Ashley’s Perspective
I collapsed onto my bed, still reeling from the day’s events. I’d texted Michelle, apologizing for abandoning her at school. How could I just leave her like that? It felt cowardly.
What bothered me most wasn’t the fall, but Chase’s lack of reaction. When I stumbled into him, I expected… something. A glare, a shout, even a physical punishment. Anything. But he hadn’t even looked at me.
Maybe he knew Queen Bee had pushed me. I just hoped he wouldn’t target me tomorrow. The thought of facing him was a knot in my stomach.
I was spiraling into anxious thought. A headache throbbed behind my eyes. With no homework looming and Uncle Benson still at work, I decided to try and lose myself in sleep.
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I woke to the sound of a door splintering. The impact reverberated through the room. My uncle burst in, slamming the door against the wall. What was with people and destroying doors lately? First the bad boys, now Uncle Benson? I wondered what these poor doors had done to deserve such treatment.
“Get out of bed,” he barked, tossing a wad of cash onto the covers. “Buy me two bottles of vodka.”
“Uncle, it’s late. I can go first thing tomorrow,” I offered, trying to hand back the money.
“Now,” he snarled. “Or I’ll make sure you bleed all over your ugly body.” He flung the cash at me and stormed off.
I pulled on a cropped top and jeans, throwing a hoodie over them to conceal yesterday’s wounds and old scars.
Outside, the cold air bit at my skin. The bar staff knew me—and Uncle Benson—well enough to ignore my underage status. They knew it was for his drinking habit.
I considered my route: the shortcut or the long way. The shortcut was faster, less attention. But the long way… maybe he’d already be asleep when I got home. Maybe I’d avoid a beating, avoid reopening old wounds. I chose the long way.
I just hoped I wouldn’t regret it. I hoped I’d reach home safely. I hoped I wouldn’t draw attention to myself.
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In the distance, I could see the bar’s flickering lights. I quickened my pace, then froze. A gunshot.
I instinctively followed the sound. My mind raced: call the police? Could I help?
I heard a voice—deep, urgent. “We have to go now before Chase and his gang find us. Shooting one of his best guys… you know what they’ll do.” The speaker had blonde hair.
I saw a man on the floor, bleeding. As I got closer, recognition slammed into me. Mason.
I screamed, forgetting the two men standing nearby.
The other man—dark hair, shadowed eyes—looked at me. Four words cut through the air:
Run for your life.