Page 7 of Reclaimed

Snuggling down beneath the blankets, he tucks the quilt in around me before pushing to his feet.

But as he rises, something changes. His features distort, dark eyes replacing his green ones, his chestnut hair morphing to a peppered grey. A scream rips from my throat as his flesh liquifies, steadily dripping to the floor. My voice fades– no matter how hard I scream, the sound is gone. I try to move, try to run, but I can't.

A gunshot tears through the silence, cracking open Commander Martin's face. He stumbles forward, and I cower beneath his mangled figure as he reaches out. Blood mixes with the melting skin, trickling down onto my forehead.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I swipe at my face, my head whipping back and forth as my eyes blink open. Years of leaks have discolored the plaster surrounding a crack that runs across the ceiling overhead, water beading along it before another drop lands beside me on the mattress in this vacated apartment.

My father was wrong.

Monsters are real, and Northbrooke is crawling with them.

As if on cue, my hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, my fingers instinctively drifting to the scar on my belly. I trace the smooth ridges of healed skin absentmindedly as I stare up at the stained and crumbling ceiling tiles.

It's been a while since I've dreamed about my dad. Every time I do, it's a bittersweet moment stolen from the past that makes me homesick for a place I can never return to. But even with that somber tone when I wake, there's a sense of comfort in seeing him– hearing him– that keeps me pushing through.

My father was strong. He pushed back against The Registry when they started tearing through our neighborhood. It may have gotten him killed in the end, but he didn't go down without a fight, and neither will I.

The metal bed frame creaks beneath me as I shift onto my side, pain instantly shooting through my arm. I wince, rolling onto my back and lifting it. Fresh blood seeps through the makeshift bandage on my bicep. Peeling back the strip of fabric, I freeze when it catches.

Fuck, this is going to hurt like a real bitch...

I draw in a breath and rip it off.

My stomach drops, a muttered curse leaving my lips as rivulets of blood bead to the surface. The gash is a few inches long, the skin around it red and angry. The edges of the wound are raw, caked with dirt and dried blood. I pin my bottom lip between my teeth, debating whether to peel it further. Oh, what the hell. It’ll scar either way, so I let the intrusive thought win and dig my fingernail beneath the edge of a scab, gritting my teeth as it starts to lift. The twinge of pain competes with the feeling of satisfaction as I pull it free.

It doesn't look infected, but I know it still should be cleaned and wrapped with something besides an old dog bandana. I'm just lucky to have found anything to stem the bleeding. It was snagged on a branch– probably by one of Commander Martin's dogs when they were exercising in the field beside the house. It's not like he would've noticed the bandana going missing. I seemed to be the only property he kept track of.

With a sigh, my arm drops onto the mattress. I should keep moving. Getting to the Fringe was as far as I'd planned. And now that I'm here, holed up in this rundown apartment, I realize I have no idea what’s next.

Staying in Northbrooke isn't an option; not with the Registry Enforcers after me. They mentioned appraisal, but… appraised for what? Reassignment? Another Auction? Absolutely the fuck not.

Of course, that was before I stabbed an enforcer in the neck and made a run for it. The other enforcer wasn't exactly trying to avoid hitting me when he was firing, so what'd stop them from shooting me dead in the street now?

I don't know what's worse– being some rich asshole’s plaything or public execution.

"Okay," I breathe, scraping together enough spite to force myself to move. "I'm getting the hell out of this place."

I ignore the throb in my arm as I push upright and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. Dirt and grit crunch beneath the soles of my bare feet as I make my way through the apartment.

I know this wasn't our building– at least I don't think it was– but as my gaze sweeps over the layout of the space, a lump forms in my throat.

Surely I'd still recognize my own home… right? I refuse to believe that seven years of ownership can erase the fourteen years of memories that came before them.

"Ew, fuck!" I choke, stumbling back a step as a blur of grey fur scampers across the grungy tiles.

A fucking rat.

My nose wrinkles and I hurry down the hall, reaching for the switch as I turn into the bathroom. It’s a complete gamble if this place has electricity or not, but it’s not like I’ve got much to lose. Surprisingly, after a few metallic clicks, the bulbs above the sink hum to life.

The pipes groan as I twist on the faucet and murky water surges into the basin of the sink, sputtering a few times before running clear. Well, mostly. I lean forward and cup my palm beneath the spray to take a drink, willingly ignoring how much it looks like pee. Bleh. It's like licking a handful of coins. The acrid taste lingers on my tongue, but I'm just thirsty enough to not care.

Three handfuls later, I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth and shift to rest my elbow on the counter. Hissing through my teeth, I pluck fuzz and little bits of debris from the wound and start to rinse. Cool water soothes the offended flesh as I rinse and rinse until there's hardly a trace of blood in the water that swirls the drain. I flick my fingers, drops of water scattering as I turn off the tap.