world started spinning. I wished the pain, all the harsh painI was feeling, would just go away. The last thought with real understandable words was when I wished someone, something, would help me or take away all that harsh pain that was now ripping its way through my body.

A new, different pain suddenly hit me. It felt as if my hands were on fire, then it traveled and flickered like a real flame down my arms, to my stomach, around my back, up my chest and down my legs, up to the top of my head and to the soles of my feet. A shrill and agonized scream ripped through my numbing eardrums, followed by a sudden release around my neck. I took deep lungfuls of air, gasping and rasping for as much oxygen the air around me could provide.

The heat underneath my skin didn't go away, and I had to wonder, was I on fire? I stared down at my weak, quivering hands between gasps and saw that, no, I was not ignited. I shakily looked up to the source of the screaming that was still going on and saw my foster father on the ground, writhing and flailing, with third degree burns sizzling his hands. My foster mom was desperately trying to calm him with a panicked look in her eyes. She turned her gaze from her agonized husband to me and glared with the most hateful look I'd ever seen in my life frozen in her eyes. The intensity of the rancor blinded me to the fact that she had actually started screaming her head off at me. “You! You little twerp!” She suddenly leaped to her feet and charged straight at me with outstretched hands, fingers bent sharply like an eagle's talons. I jumped dizzily to my feet and stumbled to the front door as fast as my disoriented body would let me, managing to avoid the snatching claws of my foster mother. It was when I'd finally been able to pull the burning brass doorknob of the front door open that I noticed the house was slowly being engulfed in flames. Smoke was thickening the air and the ragged coughing of the two still within the household accompanied the sound of dancing flames in my ears.

“Help!” I yelled frantically, turning away from the house to run down the drive. It was useless, though; we lived in the middle of nowhere, with the closest neighbors about two miles off. I thought then that that had been part of their plan all along; away from society, any witnesses, so they could kill me off right away had anything gone wrong.

I knew I had to get away. Fighting the weariness of my body, I ran—tripping and stumbling along the way—down the driveway towards the road, when I heard the shriek behind me, “Stop or I'll kill you!”

I stopped abruptly, tensing my entire body. She was slowly walking towards me; her footsteps audible against the gravel only through strained hearing.

“I don't know what you did to him,” she started. I turned instinctively toward her voice and saw she was holding a double barrel shotgun, pointed readily at my head. “But I don't care. I'm going to kill you. Here and now,” she threatened slowly, voice drip, drip, dripping with absolute malice. I could almost see the red hatred mixed with the treacherous saliva dripping down her chin manically—it might have been my overactive imagination, or blood mixed in her spit.

The earth suddenly seemed to shake, roar, and sputter. The fire had reached the gasoline tank in the laundry room. The explosion threw me backward into the loose rock of the street and rolling down to the dying field below, scathing any exposed skin of mine along the way. I only saw my foster mother's body thrown like a rag doll before she was completely out of sight. There was a large rock at the end of my tumble that was in the direct path of my head and I blacked out.

“Annie. Wake up, Annie. Come on, sleepy head!” I had heard a voice calling over and over. I wanted it to shut up. I was so tired and my body was screaming for the relaxation promised through sleep. “Annie,” the voice persisted. I grudgingly opened my eyes and, when my vision manage to focus, saw a boy standing over me. He couldn't have been a year or two older than I was. He smiled softly at the sight of my consciousness.

“Are you alright?” he asked tenderly. I grunted and slowly sat up. At a certain point where I was almost up, my body screamed in protest, sending a wave of pain in all parts of my body. I gasped in pain.
“How are you feeling?”
My first dumb response was a quick and flustered, “My foster parents killed my real
parents and they were trying to kill me and they hated me and always blamed me for the bathroom catching on fire and they said they were gonna make my death look like a suicide and my foster dad was choking me and then I was on fire but I wasn't and then the house was on fire and then my foster mom came out with a gun and then the house blew up and then my foster mom flew away and then I fell down here and then.. And then...” I stopped, breathing heavily, and stared with wide eyes at the boy. What if he was here to kill me? What if he was in an alliance with my foster parents and was just going to continue what they started?
I thought about how he'd treated me so far, so kind and reverent, and the warm look in his eyes and thought, no, he was here to help me. He smiled reassuringly.

“The ambulance is waiting for you.” I was confused.

“What do you mean it's waiting for me?”

He shook his head with a short laugh and rose to his feet. “I'll tell you later, when we get to the hospital and send your foster parents to jail.” He extended his hand to help me up. I gladly welcomed the warmth against my palm to hoist myself up.

That day, so many years ago, I lost my old life and gained a new one. I grabbed my little girl's hand, turned away from the old sight, and went back to the car with my husband, waiting for me just like he had, that day, long ago.



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