chapter 2 will to live

The rain started. The sky was low, heavy with grey clouds that seemed to reflect the weight in my chest as I limped back home from school. Every step caused a wave of pain through my body. But it barely registered-physical pain-meaningless compared to the weight of what I'd been through today. This wasn't just another bad day; far worse than anything I'd ever been through.

And it all started with Liam. A guy I used to like, but now he seemed to get some kind of pleasure out of pissing me off. I hadn't said a word to him, just breezed past him in the corridors, head hung low, but apparently that was good enough to get things running. By lunchtime, the whole school was talking about how I was "harassing" him. He had told everyone that I was obsessed with him and trying to ruin his life. The rumor spread like fire.

I finally reach my classroom, and my heart just dropped. Well, it wasn't a pretty sight: my desk destroyed, all my books torn in two, my papers crumpled and scattered everywhere upon the floor. The words freak, liar, monster were scrawled upon my desk, and garbage had been stuffed inside. I was gagging from the stench but forced myself to hold it.

I went to the teacher-my voice shaking in trying to tell him what was wrong, "Sir, somebody messed my desk up. My things are wrecked-"

And he didn't even look at me. "You had it coming," he said flatly. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before making it hard on your classmates."

My heart just fell. Deserved it? I stared at him, wide-eyed in disbelief at the words spewing from his mouth. I'd done nothing wrong, but the whole class was looking on, judged me, mocked me. And that teacher, all that day, made this huge effort to single me out, targeted me with impossible questions, and veiled insults masquerading as criticism. I felt straitjacketed; it was living in a nightmare where there was no exit.

By the time the last bell sounded, I just wanted to disappear into thin air. Their meanness followed me home, on my back, like a shadow stuck with me even as I stepped across the threshold of the front door. Still, I wasn't prepared for what awaited me there.

Standing in the entry, my adoptive father scowled, his dark eyes unyielding. "I received a call from Liam's parents," he growled low, the simmer of anger underlying every word. "He says that you have been harassing him, causing trouble at school." His head jerked to one side, disgust written across his face. "After all we've done for you, this is how you repay us?

I opened my mouth to explain, but the words caught in my throat. "I didn't do anything," I whispered, hardly audible. "I just walked past him. My things were destroyed—"

"Liar!" he roared, cutting me off before the words could leave my lips. The hard and fast slap came out of nowhere, sending me backward in a stumble. "Am I stupid? You think everyone else is lying? It's always something with you. Always trouble."

The next one came before I could even react; this time, it hit my ribs. The pain exploded through me in a sharp, blinding way. I tried to back away, to shield myself, but he kept on coming. Fists rained down upon me, each worse than the last. I was aware that I gasped, fighting for breath, but there was no escape.

I buckled at the knees, and then I was down, curling into myself as the beating continued. Sights blurred together, my ears rang, and the pain took precedence over everything. Blood filled my mouth and I couldn't move; I couldn't even cry.

He finally stopped and left me lying in a heap on that cold floor, shaking and broken. Every inch of my body throbbed in pain. My arm was on fire, and it wasn't beneath me if it was busted, but I couldn't move it. I tried to rise to my feet, but my legs refused to work.

My father was towering over me, his breath thick with the exertion of his scream. "You're a disgrace," he spat. "You're lucky we don't toss you on the street. But don't think you're taking it so easy. You're not leaving your room for the next three days. No food, no water. Let's see if that'll teach you some respect."

I didn't respond. How could I? He turned and strode away, ordering the maids to lock me in my room as if I were some kind of prisoner of war. I lay on the floor for hours-weak and broken and staring up at the ceiling.

It felt like three days of eternity. I lay on a cold concrete floor, in darkness, alone, with body aches and my mind racing. My stomach growled painfully due to hunger, and my lips were cracked, parched by thirst. But above all of these, I had been consumed by the feeling of helplessness with a sense that I was stuck in another person's nightmare and would never have any hope of coming out.

But as the hours dragged on, something in me started to shift. A new thought began a sluggish circulation in the back of my mind. This wasn't Elizabeth Brown's life anymore; this was my life. And if this was the story the author had written for me, well, I wasn't going to let it play out the way it was supposed to.

No, I wouldn't let them break me, and I would not let them be in control of my destiny.

By the time they opened my door, my mind was already set on one thing: never to stay in here and be their punching bag, their scapegoat. I had to escape, needed to strike back.

On those long, agonizing days in solitary confinement, I did have a plan. The old Elizabeth, through the years working odd jobs waiting tables, cleaning homes, or anything that would bring her a little bit of cash in her pocket, had managed to save some money. Enough to get me out of this place to start fresh somewhere far away.

I had packed a small suitcase with only what was truly indispensable and had carefully hidden the money at the bottom of my suitcase, where I had the special hiding place inside. Chaud, chaude, shaking, I booked the first one-way flight to Italy. It was crazy, but what was I to do? Had to leave.

Niccolò. The man from the story who treated Elizabeth with some sort of tender regard-a man unlike any of the other characters in the story. Yes, he is Italian; that is where he was raised. He would not be met by Daisy for many years, until he went to the U.S. for college. If only I could find him first, if only I could make him fall for me before he met her, the story would go differently. I would be able to alter the events of the story. My fate, rewrite it, his too.

Time was running out, and my eyesight had already begun deteriorating, well and due according to the book. Well, I couldn't wait anymore.

I ran and ran from the house until the fourth night, when the maids had fallen asleep. The rain was heavy; it made my clothes wet as I quickened my steps into the night, but I didn't care. For the very first time in my life, I was walking away from beatings, misery, and loneliness. I wouldn't be anyone's background character anymore.

I was in charge of my destiny.

Italy was waiting, Niccolò was waiting, and this time I would not allow fate to win. At least in this life I want to live.