Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Three years, and it's aged twenty.
Proof that time doesn’t heal all wounds.
Sometimes it just makes them uglier.
I stop ten feet from the steps, listening as the wind pushes through the tall grass. Metal creaks somewhere—roof or siding, hard to tell.
No human sounds.
"Mercy?"
Nothing. And in a place like this, silence is its own kind of scream.
The windows are intact, which surprises me. Expected them to be broken, or at least cracked. Destiny must have kept things together for longer than I thought.
I take a step toward the porch, and that's when I hear it—the soft metallic click of a BB gun being cocked.
I freeze. Not because I'm afraid of getting shot by a BB. But because I know exactly who's holding it.
"That you, Mercy?" I keep my voice easy, hands visible at my sides.
There’s a rustle from the overgrown juniper bush to my left and then, she emerges like some wild thing with tangled hair and a dirty face with eyes that burn with something between fury and fear.
My baby sister. Nine years old and pointing a Red Ryder at my chest like she means business.
Children shouldn't have to be their own army, but where we come from, we don’t get a choice.
She's thinner than she should be. Jeans torn at both knees, t-shirt faded to nothing. Her dark hair's a rat's nest, hanging past her shoulders. No one's been brushing it. No one's been taking care of anything.
But it's her blue, feral eyes that gut me. They are old, and watchful, and don’t belong on a nine-year-old. Some kids lose their childhood. Others have it stolen. Mercy had hers murdered.
"You plannin’ on shootin’ me, or you just sayin’ hello?"
She doesn't answer. Doesn't lower the gun either. Just stares at me with those eyes that mirror mine—Kane eyes, our mother called them. Too sharp for their own good.
"Where's Destiny?" I ask.
Nothing. Not even a blink. Which is fair, I guess. Trust isn't given freely when survival depends on keeping strangers at gunpoint.
"You been here alone?"
The BB gun wavers slightly. Her knuckles are white around the grip. I crouch down slow, getting to her eye level without coming closer. "I'm back now, Mercy. For good. You can put down the gun."
She shifts her weight, bare feet in the dirt. She thinks I’m a liar and there’s not much I can do about that thirty seconds in.
So I tell her, "You don't have to talk. But I'm stayin’."
The gun lowers an inch. Her expression gives nothin’ away. A perfect poker face.
It’s clear now, what three years inside cost. Not just me. Her. The price she paid for my loyalty to Badlands. That’s life, though. One way or the other, every choice we make writes itself on someone else's skin.
Mercy takes a step back toward the trailer, gun still raised. Testing if I'll follow. Testing if I'm real, maybe. I don't move. Let her set the pace. Let her decide if I'm worth trusting again.
"I'm stayin’," I say again. “Ya can’t get rid of me that easy.”
Her eyes never leave mine. No words. No welcome. Just a child who's forgotten how to be a child, standing guard over a kingdom of dust and broken promises.
I head towards the steps, feelin’ the need to get this shit over with. To see what I’m comin’ back to. To see what’s left of this piece-of-shit broken place.
Inside, the trailer smells like… something I can't place at first. Not rot or mold. Not exactly clean either. Just... lived in.
Different than I remember.
Mercy comes in behind me, edging past the kitchen counter, keeping her back to the wall, eyes never leaving mine. Smart girl. Never turn your back on what you don't trust.
I glance around, cataloging what's changed and what hasn't. The couch still sags in the middle, threadbare arms worn to the foam. Coffee table's got new scratches. Kitchen sink has dishes in it—not many, but enough to show someone's been eating here.
But there are fresh groceries on the counter. Not much. A loaf of bread that isn't moldy, milk that's still cold, peanut butter, and some apples.
I look over at the corner that acts like a dining room and spot some clean clothes. Folded neatly in stacks of t-shirts and pants. Mercy-sized. Too neat for this nine-year-old to have done herself.
"Where's Destiny?" I ask, turning back to Mercy.
Mercy shakes her head once, quick and definite.
"She here?" I press.
Mercy just stares, her face a blank wall.
I move past her toward the hallway. "I'm gonna check the rooms."
Every door you open in your childhood home shows you who you used to be, and these doors are no different.
The trailer has three bedrooms—if you can call them that. More like closets with doors. I check Destiny's room first. Door's unlocked. I push it open to find... nothing much. Bed's still there, dresser too. But the walls are bare. No clothes in the closet. No sign anyone's slept here in months.