Page 1

KATRINA

T he air in Shadow Vale always hung thick with the scent of damp earth and rot. It didn’t help being in the middle of the woods with decaying swamps lining my shack of a family home.

The mist curled around everything it touched like skeleton fingers twisting trunks of the blackened trees that surrounded my debilitated cottage. Every time I stepped outside, I could taste the earth and depression on my tongue.

Even now, I could feel the dampness of living next to the swamp seeping into my bones as I trudged back from the well, the wooden buckets I held in each hand swinging heavily from my constantly bruised fingers.

The path beneath my feet was soft earth covered in muck and moss. I gritted my teeth and pushed past the discomfort in my arms and shoulders, pain having become as familiar to me as my father’s constant abuse in this nonexistent life I lived.

The sun was sinking behind the crooked trees and jagged mountains, barely peeking over the dense forest. The sky was shifting from oranges and pinks to blues and grays.

I quickened my pace, not wanting to be outside after sunset but especially knowing the price of being late, which that wasa tongue-lashing from my father.

I had dreams, so many that they flooded my mind. But the most pressing reality was escaping my father’s tight control and making my own way.

And that took time and money, both of which I didn’t have, no matter how much I saved.

My father’s temper was as unpredictable as the storms that often swept through Shadow Vale, leaving the fields flooded that were right on the outskirts of the forest and wreaking havoc on crops so everything was nothing but a drowned, mucky mess.

It made living hard.

I picked up my pace and saw the cottage right through the break in the tree-line, my childhood home looking aged and weathered and moments away from crumbling to the ground.

It was repaired in multiple spots with a moss-covered roof and windows that were broken and foggy. I pushed the front door open with my shoulder, careful not to spill the buckets of water I had spent an hour pulling from the stubborn depths of the well.

The hinges creaked, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves. The air inside was no better than the chill outside. But I was used to the smell of smoke from the fireplace and the mold that I could never find from where it came, both mixed with whatever I had been cooking all day.

“About time, girl,” my father’s voice snarled from the corner near the fireplace, where he sat hunched on his rickety wooden chair, a half-empty bottle of moonshine he’d brewed up last week sitting on the floor by his foot as he stared into the flames.

I didn’t respond, and he looked at me, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from the years of his homemade booze. He glared at me as I set the buckets down in the tiny kitchen and immediately scurried to finish preparing dinner.

I added a few sticks to the dying embers in the stove, stoked it, and placed the pot of stew back on the cast iron grate. My fingers were numb, the cold seeping into my bones, but I ignored the ache as I kept busy.

I reached for the handful of root vegetables and cut them, adding them to the pot, trying to “fatten” the stew up since we had minimal dried meat to spare.

The water bubbled, a thin line of steam rising from the pot as the vegetables softened.

It smelled good—earthy with a hint of a savory meat aroma mingling in.

I stirred the thin stew, the handle of the wooden spoon warm against my chilled fingers, heating me quickly.

It was the only comfort I found in that moment.

I glanced over my shoulder to see my father still watching the fire, but he now had the bottle pressed to his lips. He had a permanent sneer on his face, his knuckles white as he clutched the neck of the bottle and tossed the liquor back.

Once the meal was served, I tore off a couple pieces of stale bread, placed everything on the table, and let my father know dinner was ready. When he was at the table, he still wore that sneer as he stared at his bowl of stew.

“Is this it?” he spat, leaning forward, the firelight casting his gaunt face in sharp, menacing shadows. “Where’s the meat, girl? Or are you too useless to even catch a rabbit?”

I swallowed, my throat dry as I sat across from him, able to smell the booze on his breath, and knew he’d been drinking all day.

I had become calloused to his abuse at this point, knowing nothing ever made him happy.

I could have given him the best cut of fresh meat, and he’d still complain about it.

I kept my gaze on the stew, watching the thin broth swirl around the chunks of vegetables. “You know the traps were empty this morning. The storms have everything scattering away from the swamps.” I knew I’d messed up responding by how the air shifted around me.

My father was out of his chair and in front of me before I could take another breath, his heavy palm crashing against the side of my face, the crack of his hand against my skin sudden. The taste of blood instantly filled my mouth, tangy and metallic.

My lip throbbed, and I felt a wet line cutting down my chin from my split lip. But I bit my tongue, refusing to cry out. I would not give him the satisfaction.

“Smartass, useless wretch of a daughter,” he snarled, his breath reeking of alcohol and rotten teeth. “Can’t even feed your own father properly. Worthless. I should have left you in the swamp after your mother died and saved me the trouble of having to care for you.”

I slowly rose, feeling something in me churn as I stared at my father. “Then you should have made dinner yourself,” I said low, slow, and without a hint of emotion laced in my words. I didn't know why or even how I spoke the words, but they hung between us like a heavy, evil entity.

The look of utter shock covered his face for only a second before pure rage replaced it. He took a stumbling step toward me, his teeth bared in a twisted, yellowed snarl, his hand already raising for another strike.

Something in me snapped.

The fear that had kept me silent, that had kept me cowering and obedient for so many years, shattered. The terror that had wrapped itself around me since I knew what it was burned away in an instant. And in its place was a cold, sharp fury that surged through my blood.

I reached for the knife on the table, my fingers trembling as I wrapped them around the rough, splintered wooden handle.

The blade was still wet with the juice of the root vegetables I had chopped for the stew.

The dull edge caught the firelight, the pitted metal shining briefly as I brought it up.

I hated that I shook, my fear and nerves controlling me.

But I reined in my control and calmed myself.

And then I was moving on instinct, driven by a survival rage that drowned out everything else.

For a second, he just stood there and stared at me.

And then he lunged, his eyes wild, his teeth bared.

When he was almost on me, I plunged the blade into his chest, the resistance intense before it made way like I was cutting into a slab of meat.

There was a wet, sickening crunch, and the metal slipped between his ribs and sank deep into his body.

I felt the thickness of muscle and the hardness of bone, felt the vibration of the knife handle in my grip as I twisted the blade and screamed, tears streaming down my cheeks, completely raw and filled with pain. My breath came in short, shallow gasps, my heart hammering in my chest.

His eyes bulged wide as he looked down at where the handle stuck out of him. When he looked at me again, his mouth fell open, a choking gurgle coming out. He tried to speak as he stumbled back, his knees buckling, his dirty fingers gripping at the handle of the knife still buried in his chest.

I watched in this almost haze, mesmerized as my own breath froze. And when he collapsed to the floor, his body hitting the wood with a dull, final thud , I found it beautiful as the firelight cast his form in a long, twisted shadow against the cracked and smoke-stained stone walls.

For a few seconds, I just stood staring down at my dead father, my pulse a slow, heavy drumbeat in my ears. His eyes, wide and glassy… lifeless, stared up at the ceiling, his mouth slack, his lips flecked with blood. I looked down at my fingers, the warmth of his blood clinging to my skin.

Before I thought too much about it, I moved closer to my father until I smelled the coppery scent of his death in my nose.

I stood over him, my hands clenched at my sides, my legs trembling, my knees threatening to buckle.

The world felt distant, the air around me thick and muffled like I’d been dropped in the middle of a pool of water and was sinking to the bottom.

My mind was empty, an echoing cavern, as I stared down at the man who had been my enemy from day one. He thought he’d broken me, and maybe parts of me he had. But like a weed—a misplaced flower—I continued to grow.

I watched in awe as his blood stained the planks of the wooden floor.

I waited for the fear to settle in, the panic and horror that I’d just killed someone…

my father. But there was no crushing weight of guilt.

All I felt was a strange numbness, a cold, empty void where my fear had once lived.

My heart slowed, my pulse steadying, and my breaths came in even intervals as I crouched and got a closer look of my father.

I didn't realize I was doing it until I had the handle in my hand and was pulling the blade out. It was harder than I thought it would be, and as soon as the metal was out, blood seeped out of the wound like an open line.

When I released the knife, the blade clattered against the floor. I stepped back, the blood starting to make a slow trek toward my bare feet.

Slowly, methodically, I wiped the blood from my fingers on the edge of my clothing.

And then I turned, my steps slow and deliberate, the world around me moving in a strange, detached blur as I started to clean up.

I grabbed a threadbare blanket off his chair, and without thinking, I draped the material over my father’s body as if that would conceal what I’d done.

With my mind still blurred and distant, I crossed the room, my bare feet whispering against the floor as I cleaned up, washing away any proof of what I’d just done. And then I sank onto my thin, straw pallet, the rough fur my only barrier, scratchy against my skin.

I lay down, my eyes staring up at the beams above, my heartbeat slow and calm, and my mind clearing the longer I lay there.

And when I finally closed my eyes, I realized—for the first time in my life—I felt… peace.