My face aches where my father punched me the day before. I touch it gingerly, looking in the mirror. It’s already turning black and blue, which isn’t too surprisingly. I’ve had plenty of black eyes over the years living with Rick and this probably isn’t the worst one.

My father is a piece of shit. Everyone knows it. There’s no question about Rick Jones. The neighborhood tolerates him because he’s charismatic and can fool some people into thinking he’s not just a total waste of space, but the truth is, my father is a very bad man.

I had a mother once too, a long time ago, but she’s gone now. Died of a heroin overdose when I was six. I can still remember walking into their bedroom and watching my father trying to wake her up, trying to bring her back, but failing.

He went downhill after that, though I guess he probably wasn’t great back then either. I went to high school for a little while, but when I turned sixteen he demanded that I drop out and get a job to help support myself. I did, of course, because I was a stupid kid back then and had no clue what I was doing.

Now, I’m twenty-two, I work at Rite Aid, and I have no education. I’m a nothing in a shit neighborhood with an abusive asshole father, and that’s all I’ll ever be.

I live in a prison. I can leave it any time, but that makes it worse, because I know I never will. My father needs me to keep him alive, although I wonder why I do it every single day, I still make sure he’s fed and shaved and doesn’t choke on his own puke at night.

I keep to myself. I have a room up in the attic of our house and I don’t leave it much, except to go to work. I cook and clean sometimes, but mainly I stay upstairs and use my computer. I have lots of friends online, people that don’t know the real me. I hide the real me, because I hate what I’ve become.

Just anther abused, uneducated poor girl living in the hood.

I lean back in my chair and sigh. I want to get out, leave my father and join the world, but I can’t. I can’t get a good enough job that will support me because I have no skills. Every time I do manage to save some money, Rick barges into my room and steals it. Then he rages at me, hits me, throws me around, and blames me for all his problems. I look too much like my mother, he says, and that makes him depressed.

I hurt him just by existing.

I’ve learned to cope. I bought some locks for my bedroom door, and that has helped lately. I know he’ll break it down sooner or later, but for now, I can at least sleep knowing he can’t easily get in. He hasn’t come into my room late at night in a long time, but the memories are still there and the fear is still inside of me.

I stand up and stretch. I can hear the shower water running downstairs which means my father is back from the bar. I need to go down and check on him, make sure he hasn’t smashed up his face or done something stupid so that I can go to sleep in peace.

I toss on a sweatshirt and creep down the steps. It’s dark on the second floor but I know it all by heart anyway. I can hear my father humming, but suddenly that stops. I hear something else, something I didn’t expect.

Another man’s voice.

I stand still, straining to hear, but the words are muffled by the walls and the running water. I walk closer to the door, trying to figure what’s happening. Did my father bring a man home? Is he selling himself for cash and drugs now? Or is this some bookie here to break Rick’s legs over some idiotic gambling debt? Anything is possible with my piece of shit father.

I take the door handle. I hear a grunt and a thud as I slowly push the door open.

I stare at my father. He’s pressed against the shower wall, his eyes open in horror, his hands gripping at a knife that’s shoved into his chest. He’s slowly sliding down into the tub. For a second, we make eye contact.

And then I see him. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, a black jacket, and black pants with a dark brown belt. There’s a backpack on the floor beside me. He half turns and notices me standing there.

Piercing blue eyes, handsome, square face. Stubble covers his attractive jaw and rings his full lips. He’s gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, and I don’t know what to do.

Shock fills my body. My father is slumped over in the tub, blood slowly spilling down the drain.

Without thinking, I turn and start running.

I don’t know where I’m trying to go, but that man just murdered my father. I can’t think, can’t breathe, I just start running down the steps. I can hear the man behind me, coming after me, the thumping of his shoes on the floor getting closer. I fly down the steps and hit the far wall before running back toward the kitchen.

Shit, I just passed the front door. I head through toward the kitchen, trying to get to the back door. There’s a killer in my house, a murderer, a crazy man. He’s going to kill me like he killed my father. Sheer panic drives me forward.

I reach the back door and grab the handle. As I turn it, something slams into me pinning me against the back door.

I struggle like my life depends on it, because it does.

“Stop,” he orders me. “Stop struggling. I’m not here for you.”

“You killed him. Please.” I can’t think. I just keep saying that over and over.

“Calm down. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

My mind is totally filled with blind, animalistic panic. Finally I watch as he pulls something from his pocket.

A syringe.

A scream tries to tear itself from my lips but he quickly thrusts a hand over my mouth, shoving my head back against the wood. He’s big and so much stronger than I am. I try to fight but he’s too much for me. I watch in horror as the syringe comes toward my neck.

“This won’t hurt,” he whispers. “Don’t fight it.”

The syringe plunges into my neck. I gasp as I feel a coldness spread through my veins.

The world goes wobbly and loose.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Go ahead. Go to sleep.”

Gorgeous blue eyes. Big, strong arms, wrapped around my body.

The world goes sideways then dark.