Page 1 of Shattered Souls

Prologue

Iwas thirteen when my father stole my innocence.

Now, at twenty-three, I finally get to steal the life from his eyes.

His blood drips from the gunshot wound that kisses the center of his forehead. My hand trembles as I slowly lower the gun back to my hip. My mouth pools as the realization slowly sinks in.

I never meant for it to happen this way.

I never meant to kill him.

“Dad?” My voice trembles as I speak.

He doesn’t move. Instead, a clotted piece of blood—or brain matter—oozes from the wound. My eyes dart around the trailer that I’ve been trapped in my whole life.

I throw the gun to the ground—letting out a silent thank you to the god that never helped me when it doesn’t fire after hitting the ground. I slowly back up. I need to call the cops. If I tell them what I’ve endured for the last ten years, they’ll rule his death as self defense.

Right?

I look down to grab my phone from my pocket. The phone is locked, only letting me call Dad. My bare chest is splattered in his blood. Some drips down to my bare thighs—my whole body is bare.

I look back at my father’s body, my hand slowly moving away from the phone.

He deserves this.

He caused this.

I slowly back away.

Before my mind can think differently, I spring into action and dash for his room. The room where I spent two months last year strapped to the bed. I find the small safe under his bed and stare at the key hole.

I run back to his body and snag the key ring from his front pocket, pausing only momentarily to see the large puddle under his resting head. I run back, slam the key into the hole, and pop the top open. My breath hitches when I come face to face with more money than I could’ve ever imagined.

Which isn’t much for someone that’s never worked.

I reach out to grab the stacks, but stop. I need to clean him off of me before I can run.

As quickly as I can, with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I shower and dress myself. I pack a small bag of my necessities, which isn’t much: a few pairs of clothes, my toothbrush, and the necklace with a raven on it that my mother gave me before she passed.

I return to his room and count the cash before shoving it into my bag. Fifteen thousand dollars. I throw the bags over my shoulders and run out of the house. The wet Florida air kisses my freshly cleaned skin—although no matter how much scrubbing I did, I can still feel his hands and blood on me.

I jump into the old red pickup and throw it in reverse. Sending yet another prayer that this goes well, since he never taught me to drive. It takes me over an hour to get the courage to get on the highway, but once I do, I’m gone.

I watch in the rear-view mirror as Kissimmee grows smaller and smaller. I drive. I drive until my eyes blur with exhaustion, and even then, I push forward. I only pull over to refuel and sleep, but I keep the latter to a minimum.

It takes me three days of aimlessly driving before I finally stop in some town a few hours past the state line of Montana.

The ground is still littered in snow—that was fun to try and traverse with only two days of driving experience. The mountains around me are something I’ve only seen in glimpses on the TV, when Dad had it on long enough for me to steal glances.

I pull into the parking lot of a small motel and head inside. I know that I smell and look just as tired as I feel, but at this point, I could care less. The woman behind the counter doesn’t even bat an eye at my appearance.

“Wonderful weather we’re having, huh?” She beams as she speaks.

“It is,” I reply, already ready to end this conversation. “Can I get a room for one night, please?” I run my finger across the wad of money in my pocket.

“Of course!” She slides a sign-in sheet across the counter. “Just sign in for me and I’ll get your room ready for you.” The paper has different names scribbled on it—I stare at it like it holds the key to my future.

I scratch a name down and pull my money out. The polite lady takes the money and hands me a key with my room number on it. I don’t breathe until I have my things and myself locked behind the flimsy motel door.