I grasp my blanket and pull it over my head. And I cry.
I must’ve fallen asleep,because when I wake, the room is dark except for the soft glow of the TV. The house is quiet and dark beyond my open bedroom door. I move to find my phone, hand reaching for my bedside table, before I remember.
She took it.
My mind goes straight to Theo. Has he texted? Does he think I’m ignoring him? I’d usually have called him by now, even for just a few whispered words. I’d give anything just to hear his voice.
I slide out of bed and creep into the hallway, pausing at the top of the stairs to listen. Nothing. I make my way to the kitchen, the tile cold under my feet. The soft green glow of the oven clock reads just after eleven. I slept the whole damn day away.
I check the counter for my phone, where she usually leaves it. It’s not there, it’s nowhere in sight.
Guess she’s angrier than usual. And honestly, so am I.
Every time she does this, my immediate reaction is fear. But after that, after the panic and the tears, comes the anger. The pure rage at the way she treats me. Like I’m less than, like I’m broken.
Like she’s better than me.
Slut. Whore. Bitch. The words don’t even sting anymore. I’ve become so accustomed to hearing them, they might as well be my name.
Never in public, of course. Outside these walls, she’s the perfect mom. But inside?
Inside, there’s nothing perfect. Not for me, anyway.
I worry about my sister. Right now, I get it all. The yelling, the blame, the hate. But when I’m gone, when I finally escape, I wonder if she’ll become the new punching bag. Because that’s what I am. Her outlet.
I wish I could take her with me when I go off to college. The only comfort I have is that Mom seems to love her more. She’s better at pretending, at submitting, at smiling when she wants to scream.
She’s already fifteen, just a few more years until she leaves home. Maybe she’ll make it out intact.
One day, I hope, we’ll look back on all this and laugh. Or cry. Or sit somewhere safe and talk about it over coffee. One day.
But today is not that day. Nothing happy to be found here.
I retreat upstairs and quietly shut myself in the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror almost makes me jump. My eyes are red and swollen, the bags under them dark and heavy. I look like a ghost.
Not a good look.
I take my hair down from the bun I’d thrown it up in. Thetangled mess is going to take a whole bottle of conditioner to fix. I sigh and turn on the shower.
When I’m done, I pad back to my room as quietly as I can. I sift through my drawer, find the T-shirt I stole from Theo’s house weeks ago, and pull it over my head. The comfort it brings me is ridiculous.
It’s just a shirt, but to me, it’s more. It’s being wrapped up in him, as close as I can get. And right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart.
38
SOPHIE
The next morning, I wait as long as I can before heading downstairs. My stomach is in knots, heavy and unsettled. I don’t want to face them. I know my mother must’ve told my father by now, and the last thing I need is to face his wrath before school. I already feel like shit.
An undercurrent of fear remains, a low and constant pulsing in my veins. Sure, she might’ve accepted my explanation last night, but I know my mother. She is nothing if not determined when she sets her mind on something. She will be watching me now, closer than ever.
I feel the world shrinking around me, the edges closing in, every bit of hope left for Theo and I dissolving into thin air. Opportunities to be with him evaporating into nothingness. I have to play it safe, make it to graduation at least. Even better, until I’m away at school, no longer under her watchful gaze.
It’s funny how she pays attention when I’m in trouble, yet seems to vanish the second I do something worth celebrating. She’ll brag to her friends, of course. Share the good news like it’s hers, but there’s never quite enough praise left over for me. Not directly, where I can actually feel it.
When I do finally descend the stairs, I find only my father standing there, gathering his keys and wallet from the entryway table. The light is soft, filtering through the blinds, casting long stripes across the hardwood.
“Morning,” I say, testing the waters. My voice barely cuts through the quiet.
