it always starts the same way... with you running. running as fast as your skinny little legs will carry you, but you're not sure where you're going. hell, you can't actually see where you're going because your eyes are burning with sweat and tears. still, you keep going, keep running. except your resolve is interrupted by the feeling of hands on your arms, on your legs.

you kick, flail, scratch, doing anything you can to try and break free, to get away. there's only one thing on your mind right now: you need to run. but they're so much bigger than you and your tiny body just hurts from the sruggle. you can hear the sound of fabric ripping as the hands claw at your body, tearing your dress. you try and scream, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. so you take a rushed breath of air and try again. but you can't seem to find your voice and the only thing that comes out is a wracked sob.

the hands push you to the ground. you're not sure how many there are now, but they feel like they're everywhere -- they're on your hips and waist and chest and face, they're everywhere hands shouldn't be. you're doing everything you can to fight, to get them off of you, to break free, but every time you get close, they overpower you. every inch of your body aches and stings from cuts and bruises and scrapes. you open your mouth again and this time, you manage out a strangled cry for help, only to be met with the sensation of something foul and bitter tasting being stuffed in your mouth.

another sob rattles through your body and you finally give up, accepting your fate. so you squeeze your eyes shut as tight as you can, because you don't want to see it. instead, you try to imagine something nice. maybe this way, at least, you'll make it out alive... even so, there's a part of you that just wishes they would just end it all for you.

suddenly, the hands pinning your shoulders down are ripped away. it all happens so fast that you can't really keep up, but you can hear the scuffle behind you and soon, the hands on your legs are gone, too. the sound of your mother's voice breaks the noise in your head, and she's yelling for you to run. so you open your eyes and scramble to your feet.

the sight in front of you is like nothing you've ever imagined, but it's one you'll never forget. you've never seen your mother like this. she's covered in blood and dirt, both her lips are split open and her cheek is swollen and already beginning to bruise, and you can tell she's tired, but she's so fierce, so angry and she's not backing down. one of the men who attacked you is laying on the ground, out cold, while the other lunges toward a gun on the ground.

you know she told you to run and normally, you'd do as you're told, but you can't, you need to help, you need to stop this. and you're about to when she yells again.

damnit, maxine! her voice is strained as she throws herself against the man to stop him from getting the weapon. run! baby, go! she lets out a grunt when the man's knee connects with her side. don't look back, baby. just get out of here! this time, you listen. you turn and you do as you're told, you run again.

you're single minded: keep going, keep running, don't stop, don't look back.

who knows how far you've gone or how long you've been running, but you know it can't be far, because the sound of gunfire behind you breaks through the cadance of barefeet on pavement and your heartbeat racing in your ears. instantly, your eyes fill with tears and you can taste the salt on your lips as they pour down your cheeks. for the first time in your short thirteen years of life, you find yourself praying to god that it was your mom that pulled the trigger. the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach tells you otherwise.

for a second, you think of turning around, but you know better, so you keep going. you don't know where you are or where you're going or how much time as past, but you turn anyway. first left, then right, then right again, until you just... can't keep going. you're tired and out of breath and you're hurt and scared and crying. your legs finally give out and you fall into a pile of cardboard in an alley behind an all night diner. the smell of french fries is the last thing you think about before everything goes black.

------------- you wake up with a start and sweat on your brow. for a split second, you expect to see a police officer cradling you in his arms, but then the real world comes into focus. you push yourself up against the pillows and remind yourself that you're in your own bed, in your own house, with your dogs curled up at the foot of the bed. you remind yourself that you're three thousand miles and thirteen years from that night.

all the reminders in the world aren't going to get you back to sleep, though, because even after all this time, you're still scared to shut your eyes when that night comes back to haunt you.

so you sigh as you slide out of bed, the dogs following suit as you make your way to your bedroom door and down the stairs. it's almost second nature by this point, to reach out and blindly grab one of the bottles from the wetbar as you pass by it and you don't waste a second unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink directly from the bottle.

there's something about the cool hardwood floor under your feet and the tequila warm in your throat that instantly calms your nerves. it's not much, but it's a simple, tangible reminder that you're okay.