Loud gunshots echo down the alleyway as my back slams into the hard brick. Leaning against its cool surface, I try to catch my breath—my lungs on fire—choking on the stale, damp air.

Bullets whiz past my head, some so close the air hisses in my ear as they fly by. A stray piece of debris hits my cheek, leaving a stinging, open gash as I mash my body flat against the wall—my heart hammering like it's about to explode.

How long have I been running?

Minutes? Hours? My legs can't tell the difference. My side seizes, causing me to double over, panting.

A rustling noise comes from the dumpster beside me—something scurries over broken glass near my foot. Maybe it's a rat—just as desperate to escape as I am.

My head spins, the thoughts jumbled and scattered like the shell casings around me.

What's happening? How did I get here?

"Snap out of it, Bex," I mutter, my voice rough and unfamiliar. "This can't be real," I whisper, searching for something—a clue, anything—but nothing makes sense.

Hot, sticky sweat trickles down my face—the heavy, smog-filled air suffocating me.

My vision blurs—eyes stinging. The torn, dirty sleeve of my shirt offers little relief.

My mouth is dry as my tongue slips out, swiping across my chapped lips, leaving behind the bitter taste of salt and dirt.

I can hardly keep my eyes open. Looking around, I see a bright yellow sign flashing above me: "Ollie's Billiards."

But I quickly look away as a searing pain erupts through my skull—the blinding lights are too much.

Giving up, my body slides down the wall, and I land hard on the cold, dirty pavement. Every bone in my body aches—every muscle screaming.

I don't know how much more I can take.

Gunshots ring out closer than before, and my body shrinks down—pressing tight against the brick—each labored breath ragged and strained.

"Get up, Bex!" a tiny voice in my head urges—but where?

Where do you run when there's nowhere to go?

The stench of rotting Chinese food and urine hangs heavy all around me. In the distance, the city is alive—with horns blaring, people shouting, and cars driving by—but none of it matters.

Nothing can save me.

I'm alone in the worst part of town—its dark streets lined with bars, clubs, and abandoned buildings. Each one is just as dangerous as the last, if not more so.

My house is only a few blocks away, but it feels like a million miles. My stomach clenches at the thought of home. If only I could make it there... maybe I'd be safe.

I can't give up—not yet. I refuse to let my story end in this filthy alley.

Palms scraping against the dirt, I push up from the ground—legs trembling violently beneath me. I force myself forward, one foot in front of the other—barely more than a shuffle.

My vision swims, and the ground tilts beneath me. Losing my balance, I cry out as a jagged stone pierces my flesh, sending a throbbing pain through my body.

I grit my teeth and lunge forward—grabbing hold of the rusty fire escape above me. The metal is cold and slippery—but I hold on—my nail breaking off as I dig into it.

Shaking from head to toe, I manage a few more steps—each one harder than the last. The pain intensifies, but I can't stop.

I have to keep going. "You got this," I mutter, but apparently my body has other plans.

Tucking my arm around my side, applying pressure to the wound, I freeze, leaning to the side—the dull ache becomes unbearable.

Tears sting my eyes as thick, bright red blood oozes out, covering my knuckles and instantly dyeing them red.

Giving off a strong metallic scent, the blood mixes with the stench of dried, stale blood—there's so much it's making my stomach churn. The lump in my throat finally erupts.

Chunks of partially digested food hit the ground, splattering on the concrete with a sickening sound.

I gag, my body dry-heaving; I've expelled everything in my system—including my energy.

I hardly recognize myself—sweat, blood, and vomit cling to my skin.

Why am I even fighting? I'm so tired.

Staring down at my white sweatshirt, I see it's soaked in blood from my chest to my thighs—the stains growing outward by the second.

Inching my fingers up beneath my shirt, my skin is raw, with dirt, sweat, and fear clinging to every exposed inch.

Flinching, I refuse to look—the wound is like a fire inside, raging, burning, and consuming everything in its path—and nothing can stop it.

A sudden clanking noise nearby startles me, and I jump. I'm no longer alone.

Slowly, my hand edges along the wall, my fingers curling around the corner as I sneak a peek from my hiding spot.

But it's useless.

Thick smoke hangs in the air as bullets continue to fly—the stench of gunpowder and burnt metal lingers, searing my lungs.

All I can do is wait. The seconds tick by like hours, and the sound of sirens screams in the distance—loud and intense. Each ear-piercing wail rattles my chest and shakes the air—coming from all directions.

They'll be here any second—my eyes scan all around, frantically searching. I can't go to jail—not now.

My head feels light, my breathing quickens—like a wild animal trapped—I'm surrounded.

The building behind me acts as a crutch as the pressure in my head builds—all I want to do is sleep, but I'll never get back up.

I've run out of options—there's nowhere left to hide.

My only choice is to run—and pray that I survive.

Wrapping my fingers around the cold silver cross dangling from my neck, I clutch it tightly—the metal slicing through the skin between my fingers.

"Please," I beg, reciting a silent prayer—hoping that God is listening, that He has a plan for me—"just let me live."

Scanning my surroundings, my eyes land on the small gap between the billiards hall and the abandoned building next to it—it's narrow, but I think I can fit.

The sirens blare in my ears as the smoke begins to clear—it's time.

Taking a deep breath, I grip my side and dart out from behind my shelter and into the unknown.

A final gunshot cracks—and then everything goes silent.

I'm weightless—the world tilts, then dims, the way it does near sleep—or maybe dying.

I'm falling—

Darkness presses in as my eyes snap open. My erratic heartbeat fills my ears.

Lying motionless, holding my breath, my ears strain, listening for any sound.

But it's silent—only the AC humming softly in the distance. Its cool air dances across my skin as I slowly inch up onto my elbows—looking around.

Was it just a dream? It felt so real.

Sitting up all the way, I find the sheets beneath me stiff and coarse. The familiar itchy blue and white comforter, twisted around my legs, lies at my feet.

My arm brushes against the soft, plush teddy bear I've had since childhood—his button eye hanging loose—and a half-drunk glass of water waits on the bedside table.

I'm safe and sound in my bedroom.

Letting out a sigh of relief, I slump forward, my hands scrubbing my face as I glance around the room.

The scent of fabric softener and fresh laundry hangs in the air, and I can feel my heart rate slowing down, my body relaxing.

I let my gaze drift to the closed bedroom window. Beyond it, the world is silent, but inside my head, the shots still echo.

My hand moves on autopilot to the bottom of my sweat-soaked shirt—my fingers grazing across my skin, searching for the wound.

Instead, they find the rough, raised skin of my past—a constant reminder of my shattered life.

The harsh glow of my alarm clock across the room catches my attention: 3:47 AM, in bold red numbers.

According to it, I've been asleep for hours—but my body says otherwise.

Between my nightmares and nerves over today, I'm a mess.

Today is the big day—the one I've waited for all summer, marking off the days on the calendar.

I finally get to leave—a chance to escape and start fresh—somewhere no one knows my past, where I can be anyone.

Of course, college was never my dream. But it'll do—anything is better than staying here.

Plus, I'm sober now—so it has to be better than high school. I've come a long way since then.

Back when I stayed high to numb the pain. I was a walking disaster—most days, I couldn't even remember my name.

My entire family swore I was a lost cause—that I'd be fifteen and pregnant, a high school dropout, or in jail.

The day I graduated, it felt so good to prove them all wrong.

Those days are hard to think about, and I'm getting a migraine.

Reaching over, I yank open the drawer and grab the bottle of Tylenol, twisting off the cap.

A few of the blue and red pills tumble into my palm. I roll them around, then toss them into my mouth, chasing them with the lukewarm water from the glass on my nightstand—a stale taste coats my tongue.

My eyes water, and a yawn escapes my lips as I lean back against the pillow.

My body is desperate for more rest. This trip is going to be a nightmare—especially since I'll be cramped in the car for hours.

The sound of my mother's nonstop complaining already echoes in my ears—and somehow, of course, everything will be my fault. It always is.

She has a way of looking through me, like she's waiting for a better version of me to materialize—someone she can finally be proud of.

Maybe she loves me, or perhaps she just remembers to.

But one thing I know for sure is she'll be relieved when I'm gone. She'll finally have some peace—even if I never get mine.

I wish things were different. And just once, she'd look at me like she does April—like I'm more than just a cautionary tale.

And as always, she invited April along for the drive—the golden child, never a hair out of place, always equipped with a smug remark or an eye roll. Anything to prevent being alone with me, to avoid genuine conversation.

I can picture April already dressed, fussing with her hair in the mirror—rehearsing her fake smile—eager to play the perfect child.

And the two of them will talk the entire way—April doing most of the talking—with neither of them saying anything worthwhile.

But I shouldn't be worrying about any of this right now—I only have a few hours left to sleep. And I need it.

The fluffy pillow cradles my head as my fingers fondle the tiny silver cross around my neck.

My eyes sting, and my eyelids are heavy. But somewhere deep down, I know there won't be any real rest—not in this house, not with this heart.

And in a few hours, it'll be time to leave—out the door, and into a world that doesn't care if I stay clean or disappear.

Perhaps it's freedom. Or maybe it's just another nightmare waiting to happen—only time will tell.

Closing my eyes, I listen for silence, for peace—knowing neither ever lasts.

Maybe tonight was just the beginning of a new nightmare, or perhaps a warning. Either way, morning is coming—and I'm not sure which version of me will wake up—the new Bex, or the broken one.