It hurts.
It hurts so badly.
I lift my head, and through the blood and blurry, tear-streaked appearance, I move my arm forward, army crawling towards the door bound by the shackles. Whimpers of painbreak through my torn, croaky voice. My legs move achingly slowly as I prop myself up on my hands and knees. My hands drag across the sleek tiles, bloody fingerprints sticking on the tiles like finger painting. Blood pours out of my nose, this unstoppable faucet colouring my hands crimson.
“Get the fuck off me!” Dad shrieks out.
I turn my head, and through the blurry vision, I see Mum standing over Dad with a knife at his throat.
Turning away from them, I eye the door again. Wheezing breaths croak out. A throbbing pain pulses across my ribs, stinging with every movement. I take another step towards the door, my legs dragging at this point, and my hands sliding across the crimson until I finally hit the door.
I feel the cold metal: the shackles that bound me to this house. I clutch it so tightly that they break on contact, shattering.
The bird flaps out her wings, stretching them, readying them for flight.
I flick the lock and grip the handle. My hand is slippery, so as I twist the knob and push the door inwards, my hands slip, and I collapse, half my body out. Half my body is basking in the sunlight. Half of my body is ready for freedom.
My mum cries out, and I hear the rush of barreling footsteps storming toward me. Like thunder in a rainstorm, the hurricane comes for me one last time. My face contorts into pain and sadness. I can see the cage closing. Maybe the bird was never supposed to be free. Perhaps the bird’s dream was too far-fetched, and here she stayed, living in the darkness.
I close my eyes, seeing my fate, as Dad drags me back into the house. My body goes limp. I’m not strong enough. I was never strong enough. I could never do this alone.
Then I hear the shotgun reloading through the chaos and screaming. “Back thefuckup, John,” a woman’s voice snaps through the overwhelming darkness.
I force my eyes open, and I peer out, and there is an angel. An angel in the form of Mrs Crawford stands over me, shotgun in her hands, and directed inside my broken, crumbling home.
In the distance, the sound of sirens wailing comes into focus, but they also fade simultaneously. The black blotches crawl through my vision, consuming me until my body feels safe enough for me to rest.
57
REPORT
Monitors beep around me.They beep through the throbbing, pulsating pain drumming across my entire face. Heat swirls around my nose, throat, and stomach. My throat is parched, and when I swallow, it’s a painful struggle.
I raise my arm without opening my eyes when this immense pressure and irritation shudder across my hand. I furrow my brows, but it hurts even to do that.
“Noya,” his voice breathes. “Noya, baby, I’m here.” I feel his touch across my hand. My lip trembles, and I pull his hand closer until I cradle his arm, keeping it close. “Mum, she’s waking,” Conner says softly.
“I’ll call the nurse over.”
“C-c-c…” My throat feels tight and constricted.
“Don’t talk. There’s still a lot of swelling around your tongue and throat. At least that’s what the doctor told me to tell you.”
I furrow my brow. Unable to speak, too afraid to open my eyes, I sift back through my memories. Images with no sound come first—the livid look in Dad’s eyes. The seething of hate and anger as his hands went around my throat and tightened.
Then, the sound comes back to me. My face hit the tiles, and the sickening crack was prominent. I flinch at the sound, struggling to ward off the horrid memories I unlocked. The crimson was sleek on the tiles. I crawled, yearning to escape. Desperate for an escape… and… everything went black after that.
Am I maladaptive daydreaming this?
No, the pain across my nose, stomach, and throat is too vivid for this to be a dream. If I were dreaming, I’d be in a minivan with Conner. It would be sunny and warm. We parked on a busy street, and groups of people were buying our art.
This… this feeling is too real to be a dream.
I clutch Conner’s hand, keeping it by my side. It is the only sense of reality I can focus on.
“The doctor is here,” I hear Mrs Jones’ voice.
Slowly, I open my eyes. Intense light shines on me, and my eyes water, making me blink a lot to soak as much back in before the tears fall. An Asian man stands before the hospital bed wearing a long white cloak that doctors usually wear. “Noya, I’m Dr Kim, and I will look after you for the rest of the evening. Your neck has some damage around the jugular. I want you to rest your voice for today. When you talk, your voice may sound raspy.” He glances at the papers bound by the clipboard. “Eating and drinking will be difficult, so we will give you softer foods. Soups, yoghurt, mashed potato: those sorts of food until your throat recovers.” I open my mouth when Dr Kim raises his hand and says, “Nod or shake your head, yes or no.”