Lost trust

It really hurts to get stabbed.

"How could you do this to me?" I seethe through gritted teeth.

Instead of an answer I get a jab to the side, which I narrowly avoid. I'm panting heavily, which is making me feel slightly light-headed. Tucking myself tight into my chest, I roll forward, feeling the kiss of a blade barely a breath away from chopping my ponytail in half.

Stopping on my tiptoes, I use the momentum to stand up, only to slam to the floor again to avoid being decapitated. My quick reflexes are the only thing keeping me alive. I jump up and turn around to face my attacker—only to be met by the sharp end of a sword.

It's gone straight through my stomach. The only thing I'm aware of is the gut-wrenching pain (see what I did there *wink*) and the sound of screaming. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure it's me.

Now I'm sure you probably want some context.

Well, I'm going to give it to you. I'm being attacked right now. There is a sword in my stomach. It really hurts. The sword belongs to my best friend. Rather confusing—right? If you're going to understand, then I'm going to have to start from the beginning. So, about twenty years ago my mother gave birth to me—

I'm kidding. I'm not honestly going to tell you my whole life story. Just the last few years of it.
All joking aside, what I'm about to tell you might be disturbing. It's definitely sad.

What you may think is that—because it's my story—that I'm the hero, that it's not my fault I've been betrayed by someone close to me, or even that you relate to being stabbed by a friend (figuratively, I'd like to hope).

In my opinion—there are three sides to every story. The abuser, the victim, and the truth. In most instances, both are to blame and both are victims. We are all human and we hurt people when we are in need of help ourselves.

My name is Ruby Whyte and—though I don't think I deserve all I've been through—I have definitely played a vital part in the things that have gone wrong along the way. However, just because I think this of myself, doesn't mean it's necessarily the truth. The truth is for you, dear reader, to figure out.

This story starts around two years ago, with my best friend and I squabbling over firewood.

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Heather nudges me in the shoulder, offering to take the flint and stone from my hands, but I refuse and hold them out of her reach. "I'm almost there," I insist, despite the cold seeping in through the cracks in our small cottage.

"Ruby, please just let me do it—we're both freezing here and you've never managed it before. Now is really not the time," she pleads.

I ignore her, focusing solely on the wood in front of me. Rain patters rhythmically on the windows as the weak morning sunlight illuminates my hands. I furiously rub the two tools together, almost dropping them in surprise as a spark finally catches on the tinder in front of me. Letting out a yell of excitement, I turn my head to find Heather smiling at me. I let out a sigh of contentment and fall back against the stone wall to bask in the light of my newly lit fire.

"I think you were lucky the sunlight hit at the right angle."

"Don't take this away from me, I was still the one who lit it," I pout.

Heather laughs and scoots closer to the fire, taking her delicate hands out from under her legs to hold them in front of the flames. As much as I wish to do the same, I have places to be and a very busy day ahead of me.

"Right," I say heavily, stretching the stiffness from my muscles.

"Where are you going?" Heather inquires.