Page 163 of Like A Moth To A Flame

Finally, the chair reached the compromised support beam. I could see the flames licking at its edges, hungry for more destruction. Without hesitation, I positioned the chair against the beam, using all my might to prop it up.

I could feel the heat licking at my skin, crawling across the chair, and eating at the wooden back. He’d shackled me with metal handcuffs, yet he’d used a wooden chair.

I’d have to teach him a painful lesson about using his common sense.

The flames crept over my hands, tied behind my back, and threaded through the wooden slats. I grit my teeth against the pain, listening to my jaw pop and my teeth grinding. I reminded myself that I needed this—needed the pain to keep me grounded.

As I pulled away, the crackling intensified, and the wood began to snap. It creaked and groaned under the strain, but I knew I couldn’t rely on the fire alone. Time was running out. The smoke was thicker now, making it harder to breathe, and even more difficult to see.

Pulling forward, I twisted one shoulder, then the other, my forearms screaming with pain as I yanked on the hot metal encircling my wrists. Overhead, the ceiling began to groan and yell, warning of its upcoming demise, but I forced myself to ignore it. I couldn’t worry, or let myself panic. I needed to get out of here alive, and I needed to get out soon.

With a sharp crack, one of the back beams gave way, and I was able to slip the cuffs from between them, leaping up out of the chair at the same moment that one of the main ceiling beams rotted through and broke in half, haunting calls screaming behind me as I hurried through the smoke.

Drawing on my training once again, I remembered the emergency exit on the far side of the room. It was a long shot, but it was my only chance. I sprinted towards it, dodging falling debris and navigating through the growing chaos. The smoke clouded my vision, burning my nostrils and leaving my chest feeling tight and heavy.

With a surge of adrenaline, I reached the exit and pushed it open. Fresh air rushed in, providing a momentary relief from the suffocating smoke. I stumbled out into the open, gasping for breath, my boots catching on the gravel and sending me crashing down onto my face, my chin slamming into the ground with so much force that I saw stars.

But I couldn’t stay down for long. I couldn’t let him hurt her.

With Vanessa’s face etched in my mind, I lay panting on the ground, her voice echoing in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest was tight, my throat burning, the smoke still choking me, even if I’d escaped it.

Fuck, I was gonna die.

The air was heavy, the shadows closing in at the edges of my mind.

I was gonna die here.

Worthless!

Memories of my father’s voice floated over me, and I remembered it like it was yesterday. He stumbled in, late, a beer in his hand, and the scent of hard liquor permeating the air around him. I could see his eyes, the same color as mine—the same eyes I saw every day in the mirror—bloodshot and bearing down on me.

Worthless little bastard! You’ll always be just a waste of space!

It was a night when my mother stood there, her shoulders hunched and her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face and merging with the murky dishwater she hovered over. She knew better to get in his way when he was like this. She’d tried before. She’d tried to save me. It landed her in the hospital. That night, like somany before it, he took all of his anger out on me—anger over his failures, his shortcomings, and his displeasure over his life.

I took every blow without a flinch. When I hit the ground, I got back up.

I couldn’t let him win.

I couldn’t lay here and let him hurt her.

“I’m not,” I groaned, forcing myself to sit up, my bloodied palms pressing into the gravel beneath me and bringing a stab of pain rocketing through me. “I’m not a fuckin’ waste of space.”

I flipped onto my back, wiping blood from my nose as I got to my feet and limped in the direction of her embrace, ready to protect our future.

41

I’d never treat me this shitty. You made me hate this city.

Moth

Isat in stunned silence while every part of me told me to run. He put the gun down. He put it down, I could go. I could run.

I couldn’t. I just couldn’t listen.

Maybe it was what they talked about, fight or flight?

Maybe I had somehow chosen both?

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