When Nightmare Came Calling

Blood.

And lots of it.

Everywhere. On my hand, my clothes, my face.

Upside down, hair scraping the ceiling, disorientated, a ringing in my ears, sight blurry.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around me; my mother's embrace. Her scent mixed with the smell of smoke and gasoline. The car groaned, collapsing underneath its weight. Metal crunched and the floor glittered with glass shards.

The door wrenched open, metal torn apart and air rushing in, a gasp of life.

"Sora…"

My mother's faint voice, filled with desperation.

I didn't understand—I couldn't.

I was only four years old when the car flipped over on the way home, a freak accident that sent me and my parents flying off the bridge in the middle of a rainy night. Our car careened into the wet pavement below, crumpling the frame, and leaving us trapped upside down in a pile of metal and glass.

I was the only one who survived.

I could never forget the look of relief on my mom's face as life seeped from her body before my very eyes. I watched helplessly as the firefighter pulled me away.

I wanted them to save her, but it was too late. Half her body was already crushed. She held on just long enough to see me make it to safety.

My dad never had a chance. He died instantly when an errant steel bar pierced his throat.

There was nothing left but cold rain and sirens. I was shuffled to the side as they cleaned up the mess, surrounded by adults with pitying eyes, asking if I had "relatives," and assuring me that "everything was going to be okay."

It wasn't.

I could never return to those days by the beach when the ocean was clear and the skies were blue. Never again would I watch the night stars shine and the moon grin from the comfort of my mother's lap.

I lost everything that night.

Even my best friend.

Riku.

I used to play with him by the beach. He was a year older than me and already started school. We were inseparable. We did everything together. We swam, sparred with sticks, and ate my mom's sandwiches. Some days, he was difficult, and on others, he was easy, but on all days, he was my best friend.

I haven't seen him since.

With no immediate family to be found, the authorities struggled to find me a place to stay. After bouncing around from department to department, I was finally dumped into the social welfare system and wound up in a foster home.

My new house sat on top of a lonely hill that was too far from the beach. It was a tall rickety shack that leaned at a slight angle. From the attic window, you could see the whole city, and if you squinted hard enough, you could also see the ocean.

My caretakers were a pair of old ladies, Maleficent and Ursula, who couldn't be any more different from each other. One was very tall, thin, and bony with a narrow face and pinched cheeks. Her eyelids were weighed down by shades of purple and her hair was spun neatly around two horns.

The other was short, chubby, and wide, with a chin that masked her neck. A tuft of hair sprouted from her head like a white flame.

They were all grins and smiles in front of the social worker, but it was just for show. As soon as we were left alone, they dropped the act.

They never called me by name. It was always "bastard," "little shit," or a variation thereof. On a good day, they would just call me "you." They forced me to do all the chores; cleaning the house, washing the dishes, doing the laundry, and taking out the garbage. I never had a break, and I was only fed table scraps a couple times a day.

"You should be grateful you're getting this much," they told me.

Even dogs were treated better. If I didn't listen to them, they'd lock me in the closet for hours. It was horrible, but what else could I do? I was a little kid with nowhere to go. I didn't have a choice.

I slept in the attic, the coldest room at night, and the hottest room during the day. All I had was a dirty mattress on the floor and a tiny light bulb that I had to screw and unscrew several times before it worked. When I was done for the day, I was stuck in the attic for the whole night. The attic was locked from the outside until it was time to work the next morning.

I often stared out the window, my lone connection with the outside world. My mom once told me that shooting stars had the power to grant wishes. I was always waiting for one to fall.

I was trapped in that house for two miserable years. No matter how bad it got, I wouldn't cry. The first time I did, I was beaten so hard, they pretended to go on vacation when the social worker visited. It took me several days before I could stand up again, and once I did, it was back to scrubbing the floors. I learned my lesson: don't ever cry again.

It wasn't until the social worker informed them that I was required to attend school that I was able breathe fresh air. They didn't have a choice, not unless they wanted their monthly checks to dry up. They grudgingly enrolled me in school.

They set a strict timeline for me. I had to go straight home every day. If I was late by even one minute, it was closet time.

At school, I didn't talk to anyone, and nobody talked to me. I was always by myself. I didn't mind. It was better than doing the chores, better than being locked up in the attic, and better than waiting for a shooting star that would never fall.

The other kids would occasionally poke me. They wanted to see me react, but I never did. It only encouraged them further. I was soon the official classroom punching bag. They shoved me, smacked me on the head, and kicked my shins.

I never fought back, I never complained, and I never cried. As long as I didn't do anything, they'd eventually get bored and leave me alone.

It wasn't until fourth grade that I realized that there was more to life than suffering.

For the first time in my miserable existence, I had hope. I had finally found my shooting star.

And her name was Kairi.

AN: This story is not my own, but based on Best Deceptions by shirozora. I have blessings from the original author, so all credit to him/her. The original was never completed, so I'm taking matters into my own hands.