Prologue #2
With a roar, Uncle Vernon lunged, his hands reaching for me like claws.
I dodged, feeling the rush of air as his grasp missed me by mere inches.
My heart hammered in my chest; each beat a desperate plea for survival.
I had to get us out; had to find a way to break free from this nightmare.
Mandy moaned, a soft, pitiful sound, and I knew we didn’t have much time.
Uncle Vernon’s face contorted in a mask of rage as he took another step toward me, his hand reaching out like a claw.
I felt the weight of his desire, a tangible force that sought to crush me.
But in that moment, something within me shifted when my eyes landed on the metal object Mandy slid toward me.
In that instant, the fear that had shackled me for so long transformed into a burning rage.
I was no longer a victim; I was a force of nature, a tempest about to be unleashed.
With a roar that rivaled the mountain itself, I surged forward, my fingers desperate as I reached for the object, gripping the hilt tightly in my hands.
Spinning around, I watched as Uncle Vernon stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes glued to the object I held out in front of me.
“Boy, am I gonna have fun breaking you in,” Uncle Vernon sneered as he quickly took a step forward, then reached out and backhanded me across the face, causing me to drop the only thing that could save me.
Falling to my knees, I scrambled across the floor, trying to grab the object as Evan walked into the room and grabbed me, holding me in a crushing grip.
Uncle Vernon, now stroking his dick, walked over to Mandy and yanked her up by her hair.
Her screams were deafening as she fought unsuccessfully to break free.
Uncle Vernon slapped her hard across her little face before throwing her on her small bed and spreading her little legs.
“Little bitch will learn her place after I’m done with her,” he sneered as he kneeled before her unconscious body.
The knife.
It lay on the floor, shimmering in the moonlight like a beacon of hope.
Evan’s grip on me tightened, his fingers digging into my flesh as if he knew my intention.
I struggled, twisting and turning, but his hold was like iron.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Uncle Vernon lean over Mandy, his hands grasping, his mouth salivating.
The mountain seemed to hold its breath, the silence a cruel mockery of my helplessness.
A guttural scream, a beast unleashed, ripped from my throat as I fought Evan’s grip.
The air tasted metallic, a premonition of the carnage to come.
My fingers, slick with sweat and a burgeoning madness, clamped around the knife’s worn bone handle—a familiar comfort in this blood-soaked abyss.
Spinning, I became a whirlwind of fury, the moonlight glinting off the blade like a predator’s eye.
Their eyes—those vacant, depraved orbs—widened, reflecting a terror so profound it almost quenched the inferno raging within me.
This wasn’t just a weapon; it was an extension of my soul’s blackest rage.
The rage, a volcanic eruption from the deepest pit of my being, consumed me.
It wasn’t a choice, not anymore; it was a wildfire consuming all reason.
Each swing of the knife was a searing punctuation mark, the sickening thud of the blade meeting flesh echoing in the claustrophobic room.
My own feral growls swallowed Uncle Vernon’s screams, a symphony of agony, as the knife sliced through him with the ease of a scythe through wheat, painting Mandy’s walls a grotesque crimson tapestry.
His lifeblood blossomed, a perverse flower of retribution staining the room, a testament to his monstrous acts.
He collapsed, a broken husk, his eyes mirroring the vacant stare of his equally despicable wife downstairs, the finality of death settling like a shroud.
The coppery tang of his blood coated my tongue, a perverse reward.
Evan, a twisted reflection of the horror he’d inflicted, stood frozen, his eyes wide saucers of paralyzing fear.
He didn’t deserve the mercy of a swift death; he deserved the slow, agonizing understanding of the pain he’d inflicted.
Before the flicker of a choked gasp could escape his lips, I moved, a phantom of vengeance.
The final blow was swift, brutal, a testament to the torment I’d endured.
His life ended as abruptly as the nightmare began, the silence heavy with the weight of justice served brutally, fiercely, and completely.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the ragged rasp of my own breath and the drumming of my heart, a savage rhythm echoing the monstrous act I had just committed.
Silence clawed in the aftermath. It wasn’t just quiet; it was a suffocating, oppressive blanket woven from the absence of sound.
Usually, the mountains whispered secrets—the rasp of wind through pines, a distant owl’s mournful cry, the scrabble of unseen things in the undergrowth—yet tonight there was nothing.
Not the symphony of the wild, the soundtrack of my childhood in the unforgiving beauty of East Tennessee, singing its lullaby.
Tonight, the mountain held its breath.
Tonight, the mountain was dead silent.
A warning.
A raw, visceral dread coiled in my gut, colder than the mountain spring I’d drunk from not even last week. The air itself felt thick, heavy, and tasted of burned rubber and something else... something acrid, like the tang of blood on the winter’s wind.
My skin prickled, not with the usual mountain chill, but with a primal fear that sank its teeth into my very bones.
This wasn’t the silence of nature; this was the silence of someone watching, someone waiting.
My hand instinctively went to the worn, familiar grip of my machete at my hip.
My heart hammered in my ears, a stark contrast to the oppressive hush that surrounded me.
I knew this landscape like the back of my hand—every trail and hollow, every rocky crag and whispering brook. But in this eerie stillness, it felt like a stranger, a hostile force.
I took a cautious step forward, my boots as silent as the night on the dry pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. I froze, half-expecting some unseen creature to pounce from the darkness, but nothing stirred.
With a steady hand, I drew my machete from its sheath, its familiar weight bringing a measure of comfort as I scanned the shadows, searching for any sign of movement, any glint of eyes watching from the darkness.
A faint rustling sound to my left snapped me back to the present.
My muscles tensed, and I spun toward the noise, my machete at the ready.
But there was nothing there, just the gentle sway of a branch in the breeze, as the mountain exhaled in relief.
“Jackson, I’m cold,” Mandy sputtered as she wrapped her arms around her legs, her body shivering due to the chill on the mountain.
Walking over to her, I sat beside her, hugging her close.
Her body was hot again.
Another fever.
“I’m hungry.”
“I know. Me too,” I said, looking around the forest.
Her voice was thin, almost lost in the whisper of wind threading through the pine needles.
I rummaged through my pack, searching for anything edible, but all I found were a few crushed crackers and the last remnants of a granola bar.
Without a thought, I handed it to her, watching her swallow with a desperation that made my own hunger feel somehow less urgent.
The forest seemed to shift closer around us, the dark pressing in from all sides.
I forced a smile, hoping it would mask the unease gnawing at me, and kept my arm around her shoulders, both of us huddled against the mounting cold and fear.
“Tomorrow, I am going to go scavenge for supplies. See what I can rustle up.”
“I can help.”
“No, Mandy. I want you to stay here where I know you are safe.”
“Do we live here now, Jackson?”
I didn’t know the answer to that. I was only twelve. I knew eventually Child Services would show up again, and well, I knew what they would find. Then they would start looking for me and Mandy. There was no way I was ever letting those people put me or Mandy in another home. Not ever again.
“I’ll keep you safe, Mandy. I promise.”
She yawned. “I know, Jackson.”
As she drifted off to sleep, I kept watch, listening to the mountain speak to me.
It was one of the few times I could actually relax, almost as if this mountain was always meant to be my home.
Everything I needed, I knew the mountain would provide.
Shelter, food, running water. It was all here. All I had to do was find it.
Night fell hard and sudden, like a curtain drawn across the sky.
I could hear coyotes yipping in the distance, their howls echoing off the slopes, and each sound made my heart pound just a little faster.
I kept my eyes peeled for any flicker of movement beyond our small patch of moonlight, every snap of a twig or rustle in the undergrowth sending my imagination spiraling.
Despite my fears, I tried to remember everything old man Marshall had taught me about surviving out here—how to read the wind, watch for tracks, and keep enough dry wood for a fire.
I told myself again and again that if I just stayed alert, we’d be okay.