I stayed hidden, just watching.
She didn’t notice me at first; her eyes flicked left and right, scanning for threats but never seeing the ones that mattered. When she finally sensed me there, her pace faltered. She tightened her grip on her books, as if the extra pressure would keep her from shattering on the spot.
She was close enough now that I could hear the faint rattle of her breath, the uneven steps she took to keep herdistance. I could have reached out and grabbed the strap of her backpack, reeled her in like a fish on a trembling line. The urge was there, as always, to close the gap. To see if she’d fight back, or just crumple and cry.
But I didn’t.
I took the long way home, a route through side streets and half-abandoned lots, letting the chill of late spring scrape the heat from my skin.
The memory of the dream clung to me, damp and persistent, the way cigarette smoke clings to a thrift store jacket. I flexed my hands until my knuckles cracked, as if I could squeeze the image of her out through my palms, but it only grew sharper, more insistent.
By the time I reached my house, the sky had gone the color of old bruises, and the porch light buzzed with a swarm of moths.
I stood at the edge of the driveway for a full minute, staring at the warped siding and the sagging gutters, wondering if tonight was one of the good ones. If my father would be so far gone he wouldn’t notice me at all.
I pushed through the front door, letting it slam behind me, and the smell hit me like a punch: piss, sweat, the metallic sweetness of spilled beer gone sour.
The TV blared a sports recap show, the volume cranked to a level that made every word sound like a threat. My father was in the battered armchair, a plastic liter bottle of cheap vodka balanced precariously on his thigh.
“Look who it is,” my father said, not turning. “The prodigal shithead. Home before midnight for once.”
I didn’t bother with a response. I moved to the kitchen, the soles of my boots sticking to the floor, and opened the fridge for something to eat.
I grabbed a slice of bologna and folded it into my mouth in one bite, chewing without tasting, then washed it down with water straight from the faucet.
I’d almost made it to my room when my father called out again, his voice slurred. “Hey! Get your ass in here.”
I paused, every muscle in my body hardening with dread. I considered ignoring the summons, but that always made it worse in the long run.
I walked into the living room, arms crossed over my chest. The bastard didn’t even look up.
“You skipping school again?” he asked, eyes glued to the TV. “Got a message from the office. Said you’re about to flunk out if you don’t get your shit together.”
“Don’t care,” I muttered.
My father made a show of sighing, as if the weight of disappointment was crushing his ribcage. “You’re a fuck-up, you know that? You’re gonna end up like your mother, running away from everything.” He raised the vodka bottle in a silent toast, eyes bloodshot and yellow at the edges. “At least she had the sense to leave.”
The old rage surged up, raw and electric, but I ground my teeth and looked at the floor. If I didn’t respond, I could sometimes ride out the abuse until it burnt itself down to cinders.
But tonight, my father was in a mood. “Look at me when I talk to you,” he shouted, and when I didn’t, the bottle flew across the room, smashing on the wall above me, liquor fanning out in a sticky comet as the bottle wrecked itself against the drywall.
I didn’t flinch, but the sound did something to me. Snapped the last filament of self-control inside my chest.
“Clean that up, you little shit,” my father spat, not even watching for a reaction.
I went to the kitchen, dug out the crusted mop, and blotted the puddle of vodka from the carpet, the stench burning my nostrils. The urge to burn the house to its bones, to torch everything and walk into the ash, pulsed white-hot under my skin.
I almost did it. Almost set the rag on fire and chucked it onto the couch, to see if my father would even notice before he was part of the smoke.
But the memory from that morning cut through, stopped me cold: Amelia’s voice as a kid, the way she’d said my name like it was something precious, not something broken and thrown away.
I’d killed that feeling a thousand times, buried it deep, and yet there it was, alive and kicking at the inside of my skull. It made me want to scream, or punch the emptiness into submission, or just find a way to shutit up for good.
I finished the cleaning, tucked the mop away, and stared at the red-hot line of my knuckles where I’d clenched the handle too tight.
I wiped the spill, rinsed my hands, and headed for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” my father barked, now fully upright.
