Flame of Vengeance: A Gift for My Uncle's Family

The frantic knocking at the door woke everyone up. When my family heard what had happened, my father’s anger exploded. He threw his teacup to the ground and pointed at my mother, his voice trembling with rage.

“Are the Slaton Family all monsters? How could they do something like this?”

My mother, always the quiet one, didn’t dare say anything at first. But after my father finished his rant, she finally spoke up, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe there’s been some kind of mistake?”

“No mistake,” I shot back. “They locked me in that room. It was intentional.”

Without a word, my brother grabbed a stick and headed for the door, but my father pulled him back.

“Where do you think you’re going? If anyone’s dealing with this, it’ll be me.”

As the tension built, I could see things spiraling out of control. “Enough! Fighting won’t solve anything. We need to think this through. We should call the police.”

At the mention of the police, my mother’s face went pale. She shook her head, panic setting in. “No, you can’t call the police! If you do, Kennith’s life will be ruined. He’s the only son the Slatons have.”

My father scoffed. “They brought this on themselves. We’re calling the police tomorrow, no question.”

After some discussion, we all agreed—calling the police was the right move. We also decided to cut off all contact with the Slatons and pretend they didn’t exist. My mother, though reluctant, knew it had to be done. Kennith’s actions had destroyed any hope of maintaining a relationship between our families.

I spent the whole night tossing and turning, haunted by the image of Kennith’s twisted face. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel the cold sweat breaking out on my skin. When morning finally came, I was exhausted but still wide awake.

As I lay there trying to gather the energy to get up, I suddenly heard a commotion outside my room. Curious and a bit on edge, I quickly threw on some clothes and rushed out. To my surprise, two police officers—one male, one female—were standing in our living room, looking serious in their uniforms.

My dad, who was already up, turned to me with a confused expression. “Did you call the police?”

I shook my head, equally baffled and then looked over at my brother, who seemed just as surprised.

The male officer spoke up, his tone authoritative. “Who here is Carrie Chidsey?”

“I am,” I said, trying to steady my voice.

The female officer stepped forward, her expression unreadable. “We received a report last night. Carrie is suspected of intentionally injuring someone. We need you to come with us to the station.”

My mind raced—intentionally injuring someone? It had to be about Kennith. The memory of hitting him with that stool last night came rushing back. Was this really happening? The nerve of him, turning this around on me after what he tried to do.

Before I could say anything, my dad intervened, his voice rising in disbelief. “This has to be a mistake! My daughter was nearly assaulted last night. She was just defending herself!”

The male officer gave a slight nod. “We’ll need to investigate the situation. Please come with us so we can get to the bottom of this.”

So there I was, going from being the victim to being treated like a criminal. At the police station, I told them everything, leaving no detail out. I could only hope that they’d see the truth in my story and that justice would finally be served.

After the police questioned me and looked into everything, they couldn’t find any solid evidence that I had been assaulted. Meanwhile, Kennith’s injuries were confirmed by the hospital, so it seemed like I was the one at fault. Officer Lana Brister, the one who took me in, seemed to believe my story, but without proof, there wasn’t much she could do.

It was surreal. Here I was, the one who was attacked, yet I ended up locked up like I had done something wrong. During my time in the detention center, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I kept replaying the whole thing in my head, trying to figure out what I could’ve done differently. It hit me that I couldn’t afford to be soft or hesitate when dealing with people like Kennith. I needed to protect myself and gather evidence at all costs because otherwise, I would end up in a mess like this.

The thought of being convicted for something I didn’t start was terrifying. If they charged me with intentional injury, I could be looking at up to three years in prison. That was the harsh reality and it weighed heavily on me. I racked my brain, trying to remember every detail, every moment from that night, hoping I could find something to help my case. But without any concrete proof, it felt like I was stuck in an impossible situation.

That week in the detention center dragged on, each day feeling longer than the last. I searched for a way out, but nothing seemed to add up in my favor. I was running out of time and the fear of what might come next was overwhelming.