The Huntress Book 1 Memories

*

[…], and just a few seconds to start running.
I ran enough. The air is so frozen that I can barely breathe. It
sticks in my nostrils. I instinctively looked over my shoulder to
see if he followed me. I sigh, relieved when I see that he didn’t.
So I’ll just see my way.

Even under the threat of the weapon I
wouldn't be able to stop my cry. The heavy clothes fall on the
ground from my inert hands. Dane was very calm in front of me, a
hand of his trapping my arm.

“How...How did you manage to do that?” I
babble.

His orange, almost red lights in his eyes
tell me that he's angry. He tightens his jaws.

“I want to show you that it's pointless to
run away from me.”

His tone is literally a low growl. I shake my
boots.

“What... What are you?”

My voice is not louder than a whisper.

“Does it matter to you that much?”

His tone has returned to normal now and he's
more disappointed.

“Does it really matter what I am?” He asks me
again slowly. “I am something else. I am different. Does it matter
what? A moment ago you were afraid of me!” He accuses me, though
his voice is loaded with pain.

“And I won’t deny it, but you have to admit
and I had every reason in the world for that.”

“Perhaps.” He admits quite cumbersome.

I try to withdraw my arm from his grasp. He's
too close. He stares deliberately.

“You can get rid of me only if you
specifically ask me, with your own mouth, to leave you alone and
not see me again.” He tells me, stressing each word individually.
“Is this what you really want?”

The lump in my throat doesn't let me
talk.

“Tell me!” He insists. “Is this what you
really want?”

His tone is as if it has honey and poison. As
it would suggest itself through the veil of my consciousness,
through my brain interface, paralyzing my words. I cannot do
anything but looking at him with dilated pupils. However, as he
gets closer to me, I react instinctively and retire. In his golden
eyes there almost glowing orange dots.

“Just because I have the power to hurt you,
it does not mean I'm going to do it.” He tells me. “Just because I
have certain desires does not mean that I cannot control them.” He
adds mesmerizing. “Therefore I want you to stop running away from
me.”

/’This pale
face, illuminated only by the light of the two orange eyes, golden
hair, and his voluntary chin, the lips that open in a grimace,
shocked... His whole appearance returns in memory his name: Dane..
Now I know exactly who he was. But once with his recognition, the
rest of my memories appear as well.

Memories, once released, began to pour over
me like a waterfall that I cannot stop. They now appear to me not
only as flashes, but as sharp details, accompanied by sounds,
smells, emotions. I willingly subjected to this imprisonment. I
stay in this locked room, whose smell bothers me for enough time
until now so that I can remember a past that it would be better
left buried. However, these memories help me to keep myself hanging
by a thread thinner than life itself. And if by reminding, I will
succeed not to kill anyone in this family, if remembering will
manage to quench my hatred and disgust, then... Then better to
remember...’/

Humans get used almost with everything. Why
do I say almost? Well... I, for one, I'm used with things that many
cannot get used. I talk about hunger, about the cold, about
poverty, terror and physical abuse and more. I'm not talking about
any hunger. I talk about that hunger that makes you have only 40
pounds to 1.75 meters tall. About that kind hunger that not only
leaves you feeling your belly glued spine, but that just knocked
your stomach literally and you bleed when spitting.

About that hunger that gives dizziness and
makes your nose bleed anemia. About that hunger that only tortures
you without letting you actually die.

Looking back now, I'm thinking that maybe it
was better to stretch myself and let myself die of hunger. Anyway,
I lived with this feeling almost every day of my life. But
eventually I got used to living like that. Though I don't think
there are many people who are successful.

And I do not mean any cold. I do not mean the
feeling you get when you just feel cold and you can rub your arms
or hands together to warm them, or hop for the chill off your feet.
This idea makes me smile. Because these conditions would have been
a blessing to me. And of course I do not mean warm seasons. I mean
the winter cold that penetrates your bones so strong, so that the
slightest movement becomes a moan of pain accompanied by pain. I
mean that cold that turns your skin looking like minced meat and
your lips and other parts of your body in purple and black staffs.
Worse was when I went to the river to wash. I had to break the ice
over, rub me first with snow and then I had to really have the
nerve to go into the water. And even worse was when I had to get
out of the water. Now I wonder how I did not die of hypothermia. I
guess I adapted in one way or another. So I've grown used to
it.

Poverty was part of my life as breath is
necessary for someone to live. The old man managed to make for us a
cardboard shelter downtown. Or it was my mother? I do not know.
Because I do not remember dad other than drinking, always smelling
of alcohol. Although where he did get the money for it, it’s still
a mystery for me. Anyway, I did not dare ask him too many times
this thing, because after that, the few hours I remained
unconscious from his beatings. The cardboard under which we lived
was still ragged and wet. The walking was a blanket. And that was
torn, ragged and shabby. It never crossed my mind to ask my mother
why we were so, and if we ever lived in another way, a better one.
Anyway, got I used to.

Perhaps I would’ve been better if I let
mother receive all the garbage and ruptures from others who
supposedly gave us alms. But I have told you from the beginning
that humans get accustom with almost anything. Because although I
have been near death so many times due to gaps, I could never get
used to humility.

I know, you'll say "The goat with old toad
queue-and up! “ And perhaps you are right. But I didn't have the
means to receive charity from others. Although if I would have felt
that pity urged the people to behave so with us, it is likely that
I may have swallowed my pride. But I could see how they acclimate
themselves of disgust, their eyes squinted at us, with their
nostrils and lips quivering contempt. It was enough that my mother
was cleaning for them for a plate of food, or rinse for one penny.
Anyway, she found it difficult to find someone to use her services,
considering the fact that people epitomized us beggars, and all
that my mother was trying to do was to work any for a piece of
bread

I don't know how much you have understood
until now, but you know what I was even more afraid than my dad’s
fists and belts?

To have to go to school. If it was up to me,
I would have never stepped into that place, full of individuals
with airs and who had everything that looked at me and passed
around me as if I were nothing more than a Toad. Hell, yes! I admit
that I felt humiliated, with my stature too high, grass carp, due
to lack of food and perhaps from other causes, with my hair in my
eye for not to see their looks, dressed in the same tattered
clothes and always wearing something that once was some chainsaw
rubber.

Teachers did not pay any attention to me. I
am grinning now. For them, I was non-existent. I had my exams
together with others and I think, for their desperation, I got
better results than many others.

“Learn, child, learn!” my mother always said
to me. “Maybe you'll have the chance to get rid of here and of our
lives.”

I knew that it hurt her not being able to
give me and to offer me more. For I often heard her crying at
night. Even when my father abused her and she had to face his
unwanted attention, she tried to refrain her sighs not to wake me
up. I was all pretended sleeping and I've turned my back to them,
trying to cover my ears so that I do not hear, trying to imagine
other images than the ones that I had in my mind and which filled
me with distaste: my father riding my mother.

My hair is longer now. Much longer. I pass in
the second high school year. It is the first day. I'm trying to
distinguish my features into a little chunk of mirror that I found
long ago. It doesn't make any sense. There's no way for me to go at
school right from the first day. My raven black hair that
continually comes in my eyes could not hide my broken and cracked
mouth, or cheekbone skin, which is covered by all possible shades
of purple with green and yellow. The memories of how I got my
injuries come to my mind instantly.

“Where are you, bitch?”

That was my dad, drunk as usual, smelling of
the cheapest alcohol. I do not even bother to answer. I do not tune
out, as usual.

“I said something, you fucking bitch!”

I looked at him, puzzled. He usually sees his
glass away, muttering something only he knew. Tonight he is
different though. However, I still do not respond. Perhaps if I
ignore him, as usual, he will do it as well.

“You owe to respect me, bitch! I am your
father and I struggled because of you both!”

Anger besieges me immediately. I tried hard
to ignore him, as I have done it for years, but I would not. I do
not know why I get angry at a time, so badly and immediately. And
to tell me that I must respect him, it seems to me too much. I turn
to him with a sudden movement and I growled at him.

“You bastard!”

My anger is mixed with the distaste I usually
feel when I am close to him. I'm trying to pass him without paying
to him any more attention, hoping that he will do the same thing,
and trying at the same time to master his anger. I'm used to him
calling me in all possible ways that is not the question. I just
can't stand to hear him telling me that I was to respect him. He
sticks his hand in my hair and he pulls to my tears. He must not
see that he hurt me, because I know he'll be happy and that my pain
will give him satisfaction. I looked him in the eye with
superiority.

Although I knew that he will get angrier and
worse, I did not expect him to hit me in the face with his fist up
like he did. He hit me a few times with power, and then he left me
alone when he saw my blood. He departs swearing. I shake, trying to
keep my balance. My ears are ringing from the bumps and my face
hurts badly.

Now, in this shard of mirror, seeing the
aftermath, I shrug. It's nothing. I skip one day. It's not as if I
skipped the first time. Even if it's the first day of school.
Better go to the River to take a bath.

The autumn just came and I don't know how
much warm time I'll ever get. Just thinking of the winter takes me
with the shivers.

“Hey, mom, you've got something to wash? I go
by the river!”

Not that we have too many clothes or rags to
arrange, but at least I try to help her as much as I can.

“Take those!“ She said.

She hands me the ruptures she sells clothes.
She did not look at me. She did not look at my face. I know she
pities me. I know that she doesn't want me to see the tears in her
eyes.

By the river, it’s a pretty walk through the
woods. And it's shady enough. It can also be animals nearby. But I
never thought about it, and the dangers to which I could submit. I
do not fear any longer. Anyone. The feeling of fear turned in
disgust long time ago. Still thinking about how I would give a
hearty beating to my dad if I would be stronger, I arrived at the
river.

I breathe deeply. I always liked this place.
Where I am alone, away from cartons in which I supposedly have
shelter, away from everyone who looks at me with disgust and
circumspect. I throw the whole pile of clothes directly into the
water. In the past, I have carried all kinds of stones and built a
kind of washing machine. Water crashes up, and small dam forms a
tiny whirlwind. That I made with large stones and boulders. It took
me some time, because they were very heavy, but I did it, and it's
done recently, as I said. I stitch my clothes and throw them all in
there. A torn and ragged shirt and ripped jeans too. I do not wear
any underwear. I throw myself in the water. Perhaps for others, it
would be cool, but for me, unlike it is in winter, when ice needles
sting me, it's really warm. I look upon on the sky, thinking what
to do with my life.

I'd like to go far away, where no one knows
me. Maybe I'll find something to work and I would be able to live
just fine. I don't need too many things so that I can live. It is
anyway what I shall do. That's what I would have done a long time
ago, if it had not been for my mother. Or, perhaps I shall leave
anyway and after a while I’ll take her with me. Because she’s
getting old and she is no longer able to do too much. As a matter
of fact, she isn't really that old, because I'm only 16 years old,
but she lived the life of an old one, and she's about to become
powerless.