wasn’t I feeling something, or anything for that matter? I know I should, at the very least, be freaking out, but I felt calm and in control for perhaps the first time in forever.
I gathered my things, threw a lit match, and after watching the flames engulf the bed and lick their way up the pink and white polka dot wallpaper, I left without looking back.
I’d just made it to the bottom of the hill when an explosion rent the night sky, lighting up the house of horrors as it burned out of control.
That’s when I realized the rain had stopped, the chaos of swirling winds and rumbling thunder had disappeared as if someone had pressed pause. There would be no rain to douse the flames and the downed trees would hinder the firetrucks I could hear wailing in the distance.
I felt powerful, vengeful too, but I wasn’t ashamed of that. I had saved myself and protected the girl who would come next. I didn’t feel like a murderer even though I undoubtedly was. I felt like a Valkyrie, and that’s when I realized that although the storm might have stopped raging around us, it was very much alive inside me.
Wrapping most of the money, a change of clothes, the paperwork, and the gun in a plastic bag, I buried it somewhere I knew it wouldn’t be found. I stripped off a couple of layers of clothing and tucked them into my pack, moving one of the knives I had snagged from the kitchen into the pouch pocket of my black hoodie so I was prepared if I needed it. Carrying a murder weapon around with me wasn’t an option, but I’d be damned if I left myself unprotected ever again.
That was the day Vida died, and the day Viddy was born.
Now, after a year of being on the streets, I had a sort of routine. I never slept in the same place two nights in a row. I picked sites easy for my slight frame to squeeze into but that would be problematic for others. And I chose places that wouldn’t draw attention to me when I had nightmares. The thought of being trapped in my head while someone messed with my body gave me heart palpitations, which is likely why I had adjusted to surviving on around three hours of sleep a night.
During the day, I went to the library and studied. I might not be able to get qualifications, with being a dead girl and all, but I could still learn, and I did. I absorbed the words like a sponge, learning what I could from how to cultivate a garden to building a business. Today, I was a nobody, and that was fine, it suited my needs for now. Until I was eighteen, I needed to skate under the radar, but one day, things would be different. I would be somebody; I just hadn’t figured out who yet.
“Ten minutes until closing, dear,” the librarian calls, making me look up.
“What are you working on today?” she asks with a smile. I like Mary. I think she might have clued into the fact I live on the streets, despite me keeping myself relatively clean and tidy. There is only so much I could do. I used restrooms to wash up, but it wasn’t the same as having a shower, and washing clothes was a nightmare.
Even so, she never treated me differently. She didn’t follow me around like I might steal the books, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays when the library hosted coffee mornings, she always snuck me coffee and cake.
“Oh, nothing much, just world domination,” I answer with a slight smile.
“That’s nice, dear.” She chuckles before turning to a young woman with a little kid whose arms are filled with books ready to check out.
I pack up my things, place the books back on the shelves, and head to the restrooms before leaving. I take care of business, then take a quick wash and brush my teeth, changing into the second set of clothes. These are black and thicker, helping me blend into the city once night falls. I studiously avoid my reflection in the little mirror above the sink, knowing what I’ll see. Being homeless means being hungry. They go hand in hand, and on my frame it shows on my gaunt face, in the way my cheekbones stand out, and in the dark hollows of my eyes.