***
My stepmother stiffened for a second too long. She looked over her shoulder and found the empty doorway. Barely giving her a moment to register that she'd been effortlessly fooled by the girl she underestimated, I launched myself at her with a whole new strength I never knew I had in me. I'd never been one for physical attacks, but it seemed I'd been storing up my energy for this moment.
She squeezed the trigger, sending indiscriminate bullets ripping into the ceiling and ricocheting around the house. A few empty shots turned my trepidation to amusement. I let out a full-throated laugh as she groaned over her newest failure.
Gritting her teeth, she swung the empty gun at my face, aiming to break a bone or two. From the cracking sound that followed, and the eye-watering pain that ensued, she had surely hit target.
A warm liquid trickled down my temple, right where I'd been hit. I'd wave it off as beads of sweat, but the smell of copper and earth wafting into my nostrils said otherwise. I'd barely even recovered when she struck again, making both sides of my face even.
I made to slither away as her empty gun hit the floor, but a slap sent my face flying sideways. Her hands, trembling with untamed rage, grabbed my neck, raising me till my feet were inches from the floor. My legs dangled in the air as I struggled to break free.
My hands scrambled to find hers and pry them off. She reacted with gruesome immediacy, putting more pressure. In a frantic attempt to pry off her fingers, I dug into my neck with my fingers. Watching my pointless struggles, her eyes twinkled with excitement; the kind of excitement a child displayed when exploring his new toy.
This was the end. Death had finally found me.
Sometime ago I'd thought of death as a Knight in Shiny Armor who would come sweep me away from the world's ruthless depravity. But here I was now, on the verge of death, praying for a miracle. But I knew better than to hope for luck, because luck always deserted me when I needed it the most.
Overflowing with scalding hot tears, my eyes peeled open. If I would die-and with each passing second it became clear that I would-then I wanted to at least have one last look at the world.
"Yes," the murderer said. "Look at me one last time. I want my face etched into your dying memory."
She let out a cackling laugh intended to irritate me in my last moments. A new found energy soared within me. I would not stoop so low to let her take away my life like it meant nothing. No, I would live. And I would write this story in my ongoing novel.
Energized by her malevolence, I grunted with rage and delivered a bone-breaking kick to her kneecap. She yelped in pain and loosened her grip on my neck.
Simultaneously, we fell to the floor. I took a moment to fill my lungs with the oxygen they had been so rudely deprived of. Gripping the bed frame for support, I scrambled to my feet.
The enemy lay defeated in the spot where shards of glass had been only moments ago. She writhed and moaned, clutching her possibly broken knee. Crawling, she made to grab my leg. I jumped out of her reach, grabbed my phone and bag, and darted out.