Chapter One
Abby couldn't take it any longer. She had to get out. Another beating would be coming as soon as her father stepped through the door, and Abby knew that she wouldn't be able to handle it.
It was just a matter of time before Social Services stepped into the picture, before Abby was sent to a foster home to live with complete strangers. She knew that once she got into the foster system, there was no getting out. There were just as many bad foster parents as there were good ones, and Abby didn't want to risk it.
She had no place to go, really. She had no aunts or uncles. Her grandparents from both sides of her family were dead. So was her mother, the only person or creature that had ever truly cared for her. The only one Abby had truly cared for, as well.
Abby didn't have a choice though. She had to get out.
Under her bed in the attic, Abby found her trunk. She plopped it down on the bed, letting it fall open. After she had grabbed some clothes and threw them into the trunk, she closed it and ran for the door, but---
Abby looked behind her, scanning her room one last time. Then, she saw it. The dark-blue violin case. Her mother had been teaching her to play since she was old enough to hold a full-sized one. Even though it was extra weight to lug around, Abby couldn't leave it behind. It had been so important to her . . . and her mother.
She reached out for it and was about to slide her hand into the handle until she heard---
"ABBY!"
Her father's cold, drunken, bellowing voice rang through the house, sending shivers up Abby's spine.
She grabbed the case, exited her room, and made her way down the stairs as quietly as possible.
The seventh step creaks, she said to herself. Don't forget. The seventh step creaks. Here it comes. That's right. Just step . . . over it.
She looked down, at the eighth step. She had made it. She tiptoed down the rest of them and edged across the living room, behind her father's recliner where he was sitting, snoring loudly. She stopped at the door to draw a silent breath. Then she heard the pelting of rain outside on the roof.
Ah, great, she thought. Just what I need.
She took her yellow raincoat from the coat rack, put it on, and reached for door handle. Once she had the door open, Abby picked up the trunk and case again, stepped outside, and shut the door behind her for the last time.
Abby walked off the porch and ran down the driveway until she was nothing but a mere yellow blur, quickly fading away between the sheets of cold rain in the distance. Little did she know where she was going or what she would do once she got there; and little did she know that a year from now, her raincoat would be of no use whatsoever.
Abby couldn't take it any longer. She had to get out. Another beating would be coming as soon as her father stepped through the door, and Abby knew that she wouldn't be able to handle it.
It was just a matter of time before Social Services stepped into the picture, before Abby was sent to a foster home to live with complete strangers. She knew that once she got into the foster system, there was no getting out. There were just as many bad foster parents as there were good ones, and Abby didn't want to risk it.
She had no place to go, really. She had no aunts or uncles. Her grandparents from both sides of her family were dead. So was her mother, the only person or creature that had ever truly cared for her. The only one Abby had truly cared for, as well.
Abby didn't have a choice though. She had to get out.
Under her bed in the attic, Abby found her trunk. She plopped it down on the bed, letting it fall open. After she had grabbed some clothes and threw them into the trunk, she closed it and ran for the door, but---
Abby looked behind her, scanning her room one last time. Then, she saw it. The dark-blue violin case. Her mother had been teaching her to play since she was old enough to hold a full-sized one. Even though it was extra weight to lug around, Abby couldn't leave it behind. It had been so important to her . . . and her mother.
She reached out for it and was about to slide her hand into the handle until she heard---
"ABBY!"
Her father's cold, drunken, bellowing voice rang through the house, sending shivers up Abby's spine.
She grabbed the case, exited her room, and made her way down the stairs as quietly as possible.
The seventh step creaks, she said to herself. Don't forget. The seventh step creaks. Here it comes. That's right. Just step . . . over it.
She looked down, at the eighth step. She had made it. She tiptoed down the rest of them and edged across the living room, behind her father's recliner where he was sitting, snoring loudly. She stopped at the door to draw a silent breath. Then she heard the pelting of rain outside on the roof.
Ah, great, she thought. Just what I need.
She took her yellow raincoat from the coat rack, put it on, and reached for door handle. Once she had the door open, Abby picked up the trunk and case again, stepped outside, and shut the door behind her for the last time.
Abby walked off the porch and ran down the driveway until she was nothing but a mere yellow blur, quickly fading away between the sheets of cold rain in the distance. Little did she know where she was going or what she would do once she got there; and little did she know that a year from now, her raincoat would be of no use whatsoever.