“Happy birthday, Iz.” She smiles.
“Thanks.” I tuck the photo into my pocket. I don’t have much, but I have her. Honestly, I’m not sure where I’d be otherwise.
We grab a greasy side of fries and sit by the window, watching as people come and go. We laugh as we create stories for people, voicing their outrageous thoughts.
Maeve pulls a small box out of her backpack and places it in front of me. It’s wrapped in Christmas paper.
“Happy Christmas.” She grins.
“You didn’t have to get me a present, Maeve.” I blink at her.
“Yes, I do. You’re my sister.”
I tear off the wrapping paper and open the box. Inside is a cheap silver ring shaped like a snake, coiled once, with tiny black stones for eyes.
“It’s perfect.”
“We match, see?” She holds up her hand, showing me the same ring on her finger. “Twin threats.”
“I love it.” I slide it on.
Maeve and I sit and chat a while longer, and the sun begins to dip. We both know I need to leave soon.
“Text me when you get in.” Maeve pulls me in for a hug, squeezing me gently.
“Always.”
On the walk home,I let my mind wander for once. As a birthday gift to myself. Normally, I try not to let myself imagine a future, because to want something like that feels impossible most days. Hope is a fickle thing like that— deadly dangerous.
I’ll get a job, find my own place, sleep in a real bed, eat real food, and lock the door. I’ll buy my own clothes and have my own belongings.
No more stolen hoodies, no more school showers, no more bruises hidden under concealer.
I picture a beat-up couch with a blanket. A dog. I’d be able to watch TV, listen to music, and just exist.
My chest aches with how badly I want that to be my reality. I hold onto that dream for a little while longer. That version of me who’s normal, who can celebrate her birthday. Who has clean sheets and a quiet house.
I tuck it all away like a photograph back into a box and push it into the back of my mind. The streetlights flicker on and reality crashes back in. The sun is disappearing behind heavy clouds, and everything darkens. It’s ominous. The familiar heaviness settles in my chest.
My house comes into view, no car in the driveway. I breathe out a sigh of relief that he isn’t home yet. Maybe I’ll have time to take a quick shower, find something to eat.
I push open the front door as quietly as I can. The air inside rolls over me like a wave—cigarettes, sweat, and something sharp under it, like sour vodka and old meat.
The TV is on, a show flickering blue and white across the walls. One of the cushions is on the floor, along with a handful of beer bottles.
He’s in the recliner, feet up, his face half in shadow. An empty bottle ofvodka rests on the coffee table. I feel his dark eyes on me the second the door clicks shut.
“Where have you been?”
I keep my head down and don’t dare to move or breathe. His recliner creaks as he stands, crossing the room to me. He sniffs the air, a slow, deliberate inhale.
“I asked you, where have you been?” His voice slithers under my skin.
“I was at the mall with a friend.” I stare at my feet.
“With a boy?” His putrid breath fills my nostrils.
“No, sir.”
