Grey Blood - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The scent of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke filled the small, dimly lit house. The air was heavy, suffocating, pressing against Angelina's chest like an invisible weight. She sat curled up on the thin mattress in the corner of her tiny room—if it could even be called that. The walls were cracked, the paint peeling, and the single window was nailed shut.
Her fingers clutched the hem of her worn-out sweater, one that was far too big for her frail frame. It had been one of the few pieces of clothing she owned that wasn't torn. Outside her door, she could hear the muffled voices of her aunt and uncle, arguing again. It was always the same—money, alcohol, and their never-ending misery.
A sudden crash echoed through the house, followed by the sharp sound of glass shattering. Angelina flinched but remained still, staring at the floor. She had learned long ago that making a sound, reacting in any way, would only make things worse.
"Get out here, girl!" her uncle's slurred voice bellowed.
Angelina took a deep breath, her small hands trembling as she pushed herself up from the mattress. She knew better than to disobey. Slowly, she stepped out of her room and into the suffocating atmosphere of the living room. The coffee table was overturned, a bottle of whiskey spilled across the floor. Her aunt, Martha, was slouched in the armchair, her bloodshot eyes narrowing at Angelina with pure disdain.
"You think you can live here for free?" her uncle, Ray, spat. He was a towering man, broad-shouldered and unshaven, his eyes filled with the kind of hatred she never understood.
Angelina shook her head quickly, keeping her gaze down. "No, sir."
"Then why the hell is dinner not ready?" He took a step toward her, and she instinctively shrank back. But it didn't matter. His rough hand grabbed her wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise. She bit her lip, refusing to cry out. Tears only made things worse.
"I—I'll make it now," she whispered.
He shoved her away, making her stumble before catching herself. "Damn right, you will. And don't you dare mess it up, or you'll be sleeping outside again."
Angelina nodded and hurried toward the kitchen. The last time she had "messed up," she had spent the night outside in the freezing cold. She still remembered the way her fingers had gone numb, how her thin sweater had done nothing to keep her warm. But she had survived. She always did.
The kitchen was a mess, just like the rest of the house. Empty beer cans littered the counter, and dishes were piled high in the sink. She pushed up her sleeves and got to work, preparing a simple meal with the little food they had left.
As she stirred the pot, her mind wandered. Somewhere out there, she had a real family. A mother, a father—maybe even siblings. She didn't remember them, but sometimes, in her dreams, she saw glimpses of warm arms holding her, of laughter, of love. But dreams were dangerous. They made her long for things she could never have.
"Faster, girl!" her aunt snapped, making Angelina jump.
"Yes, ma'am," she murmured, quickening her pace.
She served the food without a word, retreating back to her small room once they started eating. They never let her eat with them. If there were leftovers, she could have them. If not, she would go to bed hungry.
Tonight, there were no leftovers.
Lying back on her mattress, she curled up, wrapping her arms around herself. The hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she ignored it. She had learned to. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to sleep, knowing tomorrow would be the same.
What she didn't know was that tomorrow would be the day everything changed.