The Lion's Den

Chapter 1

    I frantically fling my clothes into a bag, on top of a toothbrush, mascara, and some food bars from the kitchen. My foster dad's occupied, blacked out on the couch surrounded by the stench of alcohol and meth. I desperately try to control the panic in my heart, but the bruises on my arms are vivid reminders of what would happen if he awakes and discovers my plot. 

     I slowly slip out the front door, minimalizing any possible creaking noises. I'm slapped in the face with freezing wind, and the harsh weather chills me to the bone. I'm wrapped in the warmest clothes I own, but it still does little to protect me from the frigid temperatures. My foster dad, Creg, doesn't allow me to posses "covering" clothes, getting off on the idea that I'm left cold and weak. The mere thought of the sick bastard brings bile to the back of my throat.

     I tread along the sidewalks, head hung low to avoid drawing attention. I watch the cracks of the concrete as it passes under my gaze, counting them to distract my racing mind. 

     Please don't let one of Creg's friends see me, I pray to whatever God I need to believe in. The flickering street lights do little to illuminate me, but I know my unique hair color makes me identifiable to onlookers. What if they catch me? My breath shakes out, and I watch the cloud it creates in my vision. 

     I pull my phone from my pocket, and power it on. The light from the little screen beams through the crisp night air, and the bold white numbers read 11:44 pm. That leaves me with a good amount of time to put distance between myself and my old home. 

     My old iPhone 5 has been my little secret for months, as Creg is entirely oblivious to its existence. I scraped together money on my own for it, with the hopes of finding a way to contact my biological parents someday. 

     I haven't had any luck. 

     I suppose legally I'm aloud to go off on my own now, as I turned 18 a few weeks ago. The issue is I have nowhere to go- no friends, relatives... Nothing.

     I walk until almost 3:00 AM, my only objective in mind is to cover as much ground as possible before day break. Eventually, exhaustion and mild hypothermia overpowers my determination, and the sad dragging of my frozen body becomes impossible. The temperature sunk far closer to 0 than I could have anticipated tonight, and the early hours of this winter morning are officially unbearable.  

     With a heavy head and hazy vision, I stumble into a dark and deserted floral-themed park. Spotting a metal bench, I curl up on my side, the beams like icicles biting at my exposed skin. My strawberry blonde hair sticks to them too, and I consider adjusting it to act as a barrier between my face and the viscous metal.  

     My heavy eye lids drift shut, consciousness slipping away from me. I know I can't sleep now, I'm not safe yet, I have to keep going. But my need for sleep is a force I'm not strong enough to fight, even as the idea of not waking up taunts me. 

     The sound of the night is peaceful, rustling leaves and the blowing wind harmonizing in a dreary melody. I listen blissfully on the edge of sleep, feeling myself sway with the nocturnal world. Teetering between the realm of dreams and reality, a murmur of deep voices almost passes as a lullaby. Almost. 

     Coming to life slowly, an impending sense of evil is present. I'm not sure when the fact hit my brain, but the mist of doom almost seems physical, draping over my shoulders. I look from my sideways view across the plain in front of me, not finding the owner of this intrusive voice. 

     Curiosity ultimately gets the better of me, and I creep past a elegant fountain. heading deeper into the park and closer to the voices. I spot four shadows, and although I can't see any faces I, know they are male. 

     The men speak in a language I quickly identify as Russian. For the past 6 years I've been studying foreign languages, and I'm proud to say I've become fluent in Italian, Russian, and Spanish. I know some Czech, but not much. I'm probably a nerd, I get it, but it became a hobby of sorts after I picked Italian up so easily. 

        " Dovol'no. Feliks pokonchil s nim," the largest figure spoke, his deep voice framed with a sharp Russian accent. A  bright flash and thunder burst out in the night, leaving behind a ringing in my ears. (Enough. Feliks, finish it.) 

     I gasp as one of the bodies collapses, landing in an area of light. His dead eyes stare straight through me, and in the center of them a freshly carved bullet hole. I clamp my hand tightly over my mouth, but still a small whimper sneaks out. Huge mistake.

     The next few seconds are a blur. When reality finally resettles around me, I'm kneeling on the hard, stone ground with the cool metal of a gun resting between my eyes. I never thought of how I would die, but I guess this isn't bad. I will die free from the foster care system, and I count that as a win. At least I made it to 18. I refuse to cry, I will not spend my last moments degrading myself in the hopes of life. I will not pretend I care for my life. 

     Closing my eyes, I do my best to plaster on a completely blank expression. Even if its not real. Even if I'm the most horrified I've ever been. I'll leave this world knowing that the men that slaughter me will not see my fear. 

     Sadly, no one will notice when I'm gone.