“Because it’s not a very good one,” I reply. “Besides, police officers scare me.”
“Why?” He leans over, intrigued by the conversation.
Lowering my focus away from Conner, I clutch the door handle, shake my head, and take a deep breath as I force a smile. “Thanks for the ride, Conner.”
As I push the door open, he says, “Noya, wait.” His hazel eyes darken, and his short, light brown hair falls forward as he looks down at the cup holder. I do the same and see the Snickers bar. With a sigh, I grab it and shuffle out as Conner leans back comfortably and says, “I’ll see you in Creative Arts tomorrow.”
Dad shouts from inside my house before I can shut Conner’s door. My eyes widen, and a frigid chill drains whatever heat burns at my face. Conner furrows his brows while looking ahead, and a few houses down, at my house.
I quickly close the door, step onto the path and wave, but Conner isn’t leaving. Instead, he winds down his window and leans across. “I’ll wait until you get to your door.” He darts a look at my house again and says, “Your street isn’t really that safe.”
My street is safe. It’s my home that isn’t safe. But I’m still pushing the narrative that I live at my neighbour’s home—except I don’t live there. My elderly neighbour lives here, and I often see her early in the morning tending her garden while overlooking my house, likely silently judging my family.
All the lights are off, and as I walk up the pathway, I silently thank the elderly lady for going to bed too early and being hard of hearing. Her garden flourishes on either side of me, one of the new, well-tended gardens on the street.
Conner still waits, but his focus is on the loud shouting two doors down.
The sensor light blinks on as I make my way up the steps and onto the veranda. A shaky breath escapes my parched lips as I stand at the door. As I “search” for my keys, Conner does a U-turn and drives back the way he came.
With a deep, exhaled breath, I turn away from the door when it opens. My neighbour peers out to look at me. “Noya? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
“Uh…I’m sorry, Mrs Crawforw,” I say. “I just needed somewhere to hang out before heading home.”
She leans outside her home and cocks her head, listening to the symphony of crying and shouting from two doors down. Then, her focus rests back on me. “You can come in if you like, dear?”
I shake my head, and with a weakened smile, I say, “It’s fine. I just needed a breath of fresh air. Sorry to have woken you up.”
“Okay…well, take care, dear.”
Hastening my step down the steps, I instinctively look to my right first and to the way Conner went before heading to my house and to the sounds of Dad (hopefully) getting murdered.
3
MIDDLE CLASS
Demons [Imagine Dragons]
Everyone callsit “the eye of the storm”. Few live to tell the tale of what’s in the centre—the eye. Yet, I’ve been there before, imaginatively, I suppose.
It’s safe in there, all the while having the chaos swirl around me in a chaotic mess of screaming slurs.
The sun shines down on me from inside the centre. Clouds break away, opening up the blue sky, and a beaker of yellow light shines down, giving me a sense of warmth.
Silence.
But as I stand in the silence, my broken, torn house filled with crushed cans, broken plates, and torn, ruined paintings spins in a messy blur around me.
And before the quiet can calm me, sound breaks me away from the sea of warmth. Fingermark bruises swell across my right arm, squeezing tighter and tighter as I fall to my knees.
The bag with a six-pack drops, and two cans pop. Liquid hisses out, sounding like a snake caught in a plastic bag.
Mum then comes into focus, cowering in the corner. Her arms move over her face, her fingers clutching at her hair as she screams, “Stop, John!”
His laughter says otherwise, and the only warmth within this broken home spills down my cheeks.
A light tappingcomes from the other side of my bedroom door. I slowly blink, returning to my room, gazing at the broken fan.
I sit upright and shuffle out of bed when another knock comes, more prominent, but I don’t rush. I would have, if it were Dad, but Mum is patient enough to give me time to breathe.