The woman sat at her desk, thinking. After all, that was all she could do. Think. She held the baby boy in her arms tightly, as if someone was about to take him from her. Which someone was.
She could hear someone pounding on the door. The woman knew he was about to make the door crash down. She knew he was going to find her and take her son away from her. Her own husband. The baby boy's father. Was about to try to murder them.
She knew her husband wasn't always like this. He was once kind and forgiving. He was once pleasant to be around. But that was until she made the mistake. She had trusted him, and so had her daughter.
She had once had a daughter. She was many years older than the baby boy. She was brave, bold, and beautiful. She was the best thing that had ever happened to the woman. But she was the worst thing that ever happened to the father.
The daughter was very unique and special. Everyone who met her liked her instantly. Except for the father. He hated her, even though he didn't show it. He acted like he was a person that the daughter could trust. Which she did.
On the day that the mother and her son were trying to escape, it was also the daughter's sixteenth birthday. As she blew out the sixteen melting candles on her birthday cake, the father knew it was time. He had been waiting. For the time that his family would be vulnerable.
He tapped his daughter on her shoulder and led her to their backyard. He checked that no one was around, and his wife was feeding their son. Or at least he thought. He motioned his daughter to sit on the bench. Moonlight swirled around them. He reached into the pocket of his pants and slowly pulled out a gun.
The wife walked outside to the yard with her sleeping baby tucked in her arms to hear the sound of gunfire and a sharp scream. She ran over into the dim light of night to find her daughter on the ground, dead. She looked at the father in shock with a gun in his hand. He glanced at his wife with his eyes reflecting the blood coming out of her daughter's head.
The mother screamed and ran into the house with the baby. The mother ran up the stairs as fast as she could. She could hear her husband's footsteps following her. He just shot the walls with his gun to scare her. Her son started to cry and held on to her hair tightly. The mother slammed the door shut as she ran into her room and locked the door.
Now here she was, holding the baby, sitting at a desk. She had to devise a plan to escape. She looked at her crying son and knew she couldn't let him die at this young age. The hinges on the door started to rattle. The mother screamed as she saw her husband's blood-thirsty eyes glaring at her from a hole in the door.
The mother fell over backwards and looked at a window. That was how her son was going to escape. She couldn't fit through the window no matter how hard she would try. She grabbed a book sitting on the desk and smashed the window open, shattering glass on the floor.
The mother heard the door fall on the floor. She could hear her husband walk in. With that, she closed her eyes and threw her son out the window.
As he fell, he could hear multiple gun shots and a scream.
The small baby splashed into a lake next to the house. At that splash, it began to rain. It was a comforting rain, a very soft one. As the rain drops fell on his face, he knew. He knew that he was safe, as he floated down the lake.
But I didn't know. That I wasn't safe for long.
I closed my eyes as cold raindrops fell on my face. I could stay out in the woods for hours, just laying on that same branch in that same tree, with rain falling on my face.
The raindrops comforted me for some reason. Most people hate staying out in the rain. But the rain is a place where I can think. A place where I can make all bad memories escape my head.
"Lance!" a voice called. "Lance, where are you?"
I peered down the tree and saw my grandmother Ranna walking around with an umbrella.
"I'm up here, Ranna," I replied.
She looked up, her emerald green eyes sparkling in the rain. "Lance, you'll catch a cold, please come down," she replied.
I sighed and jumped down. "You worry about everything, Ranna," I groaned.
She patted me on the back. "That's what grandmothers are supposed to do," she replied.