My face hurt.
Like, really hurt. Nose, jaw, ribs—pick a part. Everything throbbed in that dull, background kind of way, like my body was trying to convince me it wasn't that bad, even though it absolutely was.
I stayed on the ground for a while, listening to the sound of the wind brushing trash around the alley. The guys were gone. Finally. Not that I was keeping time or anything.
With a groan, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up. My left leg screamed in protest. Limping was gonna be my whole personality for the rest of the week, apparently.
The walk home wasn't long. Just embarrassing. I kept my head down, ignored the stares, and tried not to pass out before I made it through the front door.
Home—if you could even call it that—was exactly the mess I left it in. Peeling paint, half a porch step, and a door that creaked like it needed to be put out of its misery. I shoved it open and stepped inside.
There he was.
My dad, passed out on the living room floor, surrounded by empty bottles like some kind of sad shrine. One of them rolled when I walked past. He didn't move.
Good.
I didn't have the energy for him tonight.
The bathroom mirror told me everything I already knew. Split lip, bruised cheek, dirt everywhere. I grabbed a rag from the edge of the sink—still damp from the last time I used it—and wiped myself down as best I could. The water was barely more than a trickle and cold as hell, but whatever. It was something.
I changed into a stretched-out T-shirt and a pair of old shorts. They hung loose on my frame, which was probably a bad sign, but I didn't care. Hunger wasn't a new feeling.
In the kitchen, there was a can of beans I opened three days ago. Still sitting there. Still food. I scooped some out with a spoon, sat cross-legged on the floor next to the low table, and ate in silence.
Cold. Salty. Better than nothing.
I must've nodded off with the spoon still in my hand, because the next thing I knew, someone was yanking me up by the hair.
"You think I don't see you, Madeline?" my father's voice slurred, way too close. "You think I forgot what you did to me?"
"What—? Dad, stop—!"
"Don't you lie to me." His grip tightened. "You filthy, cheating bitch. I loved you, and you spat in my face. You left me for him—him!"
"I'm not her," I choked, trying to push him off. "I'm not Mom—!"
His fist hit me so hard that I tasted blood. My head snapped sideways, the room spinning.
"You even sound like her now," he growled. "Wearing her clothes. Talking like her. Lookin' at me like I'm trash. You think you're better than me?!"
He shoved me back. I hit the wall. Hard.
"You should've died with her."
Another punch. And another.
Everything went quiet after the last hit.
Dad muttered something—probably another insult I'd heard a thousand times—and stumbled back to the living room. I heard the thunk of the couch as he dropped into it, the crack of another bottle cap, the familiar sound of him drinking like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
I stayed on the floor.
Couldn't really move. My head was ringing, and my ribs throbbed every time I breathed. Pretty sure I was bleeding from somewhere, but I didn't have the energy to care. Eventually, my eyes slipped shut. It didn't feel like sleep. Just… off. Numb.
A few hours must've passed because when I opened my eyes again, it was pitch black.
The kind of night where even the streetlights felt tired.
I groaned and tried to sit up. Everything hurt. My mouth was dry. Like bone-dry, sandpaper-dry. I wanted water more than I wanted to keep breathing. The kitchen tap hadn't worked for days, and the bottled stuff was long gone.
There was only one place I could think of—the park a few blocks away. It had an old stream that cut through the edge, hidden behind the trees. Usually gross. But right now, gross water sounded like a dream.
I pushed myself up, one hand braced against the wall and limped toward the door.
Outside, the air was cold. Not winter-cold. Just the kind that reminded you how thin your clothes were and how much your skin stung when the wind hit your bruises. The streets were empty. No cars, no people, just the sound of my own footsteps dragging across concrete like a ghost that forgot it died.
By the time I got near the road, I was kind of spaced out. Dizzy. My ears were ringing again, and my legs felt like paper. I kept walking. One step, then the next. Just keep going.
Then I heard it.
A soft, pathetic little meow.
I blinked. Turned my head.
There, under the streetlamp, was this tiny cat. Scrawny thing. Orange and white, its fur all tangled like it hadn't been touched in weeks. It looked right at me. Like it had been waiting.
"Oh," I whispered, voice cracked and low. "Hey there."
I limped over and crouched down slowly, every joint screaming. The cat didn't run. Just rubbed its head against my knee like we knew each other. I scratched behind its ear gently.
"Bet no one gives you warm milk either, huh?"
It purred. Honest-to-god purred. For a second, I forgot everything. I forgot how much I hurt. Forgot the hunger. Forgot the beatings. It was just me and this little creature, sitting together like the world hadn't already tried to kill both of us.
Then I heard tires.
Fast.
Too fast.
I looked up just in time to see headlights—bright, blinding, and close.
The cat froze.
I moved without thinking and scooped the little thing into my arms and shoved it out of the way.
"You don't have to die with miserable me," I whispered.
Then the car hit me.
Everything shattered.
Bone. Glass. Time.
I hit the pavement hard, blood blooming from somewhere deep. Couldn't tell where. My body wasn't mine anymore—it was just pain, and then cold, and then… nothing.
The last thing I saw was the cat, standing on the sidewalk, watching me with wide eyes.
At least it got away.
At least I saved something.