Deadly Game of Prey

23 | Mike, the night of the accident

Mike, the night of the accident

The car moves fast toward the bridge; light rain falls over the road, and the windows of the car are fogging from our breath.

I am sitting next to Lena in the back seat of my stepfather’s car as we drive to town for a family pizza night.

I am sitting there, knowing something the rest of them don’t as we travel toward the watery grave waiting for us.

Lena wasn’t supposed to be in this car, though, and while we are approaching the bridge, I am trying my best to at least provide her with a head start on what’s about to happen.

She is usually doing something else on most nights—this girl puts so much on her schedule that I was pretty positive she would be busy.

I didn’t think this through. I didn’t expect the possibility of my sister joining us on the ride to town.

And now it’s too late to do anything about it.

She is incredibly smart and is trying to get into a good college.

She has a whole life ahead of her. She already has her goals and dreams set, working toward them with everything she has.

Yet, she is about to have all of these challenged just because I wanted to escape the torture our parents are putting me through.

Right now it sounds pretty selfish. I am almost regretting my plan.

I reach toward her side and try to lower her window again. She smacks my hand.

“Stop it,” she tells me.

“I just need more air,” I respond, defeated. Please let me save you.

I have tried to lower her window three times by now, and we are almost at the bridge.

I know he will have to press the brake pedal when we get there to slow down while crossing the bridge.

But that won’t do anything. I have already cut them off.

I did my research—hours of research—trying to figure out how to mess with the brakes.

And if I did it right, this car won’t stop.

With the rain getting worse and the road already slippery, the car should fall off the bridge pretty quickly.

That was the plan, anyway—before she entered the car.

I was counting on taking this route and that, with the rain and the messed-up brakes, he would lose control. It was a good plan.

I made sure not to wear my seat belt even though my mother told me to do so multiple times.

I ignored her. I tried to convince Lena not to put on hers, but she ignored me instead.

I had lowered both back windows before we got into the car to make sure I had an exit.

But Lena joined us and complained about being cold.

She pushed the button, and I saw my exit vanish as the window went up into place.

I have been trying to get them down since, with no success.

The rain is pouring like crazy now, and the car windows are fogging up.

We are going onto the bridge, and as I predicted, my stepfather tries to hit the brakes to slow the car as we cross it.

But the car doesn’t slow down. He presses again and again, his foot firmly pushing against the pedal.

He curses under his breath when he realizes that it won’t work.

The car screeches as the tires grind on the slippery road, but it doesn’t stop.

He tries again and again. I can see him getting mad and trying to keep control of the car as the tires slip on the wet road at full speed.

He fails. The car starts moving out of control, closer to the rail each time.

He tries to straighten it on the road, yet once again it scrapes against the rail.

Sparks fly from the impact of the metal skeleton of the car against the metal rail.

I decide that there is nothing I can do right now but complete what I started.

I turn to Lena. “I am sorry. You weren’t supposed to be here, but this has to end.

I can’t survive it any longer. I can’t,” I say, not knowing exactly what I am expecting.

She doesn’t understand why I am saying this.

She is scared—screaming and crying while her sibling is about to make things worse.

In her mind, I am probably some villain, and that makes me sad.

It makes me devastated that my sister is going to die thinking I was the villain in her story.

I stand up, reaching over to the driver's seat. I push the steering wheel, turning the car toward the edge of the bridge. The car moves with force, and more sparks are created, until the rail breaks and we are flying off the bridge.

I fall back and cover Lena with my body as the car falls into the lake.

It won’t do anything. I am not going to be able to save her.

Right now, I am not sure I will be able to escape myself.

I press the button for her window, and it lowers right as we fall.

Everyone struggles, and my stepfather is furious.

The car sinks fast, with water entering from the open window and filling the space quickly.

My mother says something I can’t hear over all the screaming around me.

I see my stepfather trying to find something to break the windows on his side.

This man only cares about himself and no one else.

The car is filling with water quickly from Lena’s side.

I see everyone trying to unbuckle their seat belts, but no one is breaking free.

The water crashes over Lena’s face, and she chokes as I try to help her.

I am holding my breath while I pull on her belt, but it is pointless.

Seat belts lock in situations like this during accidents.

It’s for safety. Ironic, isn’t it? I am looking for something to cut the seat belt.

I made sure to throw away the knife I used for the brakes so my stepfather couldn’t use it to cut his or my mother’s.

But right now, I regret it. Because now, Lena is going down with them.

I am holding my breath as long as I can while the car almost reaches the bottom of the lake.

I know I don’t have much time left. I need to act quickly, or I will run out of air.

I pull her seat belt along with her, and I try to help her get out from under it, but it is too tight.

This is my fault. She is about to die, and it’s my fault.

It isn’t long before I come to the conclusion that I won’t be able to set her free. I need to get myself out of this car before I drown with them. I don’t wish to let them ruin my life more than they already have. It’s either staying here to die with her, or escaping and saving at least myself.

I choose life. Even if I don’t deserve it. I choose to live.

I push my body out of the window. My lungs sting.

I can’t hold my breath any longer. My body fights me.

A natural instinct pushes me to open my mouth, but I don’t.

I hold on a little longer. Because this can’t all be for nothing.

I swim to the surface as fast as I can. I have always been a good swimmer, but right now it feels as if the lake is mad at me.

As if it’s trying to keep me at the bottom with the lives I offered to it. Claim me like it claimed them.

I am so close to the surface, but I feel my body failing.

I am losing consciousness. Everything is darkening around me.

As my eyes close, I see a figure swimming toward the car, and I hope in my delusional state that whoever it is will help my sister.

Maybe they will get to her fast enough. Maybe...

Please save her... She deserves to live more than I do...

Next thing I know, I am on the side of the road, and a guy is performing CPR on me. I cough out the water in my lungs and try to look around, searching for my sister. He sure got her out. He couldn’t have left her behind. Right?

“Where is Lena?” I ask, but he shakes his head.

“I am sorry, I tried to get the girl out, but I couldn’t. Your parents were already dead by the time I reached the car, and she had a faint pulse. They are trying to retrieve the bodies now.” His voice is full of remorse and grief, as if he is the one who killed three people.

My eyes fall to the ground. I am responsible for this. This is all my fault. I sacrificed her life to end my nightmare, yet I am not sure I regret it as much as I should. I know I should feel regret. I should feel bad for what I did. I should be remorseful, but I am not. I am almost relieved.

I never intended for her to get hurt. I only needed to stop the pain, the suffering, the torment.

I wanted to make sure they wouldn’t touch me again.

I needed to be sure they wouldn't touch her. She wasn’t his type.

He never touched his precious daughter, but that could easily change.

I wanted to protect myself. I wanted to protect us.

Lena was my stepfather’s daughter from his previous marriage. They joined our family when I was three. Lena was already ten. She was a small girl when she was younger, and most people thought we were about the same age as I got older. Now, at the age of ten, I am as tall as her.

I never knew my biological father, but I was glad when hers welcomed me into their family.

He adopted me when our parents got married, and even though I was too young to remember a lot of it, I remember feeling like I belonged to the family they were building.

I finally had a father who loved me. Until he loved me a little too much.

My mother had told me countless times how my biological father died while she was pregnant with me.

He was eager to meet me, according to her story, but he never got to.

What always troubled me is that none of the stories matched; the only thing that matched was the fact that he died in every single one, but the cause was different.

At first, she claimed it was a tragic accident; then she moved to more horrific stories, like that he got murdered.

Now that she is dead, I doubt I will ever learn the truth.

Something tells me, though, that there is more to that story.

I think to myself that I should have done more to figure it out before I ended their lives.

I am waiting on the side of the road next to a police car for the social worker who will be assigned to my case.

They are taking me to a foster home for a few days until they can locate the closest family member to assign me to.

I already know they will be handing me over to Liam’s father.

My grandparents are dead, and his family lives in the same town as mine.

I won’t have to change schools and lose friends.

This is something they look for when placing a child in a new home.

They try to ensure that their life will be as uninterrupted as possible—especially when that child has suffered the loss of both parents.

To the government and social workers, I am an innocent child who needs to be protected.

I am someone they need to care for. I am someone they need to provide with comfort and support.

They need to make sure my transition will be as smooth as possible, while also making sure grief won’t traumatize me more than seeing my family die.

If only they knew. I will be going to a much different prison than the one they are sending me to now.

Because that’s what my uncle's home is: a prison.

My uncle is as bad as my stepfather. The only difference is he likes to beat his kids with his belt instead of sneaking into their beds at night.

That I can take. I can figure out how to get both myself and my cousins out of his house as soon as possible.

But in the meantime, I can handle a few beatings.

It’s nothing compared to the years I survived living with my father and mother. I can do it.

I already have a plan, but it needs to be worked out.

I am not staying there longer than I have to.

The first opportunity I get to take the bastard out or set him straight, I am taking it.

I prefer not to have more blood on my hands, but I will do anything to save myself.

Especially now. I am not trading one hell for another.

I walk to the edge of the bridge, where the railing is broken from the car falling against it.

I look down and open my hand. In my palm is the bracelet Lena gave me a year ago.

It has black beads and the letter “L” hanging from it.

The matching one, with pink beads and the letter “M,” is on her wrist.

I look back at the ambulance they are putting her body in now, and I toss the black bracelet into the water. Rest in peace, Lena. I never wanted you to join them.