Page 49 of When Kings Rise

“Get up!” she roars.

I’m stunned for a moment, but when her fingers curl around a cutting knife, I get to my feet. A sharp edge grazes my arm, drawing blood—a stark red line. The pain is sharp, and I try to wrestle the knife out of her hands. My bare foot slams down on her bare feet, and she cries in pain, her grip on the knife loosening. I scurry to the ground and pick it up, rising quickly to my feet and bringing the blade to her neck.

“You’re a sorry excuse for a mother.” Tears burn my face. My heart hammers in my chest. “I want you to die!!!” I roar into her face. “Die, you bitch.” I scream again, pushing the blade. Something in me snaps as blood makes a trail down her neck. I drop the knife, the clang loud at our feet.

As I stagger away, the taste of blood coppery in my mouth and my wounds stinging painfully, I know that this is a turning point. I’ve lost everything. This is not just about survival; it's about forging a new path, one where my parents no longer dictate the direction of my future.

I take the first step up the stairs when a heavy weight lands on my back. I spin as my mother’s fist connects with my jaw. She puts all her hate behind the thump, and I’m dazed for a moment. I shuffle up two more steps and spin, kicking her in the face. She falls down the three steps, and for a moment, her still frame makes a hysterical laugh bubble up my throat. But when she raises her head, I know she will kill me. I claw at the stairs, scrambling to get to the safety of my room.

“Get back here!” Her screams are right behind me.

Fear wraps its dark fingers around me as I dart through my bedroom door. My heart races, pounding against my chest with the same ferocity that my mother slams her body against the door just as I get it closed and turn the key. She pounds against my bedroom door. I can hear the wood complaining, threatening to give way under her relentless assault. If she gets in here, she will kill me. The thought flashes through my mind, clear and terrifying.

My jaw aches, and I’m dazed for a moment, but I scramble around my room. My eyes scan the familiar space for anything that might aid my escape.

Tennis shoes—I gather them up along with a sweater and a pair of jeans. I slip everything on in a heartbeat. Panic courses through me as another crash sounds at my door.

Next, cash. I hastily shoved it into my pocket from a drawer I'd always hoped would remain a secret. It's not much, but it's all I have.

The window is my only exit, and it looms in front of me like a beacon of hope. I wrench it open, the night air slapping my face, sobering me with its chill. I'm halfway through, one leg dangling out into the void, when the inevitable crash sounds behind me. The door has given in. My mother's fury has me scrambling, but I don't look back. I can't.

The fall from the window is brief, a momentary flight that ends with my feet hitting the ground hard. I stumble, but I don't fall. Adrenaline is a miraculous thing, lending me the strength and speed I didn't know I possessed. As I run, my mother's rage-filled screams chase me, a haunting soundtrack that follows behind long after I've escaped into the night.

But for now, I run. I run from a house that was never a home, from a woman who was never truly a mother. Each step is an alchemy of liberation and terror. The night is cold as I race away from my mother and into the unknown.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Niamh

I'M NESTLED HALFWAY between the stage and the back doors of the Gaiety Theater. To my left is my mother, her attention riveted upon the unfolding spectacle. My father occupies the space on her other side. Both are engrossed, their gazes never straying from the stage. Around us, a sea of formally dressed spectators share in this silent performance.

The dancers, with their vibrant costumes and energetic movements, bring the story of the four seasons to life. Winter's chill has been banished, making way for Spring’s vivacity. It’s a transformation I've witnessed year after year, yet it never ceases to stir something within me. The stage is awash with colors.

I search for one performer among the many. Ella, my sister, the one person I can pinpoint in a crowd of a million without fail. Tonight, though, her role makes her stand out even more. Not a flower, nor a bird. No, Ella is Bacchante—a character with a name, a story, a presence that is undeniably her own.

A swell of pride rises in me. She embodies Bacchante with such conviction that, for a moment, I forget she’s playing a role. To me, she’s the very essence of Spring itself—wild, joyful, and unrestrained.

Intermission breaks the enchantment of the performance with the stark reality of a crowded space. The stage, just moments ago alive with the vivid storytelling of dancers, now lies hidden behind the heavy curtains, awaiting the second act. Dancers in yellow cloaks mark the transition, their movements a whirlwind of color and grace, guiding their fellow performers offstage in a final, fleeting tableau before the curtains draw close.

The shift in the auditorium is immediate. A collective exhale fills the air, the sound of hundreds of people rising, stretching limbs stiffened by the long sit, engaging in whispered conversations, or navigating the aisles toward the restrooms or concession stands.

I watch as my parents stand, my father taking the lead as he always does from his preferred spot at the end of the row. They merge into the stream of people, my mother's voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd, discussing Ella's performance—every movement, every leap, every turn scrutinized. The pride in her achievement is tempered by a relentless pursuit of perfection. Even in this moment of triumph, the conversation centers on what could be better, on the imperfections only a trained eye could catch. It’s an all-too-familiar pattern, their high expectations always casting a long shadow.

I find myself alone, my parents' attention anchored to Ella's performance. Their absence by my side is a familiar scenario on nights like these, where my sister's talent steals all their attention. Oddly enough, I like this time alone.

Navigating the throng of intermission-goers, I push my way out of the theater and onto the sidewalk. The transition from the artificially lit interior to the outside world is startling. The grand arc of the theater's entrance frames my exit as I step into the crisp embrace of the autumn air. The freshness of it is nice after the warmth of the theater and the intoxicating scents of perfumes and aftershaves.

Outside, the city is alive—the distant hum of traffic blends with the closer sounds of conversations and footsteps on pavement. Streetlights cast a golden glow.

My moment of solitude is cut short by an usher who approaches me as I attempt to re-enter the theater for the second act.

“Niamh Connolly?” He asks, an odd formality in his tone.

“Yes.”

He nods. “I am here to lead you back to your seat.” He holds out his arm for me to go ahead.

“I already know where my seat is,” I say.

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