Outrunning fate

The faint music leaking from the bus speakers wasn’t the only thing humming when I stepped onto the public bus.

My head was humming too. No__ pounding. Like something inside my skull was being stomped on, again and again, with no intention of stopping. Every part of my body hurt in a way that didn’t quite make sense, like the pain had soaked into places I couldn’t point to anymore. My ribs ached. My shoulders burned. My jaw felt tight from clenching it too hard for too long.

I’d dodged most of it.

That’s what I told myself.

I’d covered my head with my hands the way the YouTube self-defense videos taught me. Tucked my chin. Curled inward. I did everything I could—everything the videos promised would help.

Still, I hurt.

I didn’t say hi to Mr. James, the chauffeur, like usual. He usually noticed me. Today, I went straight to my seat like I always did, the one halfway back on the left side, where the window rattled, and the seat cushion dipped like it was tired of holding people.

I dropped into it, pulled out my AirPods, and hit play on my playlist.

As always.

The city was small enough that I could walk home in thirty or forty minutes if I wanted to. I’d timed it once. But Mom insisted I shouldn't. The bus or a cab only. That was one of the many rules we had.

Rules were big in our existence. Rules like coming straight home from school and going straight to school from home.

No parties.

No friends.

No malls.

Not that this city even had malls. I was pretty sure it didn’t. But rules didn’t care about logic. They just existed, heavy and unshakable, getting even stronger as time went by.

The bus lurched forward, and I let myself sink into the seat, music filling my ears, dulling the ache just enough to keep me upright. I stared out the window without really seeing anything. Buildings blurred. Streets passed. People lived whole lota lives outside that glass, and I felt weirdly detached from all of it.

I didn’t notice the bus stopping.

Didn’t notice people getting on or off.

Didn’t notice time passing at all.

I was too immersed in the way my body hurt. In the way the bass of the music thudded against my skull like a second heartbeat.

Then I heard my name.

At first, I thought it was part of the song. A trick of rhythm and coincidence. I ignored it.

“Blair.”

This time it cut through the music.

I frowned and pulled one AirPod out just as a woman standing in front of me waved her hand inches from my face, like she was checking to see if my eyes worked.

“Blair,” she said again, slower, spelling it like I might not recognize it.

I pulled both AirPods out.

Every single person on the bus was turned around, looking at me.

“You’re at your stop, Blair,” Mr. James said from the front.

I startled so badly my heart slammed into my ribs like it was trying to escape. I jumped up too fast, the world tilting for a second, and apologized out loud even though no one had actually accused me of anything.

“Sorry—sorry,” I said, already hiding my face, as if they all didn't saw me, pretending as always.

I stumbled down the aisle, swiping my bus card across the dashboard scanner out of habit, even though I’d lived this routine a hundred times. My movements felt clumsy, too loud, like everyone could hear the ache inside me rattling around.

“Have a nice evening, James,” I said automatically.

“You too, Blair,” he replied.

I didn’t look at him.

I stepped off the bus and didn’t stop walking. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t breathe properly again until I was halfway up the street. The air felt too open out here, too exposed. The house we stayed at for the past six months sits at the end of the block.

I reached the door, and I was fumbling for my keys.when I heard it,

At first, it was muffled—distorted by walls and distance—but my body reacted before my brain caught up. Every muscle locked. Every instinct screamed. I shoved my keys and the AirPods still tangled in my fingers into my hoodie pocket and pushed the door open.

If my heart had been beating before, this was something else entirely. This was panic in its purest form—violent, relentless, loud enough to drown out any thought.

I knew what was wrong immediately.

I didn’t need to see it.

I didn’t need confirmation.

I felt it in my bones. In my teeth. In the hollow place behind my ribs where fear had lived for most of my life.

The further I stepped into the narrow hallway, the clearer the sounds became.

My mother’s voice. Her screams. Raw and torn from somewhere deep inside her chest. The kind that didn’t ask for help because it already knew none was coming. But the kind that was from helplessness. The kind that makes her pain somehow yours.

Something heavy thudded against the wall. Glass shattered. A curse followed, slurred and venomous. Another crash. Another scream.

I wished—stupidly—that I was dreaming again. That this was just another nightmare, the kind that had always ripped me awake in the middle of the night with sweat on my spine and my throat tight from screaming silently into my pillow.

But my body knew better.

This wasn’t a nightmare.

This was real.

I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen in the hallway, listening to the sounds of my life being destroyed again. Time stretched and collapsed in on itself. My hands trembled. My breath came shallow, sharp.

Then something inside me snapped.

I dropped my bag where I stood. It hit the floor with a dull thud I barely registered. I turned sharply toward the kitchen, yanked open the freezer, and grabbed the frozen wine bottle I had hidden there months ago.

For this.

I didn’t think about it. I didn’t hesitate. My fingers burned against the ice as I turned and ran up the stairs.

The noise got worse the higher I climbed.

By the time I reached the bedroom door, everything went quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

The kind that presses down on your ears and makes your heart slam harder.

I stepped inside.

My mother lay unconscious on the floor beside the bed, her body twisted wrong, her green cardigan—the one she wore when she hugged me goodbye this morning—darkened with blood. A few strands of her hair were scattered near the foot of the bed, torn out, clinging to the floor. This was evidence no one would ever care about.

He stood over her.

Huge.

Too big for the room. Like the walls were shrinking around him, bowing to make space. His presence s*ck*d the air out of everything. Even the light felt dimmer with him in it.

I couldn’t look at his face.

My eyes stayed on my mother, as I moved forward.

The floor creaked under my foot. He turned.

The air moved when he did.

My body went stiff, every muscle locking into place. Fear flooded me so fast it made me dizzy. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even scream.

He stepped toward me.

I dropped the frozen bottle. It hit the floor and rolled uselessly away.

Run.

That was what she always told me.

Run. Don’t fight. Don’t look. Just run.

And I almost did. I turned and took three steps. That was all I got.

His hand fisted in my hair and yanked me backward so hard my scalp burned. I cried out as he threw me across the room like I weighed nothing. My body slammed into the cupboard, wood rattling violently as pain exploded through my spine.

“There you are,” he said.

Then I met his eyes.

Black. Empty. The kind of eyes that didn’t see people—only punching bags. So f*ck*ng evil. Just like they always were.

I wanted to die.

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

It had been seven months since I’d last seen him.

Seven months of pretending we were going to be fine.

And here we were again.

“What did I say, huh?” he snarled, grabbing my chin, his hand swallowing my face completely. His fingers dug into my jaw as he lifted me off the ground like I was nothing more than a bag of groceries. “What did I f*ck*ng say last time, you f*ck*ng b*tch?”

His breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.

“You and your mother,” he continued, shaking me once, hard. “You’re the ones who make me like this. You see that? You see what you make me do?” He gestured around the room with his free hand—broken furniture, shattered glass, blood on the floor.

The audacity of him.

I looked at my mother again. Her face was slack, unmoving. Covered in blood. Rage twisted something deep in my chest so tight it hurt to breathe. My whole body shook.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

And when I opened them again—

Something was different.

The fear was gone.

Not replaced by anything. It was just gone.

A numb, hollow stillness settled over me, cold and steady.

I was done. I wanted everything to be done.

I spat in his face.

“F*ck you,” I said softly, tiredly.

The room froze.

His eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his expression. Then his lips stretched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More like something out of a horror movie—wrong and hungry.

His head tilted to the side, neck craning forward as if he wanted me closer. His teeth—brownish from cigarettes and alcohol—gleamed under the light.

“What did you just say?” he asked softly.

I laughed.

A broken, hysterical sound ripped out of my chest before I could stop it.

“I said you’re a f*ck*ng b*tch,” I shouted. “You pull hair like a b*tch. You think you’re powerful because you throw your hands around? You think that’s respect? You’re a moron. A pathetic, useless piece of sh*t who doesn’t even understand half of what I’m saying!”

His hand moved.

I didn’t even see it coming.

The slap cracked across my face with a force so violent my head snapped to the side. When his hand came back, he struck me again—harder.

Something in my jaw cracked.

Pain should’ve followed.

It didn’t. Adrenaline swallowed it whole. I chuckled, smiling crazy.

He released his grip, and I fell to the floor beside my mother.

Except she wasn’t there anymore.

She was standing. And in her hands was the frozen wine bottle.

His eyes flicked down in confusion to where she was lying. He turned just as the bottle connected with his face.

The sound was sickening.

He went down hard, the impact shaking the entire house. I felt unearthquake

“I f*ck*ng told you not to touch my daughter!” my mother screamed, her voice hoarse and feral.

Everything blurred.

The edges of the room softened, like I was floating away from my body, from the blood, from the screaming.

And then—

Nothing.

The first thing I saw when I woke up was my mother’s face.

She was asleep, folded in half on the chair beside the bed, her head resting on the edge of my mattress like it was comfortable. One arm was tucked under her cheek, the other hanging uselessly at her side. It didn’t look comfortable. It looked like exhaustion had finally won.

We were in a hospital room. I knew that immediately. The smell gave it away before the machines did. It looked cheap but clean. Like the quiet ones that hummed instead of resting. White walls. Beeping monitors. A thin blanket pulled up to my waist.

My mother’s black hair covered most of her face. Too much of it was missing.

The image hit me like a delayed punch. Strands torn out. Blood was on the ends. I closed my eyes so hard my head throbbed, the memory slamming into me without permission—her on the floor, the sound of glass, his shadow swallowing the room whole.

I gulped, forcing it down.

The second thing I