The Light Within

The Light Within Annie Reynolds Skye High Publishing Contents Acknowledgments Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Epilogue Playlist About the Author This work, The Light Within, is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2018 Annie Reynolds All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Cover Design: SSB Covers and Design Interior Design: SSB Covers and Design Editor: Swish Design and Editing Publisher: Skye High Publishing For past me, if you could see this, I would tell you to keep going—life is not going to be what you expect, but you will make it through. Acknowledgments Always first, my husband, who has been patient and supportive as always, understanding the process and getting me while it happens, my compass back to the real world when I’m sleep-deprived and stressed-out. My beta and editing team—especially Cassie and Jess—you guys are my angels. Sandy, patient and dedicated every step of the way and butt-kicking when required but always ‘motivating,’ aka pushy in a good way. Having someone to talk to and bounce ideas off during the drafting is invaluable. Otherwise, I sound insane to anyone else. You keep me sane! The indie community on social media platforms—an amazingly welcoming and understanding community filled with people who totally rock! Chapter One Alina Your mother is a nutjob. Your mother is batshit crazy. Your mother is a lying slut, a dirty whore. Your mother is a murderer. Carefully, I unfolded the piece of paper. Its creases had become so well-worn it frayed at the folds. All their foul words were put to rest on this page. All the taunting and teasing I’d been subjected to when I was young now made sense. What had been bullies in my childhood, throwing rocks and calling names while my heart twisted and broke, had now morphed into a reality I’d never known or hoped to grasp as a child. I reread the lines before folding it and tucking it away in the back pocket of my jeans, where it had lived since it had arrived a week ago. Raising my hand in the tight fist I wanted to use so many times on a wall, a face, or even the front fender of my beat-up car, I rap on the old wooden door, the sound echoing through the house I’d grown up in and waited. Turning my back to the door, I scanned the unkempt mess of the garden. The prickles and weeds had waged a war on the plants my mother had loved to nurture, and they’d won. A sweet smile crossed my lips. I had so many memories of her working in the garden—her safe haven—memories of her crawling on hands and knees from one garden bed to another, pruning and turning soil while singing to her roses. She was happy here. We felt safe here. Until the day we didn’t. The day the men came. Her words told me she blamed herself. I wished she hadn’t because maybe the words would have been unnecessary, the letter would never have arrived, and the evil truth would never have been revealed to me. The door resisted before creaking behind me, scraping on the wooden floor like it had grown too big for the doorframe around it. A cherub face greeted me. “Alina, welcome home. It’s so wonderful to see you.” “Mr. Wilson, good afternoon.” He looked old, older than old. He looked ancient. He’d looked old when I lived here, and now, in all the time which had passed, he’d aged terribly. Liver spots dotted his frail skin. We continued the awkward standoff on the front steps of my mother’s house as if sucked into a time-lapse where everything had come to a screeching halt except for growing discomfort. “May I come in?” “Oh, yes, dear, of course.” Mr. Wilson stepped aside, granting me access to what recently had become my possession. Asking permission to enter seemed like a pointless formality. Mr. Wilson sent me the letter among the last of my mother’s possessions and her will. Both arrived only a week ago, requesting I return to the town where my childhood was scarred with spite and jealousy. I hadn’t wanted to return, not in this lifetime or even in the next. Over a decade ago, I scraped the remnants of their hate and anger from my bones before making myself a promise never to return. But there I was, standing in the dingy foyer of the home where I was raised. How could I be there as a different person and still feel the same as I had on the day I left? The memories flooded back as if watching an old black and white film on the projector in our living room like we did when I was young. The house needed attention. There was no denying it. Layers of dust tainted every surface and were the same soft brown color as the dirt outside. It was stuffy as if all the air had been exhaled after being locked up for years with no love, attention, or even a simple breath of fresh air. My eyes roamed the walls where our photos still hung. Then, leaning closer, I saw the image I’d committed to memory long ago. Mom and I were on the only vacation we ever