“My mother married my father a week after they met, and the only romantic thing he ever did was take her to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.” I smile because it feels like that’s what I should do, even though thoughts of my parents have unease blooming in my chest.
“She must have really loved him.”
“No, apparently it was just a really good buffet.” I chuckle, masking the sadness that lingers beneath the surface of my off-the-cuff remark. She giggles whimsically, and I decide instantly I love the carefree buoyancy of my new roommate, as though just being here in her space shifts the weight of my past from my shoulders to make it a little more bearable. I leave out the fact that my sixteen-year-old mother was one of eleven sex slaves promised tomy father and was starved for a week until she complied; a dog shit buffet would have been edible cuisine after that torture.
I keep my truth to myself—knowing the best way to kill fairytales of longing and romance is a heavy dose of my fucked-up reality.
“Where are my manners? You must be Esther.” She smiles. I’m grateful that her sing-song voice shakes away the mental image of my poor emaciated mother who never had a chance of surviving my father. Now fully clothed and shrugging on a navy cardigan bedazzled with rhinestones, she holds out the basket of fruit in offering. Even with my throat still a little sore from my almost-choking incident, my mouth waters, and I accept with a small smile of my own.
“Ebony actually—but close enough,” I say around another bite of sweet strawberry.
I’ve been called far worse.
“I’m sorry. I saw your initials and assumed.” She points at the engraved initials on my suitcase. “Someone at reception mentioned I’d be rooming with an Esther.”
The little part of me that is desperate to fit in weighs up the technicalities of changing my name and becoming this Esther. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to forget the girl I was to start fresh. I don’t let the idea of identity theft ruminate though, and instead square my shoulders. Holding my head high when I say, “Still just Ebony.” I smile nervously, realising that the truth of it is, for all my twenty-one years on this earth, JUST EBONYis a perfect descriptor for someone who felt like they never truly belonged anywhere. This is my time to embrace thejustand see where it takes me—no history, no family, no secrets, no torment.
A clean slate.
Too many nights I’ve spent being who someone else wanted me to be—for once I get to choose who I become andjust Ebonyis who I am here.
“Well,just Ebony, let’s get you settled.”
Gone is the little girl who identified as Ebony Trevel-Vanvello, the damaged child raised in a cult, the kid thrown into a wayward social system and left under the care of a madman. From this moment on, I am Ebony Winters—and I would do anything to make sure no-one ever finds out where I came from.
Yes—just Ebony. That will do just fine.
“We look to be the same size; you can borrow an outfit or two if you want.” Her toothy smile is friendly, her gaze drifting from the small suitcase that holds my entire life at my feet, up my body, her pitying gaze roving over my ripped jeans and my holey t-shirt stretched across my modest chest, the lettering faded to the point it is unreadable from so many rounds in the washing machine. My hourglass frame, wide hips, and petite waist had certainly changed over time. Child baring hips feels wasted on someone who vowed long ago to never bring a kid into this fucked-up world.
“I mean, if you want to; your outfit looks…lovely as is.”
Her blue-grey eyes brighten as her gaze settles on my face. She hides the pity well, although I can still see it—lurking there like a hungry shadow waiting for someone to drop scraps. You don’t live the life I have without experiencing judgement in all its forms.
“I’m an only child; I tend to overshare—feel free to stop me if it gets annoying,” she tags on, nervously fiddling with the hem of her shorts, her aura inviting me to trust the process and step a little closer. I decline the invitation. The universe has burned me on more than one occasion, and if aura reading was my thing, I would have far less emotional baggage than I do right now. I stay rooted where I am; trust has never been my strong suit.
Whatever this moment is that we are sharing feels like uncharted territory.
‘I think the normies not predisposed to lifelong trauma and anxiety attacks call it the beginnings of a budding friendship,’my brain offers with a mocking tone—knowing full well friends have been the last thing on my list of priorities over the past six years. I bring nothing but desolation—that’s the truth of it, and yet a warmth bubbles in my chest at the idea that maybe this new start could mean I’m able to dream of something more than I’m used to, that maybe I don’t have to be alone.
“I appreciate the offer. It’s Megan, right?” I smile softly, my voice uncertain, secretly praying that bitch downstairs in the courtyard had given me the right name. My feet still refuse to move as she saunters off into the kitchen area. “Meg, Megan, either works. I know you transferred in late, so if you have any questions, just let me know,” my new friend titters, bouncing on her bare feet as she rounds the island with a glass of water in hand. She offers it to me, and I take it, pushing aside my brain’s insistence to check for residue to make sure she hasn’t poisoned me.
I really need to chill.
She bends to pick up my case, all boundarieseradicated as she pulls me into a one-armed hug. The water in the glass sloshing over the brim as I fall against her. I’m not embarrassed to say I’ve hit people for a lot less—thankfully the urge to maim my new roommate dissipates quickly. She pulls away, and I offer her the simplest nod of my head, tacking on a smile before she turns and continues to chatter. I follow the girl with the cascading brown waves pulled up into a ponytail deeper into the open plan living room as she shows me around. Her white shorts and vest set hugs her trim hourglass figure. She stops at the door at the end of the hall and grasps the handle, stepping into the small space warmed by the early afternoon sunlight flooding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall.
“This will be your room. I’m next door.” She gestures behind me, and I turn to see a door decorated with paper flowers. “You can make the space your own however you want,” she says brightly, dumping my case down onto the bare mattress. I’ve never lived in a place long enough where I wanted to make it my own. Living within my means with a shitty minimum wage job with zero qualifications or prospects of more, decorating was the last thing on my mind. The closest I’ve got to feng shuing a place was when I found a fruit bowl for pennies in a thrift shop and decided to splurge. I did everything expected of me; I took on a couple of college courses and worked part time in a local coffee shop, living in the shared accommodation with the other system kids that had aged out like me. The scholarship offer from Hells Haven University came unexpected two months ago, and for weeks I have debated whether moving so close to the house I grew up in wouldbe the best move forward —the letter sitting on my bedside table as I weighed up my options. The scholarship came with a meagre living expenses add-on, but I’ve learned how to exist on very little. It would cover food and toiletries, so I’ll need to get a part time job if I ever want to stamp my mark on this room.
“I’m thinking duck stir fry and a bottle of chardonnay for dinner?” Megan prompts when the silence between us veers into uncomfortable territory. I’m so used to being shipped around, another basic box room with the bare essentials and some form of mould that the landlord assures me they will fix yet never do, left alone time after time without so much as a good luck, that I almost forgot she is still standing there. “Are you a vegetarian?” she adds when I don’t immediately answer her.
I’ve survived the past year on leftover coffee shop burgers; being broke and a picky eater don’t mix well. I ate to live and pretty much existed most days on caffeine alone. I lick my lips at the thought of anything that isn’t greasy fast food.
“Sounds great,” I respond as my belly grumbles with excitement at being filled.
“Food deliveries come on Wednesdays. If there’s anything in particular you want me to add, just let me know. I’ll let you get settled.”
I nod again with an appreciative smile—apparently that’s my go-to response to people’s kindness.
“Thank you,” I offer quickly before she turns to leave. The girls in the halfway house never wanted to get to know each other, they never shared anything, and they certainly could never be considered welcoming—at leastnot like Megan had been. I’ve had to fight for what I’ve wanted the past two years, and having my guard up is now ingrained second nature to me.
