Beautiful Deceit - Albany Walker

Prologue

Blood drips slowly from my cupid’s bow, falling down to my bottom lip. My tears mingle with the drops of blood. The once steady flow is now barely noticeable as I grab a bag that I've hidden under the loose floorboards in my room. I have a plan.

He's been silent for over two hours. I’ve waited, backed into the corner of my childhood room, listening for signs that he is gone or asleep. I pray he's passed out and that the quiet creaking of my bare feet won't be enough to wake him.

A small button on the sleeve of my shirt catches my nose, as I again try to wipe the blood away. I need to move unnoticed but can’t chance staying in this house long enough to clean myself up. I hiss from the contact. I won’t do that again.

My hope to make it another three weeks is gone. I wish I could finish my sophomore year and collect my final paycheck from the small grocer where I work. Mr. White would probably give it to me early.

The floor creaks from down the hall. I freeze. Is the house just settling, or is he up?

When no more sound follows, I continue gathering the few personal belongings I've stowed away over the last year. Things have been getting progressively worse. If I want to make it to my junior year, I need to run now.

With one final look around my childhood room I throw my backpack over my shoulder and slink, silently as possible, through my bedroom window. The drop from the second floor, which seemed so dangerous a short few years ago, doesn't faze me. I know where true danger lies.

As I walk down the dirt drive, I turn around and look at the house my mother loved, the family farm my mom and dad built together. I wish I could walk through the kitchen door once more and feel her presence and hear her humming a little song while she bakes. She’s gone. Nothing can change that. Now all I feel as I leave is relief from the fear and pain.

I turn my back, knowing I'll never see the old house again. Tears fall as I make my escape.

Chapter 1

I wake to my phone vibrating loudly against my nightstand, its camera light flashing, telling me it's time to rise. The buzzing alone wakes me; I'm still a light sleeper. It's funny how fast your body becomes accustomed to things, like waking from footsteps or shuffling from outside your door. Even years later, when the need to be constantly on guard has passed, I still can't seem to sleep through the slightest noise.

I swipe my finger across the screen, stopping the alarm from sounding again. The sun isn't fully up, so the room is still relatively dark. I wish I could close my eyes and fall back to sleep. I scissor my legs under the covers trying to find a cool piece of fabric.

My dirty blonde hair is piled into a loose messy bun on top of my head. I rub the slight ache of my scalp, from sleeping in it all night, then swat at the tendrils that escaped. One of the few things I've kept from my old life is my long hair. I'm reminded of my mother every time I look at myself in the mirror. Her hair is one of the strongest memories and saddest reminders I have of her.

I sit up slowly, looking over the home I’ve made for myself.

Everything looks exactly like it did when I went to sleep, just like I knew it would. I can't help but check every morning when I wake. It’s another habit from my old life.

Owning my studio is the greatest progress I've made in the last seven years. When I finally ran, it was to Rita, my mother’s best friend in New York. I should have left with her after the funeral. I would have left too, if I had any idea the kind of monster my stepfather would turn into. Instead, I wanted to remain close to my mother's memories and our home. The violence didn't start overnight, and it didn't start with fists. He often cried and mourned my mother so dearly that I wanted to help him grieve.

He began with words, lashing out in what I believed was grief. You still can't convince me that the words hurt less than the physical blows. My body always healed, but the words are still in my