Past the Windowpane chapter 2

Chapter 2

I closed my eyes, the pain blooming in my shoulder, and for a second, I could almost smell that old scent—my dad's cheap cologne, a smell I remembered from before the house went dark, before the accident. I grew up in poverty, living paycheck to paycheck; we'd starve if my dad missed one day of work. Still, we were happy. I took after my father, with his black hair, blue eyes, and tall frame. But that was all gone now.

The pain in my shoulder throbbed, pulling me back to the present. I forced myself up, wincing as the torn skin stretched. I needed to stop the bleeding. I grabbed a tattered t-shirt, and pressed it onto my wound. It felt like fire. I needed to get out. The house was a tomb now, every creak of the floorboards a potential return of the monster that wore my mother's face. I grabbed my worn black backpack, stuffed in some clothes, an empty water bottle, and the beef jerky my friend gave me, and slipped out of my bedroom window into the night air, knowing I couldn't stay here another second

The cool night air hit my face, sharp and clean, smelling of cut grass and the damp earth of the neighbor's yard. It was a jolt to the system—a reminder that the world outside still existed. The silence out here was heavy, too, but different. It wasn't the suffocating silence of waiting for a knife; it was the quiet of freedom. I pulled the window shut gently, the latch clicking with a sound that felt deafeningly loud in the darkness. I landed softly on the grass, my wounded shoulder protesting with a fresh wave of fire. Stop the bleeding later. Right now, I need distance.

I stayed low, crouching beneath the bedroom window level, and began moving toward the side gate. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat sending a throb of pain through my shoulder. I could hear the faint, muffled sound of my mother’s voice inside, still on the phone. Relief mixed with a deep, cold fear. I hadn't made a sound, but the risk of her looking out the window was too great.

The side gate was chained shut, just like always. My dad had put it there years ago after someone stole his old bicycle. I fumbled in my pocket for the small multitool I always carried—another habit from my dad. My fingers, slick with the drying blood from my wound, struggled with the small blade. I pressed the t-shirt harder to my shoulder with my other hand, gritting my teeth.

Finally, the chain snapped with a sharp clink. I winced at the noise, freezing for a second. Nothing. The phone call inside continued. I pushed the gate open just enough to slip through, my backpack snagging on the metal for a frustrating second before I yanked free and stumbled onto the deserted sidewalk.

I didn't run at first. A fast walk was less likely to draw attention on this quiet suburban street. I turned right at the corner, putting as many houses as I could between me and that front door. I pulled the hood of a light jacket from my backpack and slipped it on, ignoring the renewed pain as the fabric brushed against the wound.

I had a purpose. The plan Caden and I had joked about for months—the one we never thought we’d actually use—was suddenly Plan A. I turned left, not toward my house, but toward the corner of Elm and 5th, our designated meet-up spot.

The questions followed me, echoing in my head with every step. You killed him. Why did you kill him?

I had no answers, only the pulsing pain and the cold, vast night ahead of me. I was free, but I wasn't alone. Caden was waiting.