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One

CALISTA

The bullet burst from the gun, producing a thunderous crack that echoed across the shooting range and sent a satisfying shiver down my spine.

The metal pressed hot against my palm, and each contour dug into my skin while the weight of the pistol felt significant and anchoring. I squinted, focusing my gaze on the paper target at the far end of the range, its surface crafted to replicate a human silhouette with clear lines defining the head and torso.

Spirals of smoke curled up from the barrel, tendrils weaving through the crisp morning air, brushingagainst my cheek like a playful whisper. The pungent, acrid scent stung my nostrils, potent enough to make me wrinkle my nose.

I had only been here a short while, yet already the target bore the marks of my precision. Tiny holes dotted the paper, the edges frayed and curling, each puncture a testament to my aim. Still, despite my steady hand, it wasn’t quite as obliterated as I desired.

I steadied my breathing, drawing in a long, calming breath, and aimed with precision, squeezing the trigger once more.

The bullet zipped through the air with a piercing whistle, sending an exhilarating rush of energy coursing through my veins. It pulsed within me, an irresistible force awakening every nerve ending with a primal instinct. It was such an intense sensation that it seemed to seize my very essence, reminiscent of a siren’s haunting melody drawing me toward the unknown. The world around me blurred as this rush consumed me, leaving only the rhythm of my heartbeat and the echoes of the shots in my ears.

That intoxicating feeling of control was nothing short of addictive.

“You might as well give in. You’re never getting out of here…”

The persistent voices that had haunted my thoughts for nearly two years echoed with each deafening shot, a chaotic chorus accompanying the relentless slideshow of memories flashing through my mind—a testament to everything I had survived.

With each squeeze of the trigger, my hands bucked,sending another bullet down the range and another nameless face flickering in my mind like a ghostly apparition. I had tried to banish those phantoms, those voices, and the horrific images that haunted my dreams, but they clung to me like shadows at dusk.

Every day, I visited the shooting range, allowing the smell of gunpowder and the crack of gunfire to become my soothing companions. Yet, despite my best efforts after each session, the memories persisted, stubborn and unyielding.

Frustration boiled within me as I tightened my grip and fired again. Another horror flashed before me, a vivid remembered pain stabbing at my consciousness.

The images flickered like a distorted, fuzzy, dark video with blurred, disjointed edges. Fear wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket, consuming me. The threats echoed, along with the brutal beatings etched into my memory. And the rest…the unbearable thoughts? No. I wouldn’t let them win.

I released the trigger over and over, the recoil jolting through my arms a physical reminder of my defiance.

With each shot fired, every blast became a cathartic release, a desperate attempt to purge the past.

My fingers moved automatically as I loaded bullets into the chamber, expending nearly all the available ammunition in my relentless assault.

“Healing takes time, Calista…”My therapist’s voice wove through my thoughts, blending with the taunts of my abductors.

It was a relentless loop that whirled in my head.

Time marched on, yet the trauma lingered, simmering like a pot left on the stove too long, refusing to evaporate, akin to an uninvited guest overstaying their welcome.

Standing in my booth, gun in hand, I transformed into a warrior, locked in combat not with a visible foe but with my past. An ugly past that loomed large, a shadow I desperately wished to escape. The fight wouldn’t end until its grip on me loosened and it no longer dictated my life.

I longed for normalcy, a life unshackled by fear.

To return to the person I was before, when courage, boldness, and hope defined me.

When I was the old Calista Vitalis.

The Cali who was fucking joyful, before the darkness descended.

I couldn’t recall the last time I felt a genuine burst of warmth or free, unburdened happiness. Every glimmer of trust I once had in people shattered into a thousand pieces when my sisters swept in and took me away from that nightmare.

It wasn’t just a rescue. It marked the beginning of a painful transformation. I emerged from that ordeal forever altered, haunted by the realization that the person I once was had vanished, leaving me to wander down perilous, shadowed paths.

In those bleakest nights, with the silence of despair pressing in, I stared at the ceiling, grappling with the thought that ending it all might be the only escape from the relentless sorrow. But somehow, bruised and in despair, I fought with every ounce of strength to push away those taunts.

I refused to let them win.

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