My Hand, My Song, My Freedom

My Hand, My Song, My Freedom

Gavin

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The smell hit me first, thick, choking smoke, then Lila' s terrified scream ripped through the festival noise. Jax, my fiancé, was a blur beside me, his face tight with a desperate need to save her. He started towards The Swamp Shack, towards the hungry flames devouring the old wooden walls. My body wanted to lunge, to grab his arm, to scream, "No, Jax, don't!" But this time, I didn't. Because I remembered. I remembered the searing pain as burning wood crashed down, crushing my left hand, destroying my music, obliterating my future, in another life. I remembered Jax' s face, twisted not with concern for me, but with fury, after Lila was dead and my hand a useless, mangled thing. "It's your fault, Scarlett! You should have saved her, not me!" his words, a brand on my soul. His family' s money, a weapon that bled me dry, blackballing me from every gig, every chance I had. I remembered the suffocating silence of his plantation, the cold dismissal in his eyes every day of our sham marriage. Oh God, and the smokehouse. Locked in, the Louisiana summer sun beating down, the air so thick I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, utterly alone. I gasped, the memory so real I could taste the ash and the terror. Now, in this life, Jax was yelling Lila' s name again, ready to play the hero, just like before. But this time the script was mine. This time, I stepped aside. I just watched him charge into the inferno, pure indifference a cold comfort. My hand, my precious hand, was safe. My music was still mine.

Introduction

The smell hit me first, thick, choking smoke, then Lila' s terrified scream ripped through the festival noise.

Jax, my fiancé, was a blur beside me, his face tight with a desperate need to save her.

He started towards The Swamp Shack, towards the hungry flames devouring the old wooden walls.

My body wanted to lunge, to grab his arm, to scream, "No, Jax, don't!"

But this time, I didn't.

Because I remembered.

I remembered the searing pain as burning wood crashed down, crushing my left hand, destroying my music, obliterating my future, in another life.

I remembered Jax' s face, twisted not with concern for me, but with fury, after Lila was dead and my hand a useless, mangled thing.

"It's your fault, Scarlett! You should have saved her, not me!" his words, a brand on my soul.

His family' s money, a weapon that bled me dry, blackballing me from every gig, every chance I had.

I remembered the suffocating silence of his plantation, the cold dismissal in his eyes every day of our sham marriage.

Oh God, and the smokehouse.

Locked in, the Louisiana summer sun beating down, the air so thick I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, utterly alone.

I gasped, the memory so real I could taste the ash and the terror.

Now, in this life, Jax was yelling Lila' s name again, ready to play the hero, just like before.

But this time the script was mine.

This time, I stepped aside.

I just watched him charge into the inferno, pure indifference a cold comfort.

My hand, my precious hand, was safe.

My music was still mine.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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