(First-Person POV — Crystal Reed)
The night my childhood ended tasted like metal.
I still remember the cold bite of the air, how it slid down my throat and made my lungs feel like they were bleeding. I was ten. Small. Quiet. Always quiet.
Too quiet.
Mother told me once that silence could be a warning.
She was right.
Because that night, the silence felt heavy… like the world knew what was about to happen and didn't want to interrupt.
I was sitting by her bedroom door, my knees pulled to my chest, tracing circles on the floor with my fingertip. We had planned to run away that night.
"Just a little longer, Crystal," she had whispered earlier.
"We'll be free. I promise."
I wanted to believe her.
I really did.
But promises in our house broke faster than glass.
The shouting came suddenly.
My father's voice first—deep, venomous, vibrating through the walls like he was trying to tear the house apart with sound alone.
Then my mother's voice.
Not angry.
Not fighting back.
Begging.
"Please—Robert , not here. Not in front of her—"
My heart froze.
Then came the sound I knew too well.
A slap.
Sharp.
Hard.
I stood before I even realized I'd moved. Something in me already knew this wasn't like the other times. This wasn't just another night of my father dragging my mother through hell.
This was worse.
The screaming wasn't coming from inside the house.
It was coming from the backyard.
From the river side.
The side my mother told me never to go near.
The river my father always walked toward when his rage needed an audience.
My footsteps were silent as I slipped out the back door.
The air smelled like wet grass, mud, and—
Blood.
I followed the voices.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The moon hid behind clouds, making the night feel blind. My breathing was too loud in my ears. My heart was quieter than everything around me.
And then I saw them.
My father stood near the riverbank like a shadow carved out of violence, his hands clamped around my mother's throat. Her hair was wild around her face, her feet digging into the mud as she tried to pull away.
And next to him…
Vivian.
The mistress.
Her lipstick was bright red, almost glowing in the dark. Her smile was wrong—too pleased, too entertained.
I pressed myself behind a tree.
My father shoved my mother onto her knees.
Her dress tore at the side.
Her voice cracked.
Vivian stepped forward, tilting my mother's chin up with her fingers.
"You should've died a long time ago," she said, her expression unknown.
"Thank you for not fighting back too hard." she continued.
My mother spat in her face.
Vivian's smile twisted.
My father snapped.
He grabbed a large rock. I saw it clearly from where I hid.
Sharp.
Heavy.
Deadly.
I didn't breathe.
I didn't blink.
He lifted it—
and slammed it down.
The sound was wet.
Sick.
Final.
I bit into my hand to stop myself from screaming.
Blood filled my mouth.
He swung again.
And again.
My mother fell forward, limp, blood soaking into the muddy ground.
My world fell with her.
Vivian watched with her arms folded, like she was judging a performance.
Then she looked at the river.
"Get rid of her."
My father grabbed my mother by her wrists and dragged her toward the water.
Her head hit the ground once.
Her hair caught on a branch.
Her body folded strangely.
The river took her with a splash that echoed inside me.
I wanted to run to her.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to throw myself into the water and drag her out.
But my legs were stone.
My breath was broken.
My soul was cracking.
Vivian clapped lightly.
"Perfect."
Then someone else stepped forward.
A girl.
Vivian's daughter.
Isabella.
My age.
She looked down at the river with a weird kind of fascination.
"Did we do it right, Mommy?"
My stomach twisted.
"Yes, darling," Vivian whispered, smoothing her hair.
"You did wonderfully."
My heart shattered into something sharp.
My father wrapped his arm around Vivian's waist and kissed her.
Right after killing my mother.
Right there on the riverbank.
"Tomorrow," he said softly.
"You'll be my wife."
Vivian smirked.
"I already am."
They walked away, laughing.
Before following them, Isabella turned back.
She looked right at the tree I was hiding behind.
Her eyes met mine.
Her lips curled.
A smile.
A cruel one.
She saw me.
She wanted me to know she saw me.
And she didn't care.
I ran.
I don't remember much of the running.
Only the pain.
The cold.
The confusion.
My legs moved like they weren't mine anymore.
My breath burned.
My tears blurred everything.
I ran to the only place I thought was safe—
my aunt's house.
I burst through the door, shaking, choking on words as I told her everything.
Every detail.
Every scream.
Every nightmare I had just witnessed.
She listened.
Quietly.
Too quietly.
When I finished, she reached forward—
not to hug me,
not to comfort me—
—but to grab my face.
Her nails dug into my cheeks.
Her smile was wide.
Wrong.
Monstrous.
"Finally," she whispered, "that woman is out of the way."
Out of the way?
What?
Her husband came out from behind her, arms crossed casually.
"The property will come to us now," he said.
"Robert will be grateful."
Grateful?
For murdering his wife?
My head spun.
"You didn't think we'd go to the police, did you?" my aunt laughed.
"Oh, Crystal… You're just a child. No one will believe you."
Blood roared in my ears.
Before I could speak, she shoved me toward the door.
"You didn't see us," she whispered.
"We didn't see you. Now get out."
The door slammed.
I stumbled into the street.
Cold.
Alone.
Barefoot.
Covered in mud.
That's the moment I realized—
No one was coming to save me.
No one cared.
The world wasn't good.
It wasn't fair.
It was cruel.
And I would have to become something crueler.
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand.
My fingers trembled…
…but something inside me didn't.
Something hard.
Something dark.
Something new.
"I'll make them all pay," I whispered to the wind.
My voice sounded older than ten.
"Every last one of them."
The river had taken my mother.
But I would take everything else.
That night, Crystal Reed—the weak, soft girl—died.
And something colder…
smarter…
hungrier…
was born.
This was the beginning.
My beginning.
The kind the world would never be ready for.