Page 28 of Echoes From Within

“So, he’d rather spend the two grand fee of forfeiting than get a little bruised?” Steel asks. “Fucking coward.”

“I accept,” I say. Bullet is a fucking beast in the cage. It will be a nice little challenge.

Chapter Nine

Sophia

Something jolts me awake. I look around the living room frantically expecting to see someone watching me, but there’s no one. It’s in the middle of the night and I keep the house lit up to where there isn’t a single shadow someone can hide in.

My heart races as I scan the room for a third time. Just because someone isn’t in this room doesn’t mean someone isn’t in the house.

I can’t bring myself to sleep in any of the bedrooms. My parents had an open-concept living room that was attached to the kitchen.

I used to not be bothered by tight spaces, but now I can’t stand them. So, I sleep in the living room.

Tossing the blanket off my legs, I go to stand when I hear a noise from somewhere deeper in the house.

I freeze. Someone is in here. I can feel them watching me.

But I can’t freaking move.

I can’t breathe.

There’s no telling how long I sit here before my legs finally start working. I reach under the pillow I was laying on and grab my gun.

The gun I hated to buy but knew better than most how easily someone could hurt you.

With shaking hands, I lift the gun and hold it the way the instructor at the range taught me. My right hand holding the gun, my finger hovering near the trigger, with my left hand cupping the base of my right.

Don’t forget the safety, Sophia, I remind myself.

With a flick of my finger, the safety is off and ready.

I walk through the house, room by room, closet by closet, but find nothing. The doors and windows are locked tight. Logically, I know my alarm would go off if one of them were bothered. But my mind doesn’t really think logically these days.

By the time I’ve checked the whole house, I’m trembling so badly that I fear I might accidentally shoot my loaded gun. Quickly putting the safety back on, I drop to the kitchen floor and cry.

“What’s the point, God?” I pray. “What’s the point of letting me go through what I did? What purpose can I possibly receive from that lesson? Did I have to go through all of that so that my child could be born?”

I crawl into the bathroom and open the bottom drawer, pulling out my dad’s old cosmetic bag. With no thought in my mind, I grab a loose blade and sit back on my butt.

“Why can’t I feel anything anymore?” I continue not even sure God’s listening to me at this point. Has he given up on me too? “I just want to feel something. Anything.”

Tear-filled eyes cause my forearm to blur, but I don’t need to see to know what’s there.

Scars. Both old and new. All placed after I was rescued.

I blink to remove the tears and place the blade on fresh, unmarred skin. I press until my arm stings and blood seeps out. I slide the blade across my arm and relish the burn.

Closing my eyes, I sigh.

Finally. I feel something.

I sit there for several minutes until, finally, my heart slows. I clean the blade, place it back in the bag, and toss it in the drawer. Within a few minutes, I’ve cleaned my arm and bandaged it. I never cut deep enough to risk my life.

I’m too much of a coward for that.

But, when I feel like I’m about to disappear, I need the sing to know that I’m still here. I will spend the next several days pressing on the new cut so that I can feel something. Even if it’s not enough to fix me, it’s enough to get me through another day.