The building blocks we used to play with at primary school have collapsed. While he scrambles for the pieces, yearning to mend them, I walk away, finally understanding that thefriendship we built was nothing but lies, deceit, and desperation for one another.
It wasn’t a healthy, stable building—something unlike what Samantha and I have built since Year Eight. We cautiously placed blocks together, understanding each other, until we reached what we have now. And, sadly, I’ve now realised how broken our building became. He covered our windows with wood panelling and nailed them shut. The door had no handle, but thousands of locks. What we built was nothing but a bird caged in a box.
Well, I don’t want to be that bird any longer.
“Andy,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “We shouldn’t be friends anymore.”
“What?” he hisses.
“I need to be my own person and make my own decisions without you. And… you need…” I sigh. “You need to understand why you’re in denial and the reason you convinced yourself that you didn’t force me into a vulnerable state of mind. But until that time comes, we can never talk about this—and even if we talk about it, I don’t want you to think that I’d ever forgive you or want to be friends with you again. I can’t even look at you without feeling sick to my stomach.”
“Noya…”
“As much as it pains me that we had this talk, I’m also glad we did.”
“Wait! Noya!”
I hang up. Then, when the phone vibrates again with Andy’s name, I hang up, go into contacts, and block his number. Right now, he doesn’t understand because he’s in denial. However, one day, the truth will confront him, and he will realise that what he has done is wrong and understand why I don’t want to be friends with him anymore and respect that decision.
I go to sleep feeling the weight and burden I’ve been carrying for a week lifting from my chest.
That is, until two in the morning hits, and the hurricane destroys my home…
44
APARTMENT
Voodoo [Godsmack]
Graphic Scenes
The faucet runs.A constant dripping that echoes through the silent, still home. The torn curtains shed slits of morning sunlight throughout my room. The ripple of warmth rests on my face, across my eyes. A surge of searing pain from the burning light makes me grunt, waking from the comatose state I effortlessly slid into after last night.
I open my eyes and gaze at the still and lifeless fan. My stomach cramps, and I have the urge to pee. Getting out of bed slowly, I step on cracked eggshells. At least, that’s what I imagine in my head as I walk over the glass littering the ground. The mirror leaning against the wall has no glass inside, bent beyond recognition outside my door. I step over it, shedding another layer of what happened last night.
Mum and Dad’s bedroom door is closed, and soft sobs tremble within. I know they are more from sadness than pain, for she wasn’t the one who was hurt last night.
Inside the bathroom, the door clicks when I flick the lock. Ignoring the mirror, I sit on the toilet and place my face in my hands. My stomach cramps tighter when I pee. It feels like I have a UTI, but I know it’s not. It’s the muscles around my pelvis throbbing from the pain.
When I rise, I hiss at the shudder of pain while pulling up my undies and then my shorts. I then wash my hands. The water flows, running over my torn fingernail, and I feel the sting as I look at the flesh underneath. After drying my hands, I open the cabinet, grab the Band-Aids, and wrap one around my right index finger.
“Hey,”Dad calls, slamming his fist against my door. I jolt, and my heart hitches, and my stomach drops at his slurred, incoherent voice. “Open the fucking door, Noya!”
I jump to my feet, go to the door, twist the lock, and peer out when the door flies inward. I move back, and my eyes widen at Dad standing at the exit. Mum cowers behind him, her arms hugging around her. She won’t look me in the eye, but that’s nothing new.
“Were you talking to a boy tonight?” he questions.
“N-no,” I stammer.
Brown eyes burn fiery auburn; his lip curls, and saliva drools down the corner of his mouth. “Your mum said she heard you on the phone to a boy last night,” Dad roars. “Your mum never lies to me.”
I dart a look at Mum. She hunches her back, shrinking like part of the furniture.
He grabs my arm and squeezes while dragging me toward the table. My eyes widen in horror at the pliers, and my body moves back as I struggle to prevent myself from going near them.
“Remember what happens whenever you lie to me about boys, Noya,” he froths. “You know you aren’t allowed to talk to boys in the house when I’m not here!’
“No! Dad, stop, please!” I beg.