CHAPTER 27: SCARS OF THE PAST

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello readers, I hope you are enjoying the book so far. The next chapters will be written from two years ago. When we shift to the present time, I will also indicate it so that we are all on the same page.

ENJOY.

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Two years ago...

JUNE 2022

Emmie sat cross-legged on the edge of the motel bed, staring at the peeling wallpaper that reminded her of her life before everything changed, before she had freedom. It was the kind of place that smelled faintly of bleach and desperation, but to her, it felt like a palace. For the first time in years, she could breathe—even if the air was stale and the heater wheezed like it was on its last breath.

She ran her fingers over the edge of the cheap polyester comforter, thinking about how far she'd come. Emmie didn't miss her parents. Not even a little. They were dead now, and frankly, the world was better for it.

Growing up, life had been a constant reminder of how much two people could hate each other—and how much they could take it out on the person caught in the crossfire. Her father was a walking cliché of rage and whiskey breath, his words slurred and his fists sharp. Her mother wasn't any better, a bitter woman who wielded guilt and cruelty like weapons. They didn't love her. They didn't even like her. She was just something to kick when life's disappointments got too heavy to carry.

Emmie's childhood home wasn't a home at all. It was a war zone. Dinner was either silence so thick you could choke on it or an argument so loud the neighbors probably turned up their TVs to drown it out. Her room was the only sanctuary she had, and even that was fragile. Her father's temper could smash through a locked door like it was made of paper.

She still remembered the day she came home with a B+ on her math test, thinking for a moment, just a moment, that her mother might be proud of her. Instead, she got a slap across the face and a sneering, "Maybe if you weren't so stupid, it would've been an A." Her father hadn't even looked up from the TV. Why would he? As long as he had his bottle, nothing else mattered.

Emmie didn't cry when they died. She had stood at the gravesite, hands stuffed into the pockets of her threadbare jacket, watching the caskets lower into the ground. There were no tears, no guilt, no whispered goodbyes. The preacher had droned on about heaven and forgiveness, but Emmie knew better. If there was a hell, her parents were there, burning for every bruise, every insult, every ounce of misery they had inflicted.

And the worst part? She was happy about it. She'd been taught her whole life that being happy about something like that was wrong, that it made you a bad person. But how could she not be happy? Their absence was the only gift they had ever given her.

Her freedom came with strings, of course. She'd had to claw her way out of the wreckage they left behind, working dead-end jobs and sleeping in her car when the paychecks didn't stretch far enough. But she was alive. For the first time, she was alive.

And now, months later after everything happened, she was finally joining college. Campston University. Her dream school. The acceptance letter was still tucked safely in her backpack, the edges worn from how often she'd unfolded and reread it. It didn't promise a smooth ride; she'd still have to work long hours and juggle assignments, but none of that mattered. For the first time, the future didn't feel like a dark tunnel. It felt like an open door.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Rot in hell, you bastards," she whispered, her voice steady, almost serene. It wasn't a curse or a cry of anger. It was a statement. A fact. She imagined her father's face twisted in eternal torment, her mother's shrill voice silenced forever, and it brought her a peace she never thought she'd feel.

The motel room wasn't much, but it was hers. No screaming, no fists, no walking on eggshells. Just the hum of the heater and the sound of her own breathing. For the first time in her life, Emmie could dream about a future that didn't involve surviving another day under their roof.

"You didn't win," she murmured, the words meant for ghosts that couldn't hurt her anymore. "I did."