“We have to go,” I whisper, grabbing his hand.
Judas looks around and notices people staring. It suddenly strikes him, and he finally lets me lead him outside.
The man from earlier shoves us toward the stairs.
“They called the cops. Everyone has to leave before they get here.”
The red-haired girl runs up to him, grabbing his hand.
“Harper and I broke into this house. They can’t find us here.”
They can’t find me either.
I just got released from juvenile detention. And I am not going back.
Judas looks at me. His hand clamps around mine, fingers pressing so hard it hurts. He pulls me down the stairs, with Harper and her boyfriend following as we rush toward the bike.
He spins me around and lifts me onto it. He tries to look for helmets, but we don’t know where they are, and there’s no time to find them. He panics, gets on, twists the throttle, and as soon as the engine starts, we speed off.
My hands clutch onto his chest. I can feel how his heart beats beneath my palm. Wind tears at my eyes, making them burn. I bury my face into his back and squeeze my eyes shut.
Another bike speeds up beside us. When I dare to glance, all I see is red hair whipping from under a helmet.
I shut my eyes again.
My whole body vibrates with the speed. My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
What if we crash?
What if he loses control?
My nails dig into his chest. I am holding on too tight. I feel him slow down. One of his hands briefly releases the throttle to take mine, squeezes once to steady me, then returns to the bike.
It will be fine.
The thoughts I used to have, the ones about wanting to die, about clinging to something as small as a hair tie, start to fade. For the first time, I feel afraid.
What if I die tonight and he regrets it? What if I die sad and he never gets to say anything?
He drives slower now, but still too fast for me to open my eyes. Goosebumps rise on my skin as the cold air makes me shiver. Everything hits me at once.
And when my eyes close again, my mind goes back to when I was thirteen.
2013.
I came back from school, and the moment I stepped inside the house, the smell of whiskey reached me. It clung to the air as it had soaked into the walls. The hallway was a mess; clothes were tangled together, and crumpled paper was scattered across thefloor. I stepped over it all and reached the living room to drop my bag.
Mom was on the sofa, curled in on herself. She was crying again.
I rushed to her and dropped to my knees. Her hand was pressed hard over her face, and her fingers were trembling. I tried to move it, but she shoved it back, hiding the purple and yellow bruise beneath her eye. Two older ones were already fading along her cheekbone. She shook as if it were cold, her eyes moving anywhere except to me.
I placed my hand on her arm, but she immediately flinched and pulled away.
I didn’t know if it was pain or if my touch scared her. Maybe both.
She had only me, her only child, yet she felt so distant, so locked away, like I was reaching for something she never had to give. I never felt loved here. Never felt like I belonged. Still, I took care of her.
I always did.
