But while he may have been the first to sense it, it wasn’t long till there was no mistaking it.
The sound of a stampede—hundreds of bodies running with purpose.
The sound of violence—things crashing and breaking as a series of screams rang out, one in particular, one that I recognized as my father’s, that rose above all the rest.
The sound of my front door being pulled from its hinges.
The sound of my house being stormed, inv
aded, ransacked, and looted.
The sound of the horrible, lingering silence of a papa that never came looking for me.
And yet, I continued to wait like he asked.
Waited long past the time the crackling began and the closet floors began to heat.
Long past the time gray ribbons of smoke curled their way in and around the door frame and rendered it impossible to breathe.
Long past the time the flames licked at my heels and rose up my dress like snakes.
Long past the time my frightened dog clawed huge gaping holes in my dress as he fought with all of his might to escape.
But I wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t let him leave without me, I just held him fast to my chest, my lips incessantly whispering my father’s warning:
Do not come out for anyone but me, no matter what!
My body blistering and burning, as the bow on my dress worked like some kind of accelerant and encouraged the flames to leap onto my hair and my face. Engulfing me in a pain so wrenching, so great, I told myself it was a game.
That it couldn’t possibly be happening to someone as special as me.
Repeating the words as a wave of red, searing-hot timbers crashed down upon us, reducing my dog and me to nothing more than a pile of charred bones and black dust.
Obedient till the end, I’d died in the exact location where my father had told me to wait.
Then, just as quickly, I was out.
Gazing down at what little remained of myself and my dog as the scene continued to play, seeing smoke, fire, destruction, and blood, most of which belonged to my father, judging from the looks of his severely mangled body.
And when I saw what had caused it or, rather, who had caused it—when I realized we’d all been murdered—well, from that moment on, all I could see was red.
A bright, raging red that shimmered and glowed and bubbled all around until it was big enough to house me.
Anger.
All I could feel—all I could see—was a burning hot anger that raged deep inside me.
An anger so intense it came to define me.
And so I vowed my revenge, vowed that every single one of them would pay for making me like this.
Ignoring the vague, magnetic pull of something bright and promising and good—preferring to spend the rest of my days in my angry new world.
I watched the massacre continue, lasting just over a month, watched as the death toll and bodies all piled up. Allowing those I’d deemed innocent to follow that pull to whatever bright thing lay beyond, while luring the rest of them into my shimmering trap of revenge—watching it grow bigger and bigger with each and every soul I admitted, until it became the large, dark globe where we lived.
My throat grew dry and constricted, and for someone who no longer breathes, I had the sensation of desperately needing to before I was suffocated. The weight of Rebecca’s soul becoming so heavy, so burdensome, I couldn’t even begin to describe my relief when I found myself back on the other side of it.
I coughed and sputtered, and tried my best to center myself. And even though Bodhi patted my back and Buttercup softly licked my hand, it took a while till I was able to face them again.