I tried to imagine a world where I wasn’t just a victim, but I failed.
In the absence of noise, the memory of Caiden’s hands on my body looped through my mind like a bad film, every detail amplified and distorted.
Maybe the ocean, if I could swing it. I could see myself on a windblown campus, wearing sweaters that didn’t smell like mom’s cigarette haze, talking to people who didn’t know the taste of violence.
Maybe I’d invent a new self, one who was never prey.
Later that night, I crept into the dimly lit living room. My mother sat slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine resting on the table beside her. The television cast shadows on her face, emphasizing the lines of fatigue etched into her skin.
“Hey, Mom,” I said softly, crossing the room. Her eyes remained glued to the screen, the same rerun of a show she’dprobably seen a dozen times already. I waited for her to look at me, to ask about my day, but the silence hung thick between us.
“Hi, Amelia,” she murmured, her voice distant. I swallowed hard, feeling the edges of loneliness creeping back. “I’m going to my room,” I said, retreating before the ache in my chest could become unbearable.
I passed Lillian’s door, my sister’s sanctuary. I hesitated, wondering if she was home. The sound of muffled music wafted through the crack beneath her door. I knocked lightly, but there was no answer.
Disappointed, I slipped into my own room, the walls painted a shade of blue that was meant to soothe me, but tonight it felt like a prison. I pulled out my sketchbook, flipping through the pages to find solace in art.
But as I drew, my thoughts wandered back to Caiden. The way his eyes had narrowed, that sneer plastered on his face.
After a while, I heard my mother’s voice drifting, slurred and shaky, calling for Lillian. I strained to listen, filled with concern for my sister, who had been struggling to find her own way in the world.
“Lillian? Can you come here?” Mom’s voice was softer now, almost pleading.
I could hear Lillian’s footsteps, slow and hesitant. “What is it, Mom?” she asked, the weariness in her tone was clear.
“I just… I need someone to talk to.” There was a long pause, and then I heard the creak of the couch as Lillian sat down beside her.
“Okay, I’m here,” Lillian said, her voice steady, but I could sense the tension in her words. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing… just feeling a bit down, you know?” Mom replied, her voice laced with the familiar sadness that always accompanied her substance usage.
I could feel the bile rising in my throat. It wasn’t just “a bit down.” It was an endless cycle of despair that had trapped our family in a suffocating embrace.
I wanted to intervene, to tell Lillian to walk away, but I knew she wouldn’t. She was always the one trying to save Mom, to pull her backfrom the edge.
Yet, she was also the one to carry the weight of my mother’s anger and drug-infused outbursts.
Some days, my mother was kind to Lillian. The air crackled with tension on other days, as her screams of accusation and blame filled the house. Spitting words of resentment, laced with venom and spite.
While I, the younger child, was a mere shadow in the house. Neglected and forgotten by my mother who chose the path of drugs after my father left, curling into her sorrows and trauma, allowing it to consume her.
The conversation continued in hushed tones, and I felt helpless as I retreated into my sketchbook. I drew the familiar strokes of trees and landscapes, my emotions bleeding onto the page.
But as I sketched, my mind kept drifting back to Caiden.
I finished my sketch, the ink smudging slightly as I pressed my palm against the paper, lost in the swirl of emotions.
I had to find a way to navigate the tangled web of my life between my mother, my sister, and Caiden.
But as I closed my eyes, exhaustion washed over me, and I let the darkness take me. The weight of the day settled into my bones, and I knew tomorrow would bring its own battles.
But for now, in the quiet of my room, I could pretend that everything was okay.
THE PAST
AMELIA’S BREAKING POINT
Everyone at school knew about Mom. Whispers trailed after me like vultures, curiosity and pity colliding in their eyes. Most steered clear, either intimidated or repelled by the messy fragments of my life.
