Defiance

by Hannah Hanson

CHAPTER FOUR

  For hours, walking and running sucked the energy out of her. Inevitably, her body came to a crisis point, incapable of pushing itself further. Amelia cursed under her breath as she gasped for air. She had convinced herself that even with the long nights autumn brought, she could walk till daylight. But as she stared at her watch and the darkness in the sky, the specks of hope evaporated.

  The sound of crunching leaves and a swerving car caught her attention. A man got out of the car.

  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing here at this time of night?”

  She turned and looked at the man who stood before her. In the darkness, his features were nothing more than a sketch. She felt uneasy. He took several steps towards Amelia while she stood still, paralysed, curious to see who roamed the night with her. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and as he came nearer, the moon provided enough light to see his face.

  He had dark circles under his eyes and his once full, round cheeks were sunken. His lips were dry and his left hand twitched. His pale skin glistened in the moonlight and his face bore no distinct lines to reveal his age. His features were profoundly alluring; the effect was indescribable and yet familiar. His auburn hair was ruffled and short, falling just below his earlobes; as he took a final step, the moonlight revealed a scar on his right cheek that looked out of place.

  “I like to go for a walk at night,” Amelia said. Her voice sounded forced and unnatural. He had caught the lie; she was certain of it from the way his right eyebrow arched.

  “Perhaps I can give you a lift to where you’re going,” smiled the man, revealing crooked and yellow teeth. “Walking is better, thank you,” Amelia said forcefully as she turned on her heels. The man reached out with his hand and grabbed her above the elbow. His grip was tight and painful. Amelia stopped. She turned to face him and dropped her hands by her sides, as if in defeat. The man retracted his hand and pursed his thin pink lips. “I didn’t…”

  Amelia punched his nose with a clenched fist, and then elbowed his chest. The man heaved and gagged. He hurled a careless punch against her face and the tip of his knuckles collided with her lips. Amelia took a step back; the surge of adrenaline from the hit made her heart pound. She leaned forward, grabbed his collar, pulled his hair back, and then threw him on the ground before ramming her foot against his left ribcage. The man choked and screamed in agony, and the trickle of crimson blood from his nose made her remember her father’s words: You should fight to disable, not to kill.

  She looked at the man, who had curled into a foetal position, and she ran into the distance before he had a chance to regain his balance.

  “I’ll find you!” he screamed after her. His eyes gleamed with rage as he spat blood on the ground.

  Amelia glanced back as she continued to run; the man was now nothing but a mere speck in the distance. She had created enough of a gap between them, and for that, a smile crept into her lips. She eased her pace and slowed to a casual stroll, her feet lighter than ever against the ground. The tingling sensation in her lower lip made her come to a sudden halt. Her lips tasted of blood. She ran a gentle finger over the wound to assess the damage. A streak of red blood that seemed more diluted than usual was smudged on the tip of her finger. She stared at it curiously before licking it. The taste of metal engulfed her senses, and as she pressed into the wound with her teeth, the taste got stronger and more bitter. When the wound refused to stop bleeding, she placed pressure on the site and continued to walk aimlessly.

  She looked at the sky, almost pleading for bursts of sunlight, but her eyes were met by the dull moon. She sighed and persevered on. The thought of home and a bed flickered through her mind as she passed a row of abandoned houses to her right. She walked up to one of them.

  She kicked open the glass door, which was barely hinged, revealing a small landing. The stench of old, dank cloth hovered around the door. With an air of martyrdom, she pulled the carved door handle as it let out a small creak and crept cautiously into the darkness. With every step, the damp smell intensified, and her nostrils flared in distaste. She wrinkled her nose and tried to focus on the darkness rather than the unbearable stench that lingered. She felt uncertain about this, but what choice did she have?

  “Is this the house of Mr and Mrs Lisbon?” Amelia asked. Her voice echoed through the hollowness; no one responded. She did not know a Mr and Mrs Lisbon, but hoped if the owners were at home, they would pity her, thinking she was lost. No one replied and the silence stretched.

  “If you can hear me, please help,” she continued, her voice more steady. She paused for a minute. Silence. She let out a sigh and turned to the right, where the living room was. In the darkness, it was hard to make out, but she could see the outline of what appeared to be a sofa in the back of the room. She walked towards it and collapsed on it. The stench of worn-out leather and damp tickled the back of her throat. Unable to bear the stench, she moved to the cold floor.

  She took the grey winter cloak from her bag and used it to cover herself. She placed her right arm under her head and held tightly onto the bag with her left. With the sofa against her back, she felt safe, knowing she had a complete view of the room.

  She listened to her own breathing pattern until it grew heavy and thick. Her eyes flickered in slow motion and her body relaxed to welcome the early start of a sleeping daze. Her heavy eyelids drooped over her eyes and the hard, cold floor pressed against her skin as Amelia curled into a more comfortable position. When she failed to drop off, she tried to focus on something that would soothe her to sleep: the abandoned fireplace on the left-hand side of the room near where she lay.

  The last thing she saw was the everlasting darkness.

  The sun bled various shades of red and orange as it crept over the horizon. The flickers of red spread across the sky, reflecting off the cracked glass window. The coolness of the night breeze had withered away to make room for the early morning warmth that would soon follow. The sound of gentle footsteps awoke Amelia. She leapt up and, through heavy eyes, scanned the room, her feet firm on the floor as she held herself in a squatting position. Nothing. Her heart rate slowed as she melted into the floor again with a sigh. She had slept for several hours on the hard flooring; her body ached. With a cautious eye, she rolled the cloak into her bag and dusted the dirt from her clothing.

  She peered around the empty living room and concluded that it looked better in the darkness. Rubbing her dry mouth and tracing her fingertip along her wound, she concluded that it had healed with no blood residue. For that, she was grateful, but she needed water. Hurling the bag over her shoulder and tying her hair into a neat bun, she explored the house.

  Amelia walked towards the main entrance and tiptoed into the back of the corridor where she assumed the kitchen would be. Her guess was correct. She opened both taps and waited as trickles of water dribbled. She cupped her hand and collected the droplets, her patience wearing thin. She washed her face with the little water she collected; then the sound of creaking footsteps made her jump out of her skin. She whirled around, her hands up in defence, her body tense as water droplets trickled down her cheeks. A young girl stood by the door.

  She had pale skin to match water-hued eyes. Her nose was delicately carved against her round apple cheeks. Her long blonde hair hung loosely against her small frame. She wore a navy blue dress with long sleeves and a gold hem just below her knees. Her skinny legs were covered with black tights. She looked frightfully delicate, and as she took two steps forward, Amelia found herself cringing and backing away. She knew better than to be afraid of this child, who looked no more than twelve. But there was something strange about her.

  “I’m lost; will you help me find home?” the girl asked.

  “How did you know someone was in this house?”

  “Guessed,” she replied, smiling, revealing small, spaced-out, stained teeth.

  Amelia didn’t like her. There was something peculiar, something unsettling about her. Afraid to show h
er feelings, Amelia forced a smile.

  “I can’t really help you. I’m trying to find home too.”

  “Maybe you can look after me?” she beckoned. She stretched out her delicate hand, pulsating with green and blue veins. Amelia felt the sadness in the girl’s eyes drown her, suffocate her into submission.

  “I’ll try my best.” The girl ran to her and embraced her, wrapping her small arms around Amelia’s waist. Amelia smiled and stroked her soft hair, and although she didn’t know where fate was taking her, she couldn’t help but feel fearful. She tried to tug the girl away gently but she refused to move, her body glued to Amelia’s. She felt a stab of paralysing panic.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the girl whispered. Her voice, though sweet and innocent, sounded forced, and Amelia tried to contain her fear. She slowly tugged away from the girl’s tight grip and steadied herself, only to be pulled forcefully by the hand. The girl’s hand, frail and soft, had far more power than Amelia could have imagined. Amelia stumbled behind her, dragging her bag with her right hand. The water left on her face was icy.

  She watched the girl’s small frame bob with sheer adrenaline across the corridor, through the wooden door, and into the bright day. Amelia placed her hand over her face to block the blinding light.