The next morning,I woke to multiple messages.
Samantha: Did you and Andy sort everything out?
Me: Yes. We talked on the phone last night.
Andy: Morning. See you at school.
Me (replying): See you there.
And the last message is from Conner. A smile spreads on my face.
Conner: Good morning, my Guinevere. How was your sleep?
Me (replying to Conner): My sleep was okay. Yours, Noble Knight?
Conner (thirty seconds later): So, you’re warming up to the name????
Me (Immediate response): No.
While I brush my teeth, he responds with a crying emoji. I then reply with one that’s grinning. It’s strange to respond to text messages from someone I will see in an hour. But it’s an addiction.
I can’t stop replying to him.
Another text comes through just as I think he will stop.
When I leave the bathroom, I notice Mum’s dressed in her thickest robe. Pasta sauce stains ring around the sleeve.
She notices me and quickly looks away. Mum wipes down the counter with a cloth while I enter the fridge to grab my water bottle. As I place it in my bag, I notice the swelling bruises on the back of her hand and wrists.
“Do they hurt?” I say while I pack my lunch. It’s by money, after all. I shouldn’t feel guilty about taking snacks from home out of fear of Dad’s reaction.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Noya,” Mum murmurs. “I’ll manage.”
“Would you come with me or stay if I ran away?”
Silence fills the room to the point where I think she’s not standing beside me. There’s a void.
“You know we can’t do that. Remember what happened last time?”
I rub my arm, remembering the time Dad found us at the train station. He twisted my arm, and I felt the bones crunch under the pressure—but we could have fled. I know in my heart that if Dad didn’t call out to Mum, we would have stepped onto the train carriage and said goodbye to this life.
Instead, Mum turned away from the carriage while I stared longingly at the train moving away from the platform until I was looking at the other side. My feet moved, my mind was numb, and I loved that I felt nothing—that was until Dad’s grip tightened on my arm before I could jump on the tracks.
Signing, I swing the bag over my shoulder and head to the door. “I’ll be home late again.”
“Why?” she asks, her voice wary, but I know it’s not for my well-being, only hers.
I touch the doorframe, my fingertips trembling with anger. “Mum, don’t act as if you care. We both know you want me around so that Dad can hurt me more than you.” I face her and see the glisten of unshed tears in her eyes. “I told you that night that I didn’t want to hurt anymore.”
“Noya,” she calls, her bottom lip trembling, and when she does open her mouth, she chokes on her words. “I…”
I wait, hoping for an answer on why we are still here. Hoping to understand Mum more about why she would want Dad to harm me. I want her to explain why we haven’t run away again.
What hold does Dad have on her that scares her more than freedom? Because right now, I’ll take a bullet if that means I’m an inch closer to saving myself.
She lowers her hand and wipes down the spilled beer that’s on the dining room table. Then, all hope I have goes when I close the door behind me.
I need to focus on myself and what makes me happy.