Chapter Text
My fifteenth birthday is gonna be different from all the others. Even though it doesn’t feel any different.
The house I live in is the same. My room is the same—cold, empty, boring—and my bed is the same. Same sheets I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I pick at their flimsy folds. Pull aimlessly at the thin fabric that’s so sheer it might be made of spiderwebs. They’re almost as old as I am.
Dad never turns the heat on, not for anything. Gotta save all that money just to waste it away on beer. Stupid, nasty beer. I pull hard at the sheets between my fingers but they don’t tear. It’s not even good.
I tried a sip of his beer once, a long time ago, when he wasn’t looking. And nearly threw up. The taste wasn't worth it if you ask me.
Turning, I swing my legs over the bedside and pull on the socks I’d been about to pack away in my bag. Don’t wanna get cold feet. Not now. I tug my beat up sneakers on over my heels. Tie my laces. Fidget with them before turning my head slightly to eye my bedroom window.
My heart jumps at the sight of uncleaned glass littered with my fingerprints. It starts beating hard enough that I can’t ignore how scared the thought makes me. Is jumping gonna hurt?
People survive falls from second stories all the time, right? I sniff and rub my cold nose with my wrist. I’ve seen it happen on TV.
Dad never let me watch TV when he was around. Said it would rot my brain—guess he was kinda right, seeing how rotted he ended up. But that didn't stop me from watching when he was out. Mom would let me watch as much as I wanted.
There were lots of shows where people would leap from windows and rooftops. They'd roll when they hit the ground and then get up just fine. Walk it off. Even run.
I swallow the fear building in my throat, even though it hurts. My heart beats faster. I’ll probably have to run.
Raising my chin, I ignore my traitor of a heartbeat and stare hard at the pockmarked wall across from my bed. It’s bare. No pictures or nothing—I wasn’t ever allowed to put anything up.
Looking at this stupid wall always makes me feel flat. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Today’s the last day I’ll ever have to look at it.
I clench my hand into a fist and breathe in deeply. Slowly. Measured, as though I know what I’m doing. Because I do. Probably. If Mom could do it, so can I.
Mom left two weeks ago. Took the car and disappeared in the dead of night. Nothing’s been the same since.
The house has been quiet. Too quiet.
Dad hasn’t yelled. Hasn’t really talked. Hasn’t gone back to work since that day. Now he just drinks his beer and eats what I make him—even though I’m sure it’s not any good—and then drinks some more. And even when the TV isn’t on, it feels like there’s a buzzing static in the air. Like something bad’s gonna happen.
I get up and walk across the room, taking care to step lightly. I know where every creaky board is like my cheek knows each of Dad’s knuckles. As long as I don’t make noise, I’ll have plenty of time to get what I need.
When I reach the bookshelf tucked in the far corner, I run my fingers over the sparse collection of books stored there.
Not many but still too many to take them all. I bite down on my bottom lip, unable to stop my brows from drawing into a frown. I don’t wanna part with any of them. Not a single one.
They were all thanks to Mom. She made sure I knew how to read and write and do some math even though Dad never let me go to school. She taught me everything I know.
After choosing two books—one I think I’ll need and another I can’t bear to part with—I sneak back over to my bed and stuff them into the backpack left open there. I zip it closed real quiet and sling the straps over my shoulders.
I can’t help but think her leaving is another lesson. A warning. I wish she’d taken me with her instead of warning me this way, but maybe she thought I would be okay on my own now.
A whimper slips through my lips, and I clamp them together hard to stop myself from whining.
Tears bite at my eyes but they don’t fall. I cried myself out the day after she left and then made myself stop. Dad doesn’t like it when I cry. Doesn’t like the way my eyes get red after. Doesn’t like anything about it and so doesn’t like me when I cry.
I don’t care about what Dad likes or doesn’t like. I just know what he does to things he doesn’t like.
A wave of exhaustion passes over me, making my bag feel like it weighs a whole ton on my back. This feeling's familiar. It creeps in when you aren't looking and turns the whole world grey. Makes the floor and walls and ceiling close in like a cage I can never escape. Never even tried. Never thought it possible.
But Mom escaped. That means I can too.
A slam comes from downstairs to break the quiet. And another right after.
Whirling on the spot to face my door, I hold my breath. I know that sound. He’s breaking something. Like he breaks everything.
I blink repeatedly, struggling to make myself breathe. It hurts. Breathing hurts when he’s like this. I back up without thinking and feel for the wall behind me as the slamming keeps going. Crashing again and again.
My eyes widen, and I feel for the window’s edge behind me. I don’t dare take my eyes off the door. Even though I can hear him crashing away, downstairs in the kitchen.
I have a chair propped up against my door, tucked under the handle like Mom taught me. It should buy me enough time, I think, even though I’m not moving and I know it. Why am I not moving? I should be opening the window right now. Running while I still have time.
Oh. It’s the buzzing. It’s louder now. Loud and numbing in my ears. Numbing me. Numbing my thoughts. Numbing my hands. I can’t feel them. I can’t feel my fingers. Even when I bite down on my lip, I can’t feel it.
Whatever he’s killing down there dies with a horrible cracking sound—Mom’s chair, I realize. I’d grabbed my own to bring up to my room and left hers. And he just killed it.
When I hear his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, I finally break eye contact with the door and turn around to face the window. I fight with the old frame that refuses to open quietly, pulling it up as hard as I can. It gives with a horrible screech that wrenches terror through my chest.
“Winnifred!” Dad’s slurring voice bellows from the hall right outside my door. Followed by the slam of his fist banging against it, punctuating his shouts of, “Open this damn door!”
Drunk, as always. Furious, since he definitely heard the window scrape open.
The door shakes with the weight of him slamming against it, and the sound of his banging fists blend with the beating of my heart.
I can’t hear him yelling from under the buzzing. It’s so loud now it’s like a bunch of bees got inside my head. They’re everywhere. Filling my ears to my brain to my eyes. Buzzing nonstop.
It feels like I can’t move but I am. I’m swinging my leg over the windowsill. Ducking my head. I’m moving. I open my mouth to gulp in fresh air as it washes over my face. I’m doing it, Mom. Just like you.
The door breaks open behind me, but I’m through the window.
I see the grass and the old swing set Mom used to push me on when I was little. And the sky. It’s covered in grey clouds and moving real fast. Or maybe that's me. I’m falling. I’m—
I’m—where am I?
Landing didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I hit the ground shoulder first and scrambled to my feet like I saw everyone do in the movies. Ready to run for my life.
But now I’m realizing—I’m not in the front yard.
There’s nothing but forest everywhere around me. No front porch with the screen door half hanging off. No swing set. No shed full of rusting tools. Just…trees. And real thick grass that tickles my ankles instead of the half dead stuff that’s our lawn.
A sound gets stuck in my throat as I try to form a question, but it doesn’t come out. I just wag my mouth like a dumb fish.
Even when I turn again and again, Dad isn’t anywhere behind me. I don’t hear his voice shouting. I don’t see anything but trees.
My backpack’s still on. I’m wearing the same thing as I was a second ago, sneakers, socks and all.
My shoulders heave as I try to steady my breathing. I was just—wasn’t I just at home? It feels like my body should still be screaming with fear. Like he should be right behind me, but he’s not.
I turn around fully, trying to grasp how this could happen but I can’t. I can’t stop blinking as I take in the trees, trees, and more trees surrounding me. Normal trees. A regular forest. But not where I’m supposed to be.
Did I blackout and run to the woods? I’ve blacked out once before, back when I was ten or so. Dad had hit me kinda hard on the head with a bottle after I made a mistake with something. I don’t remember what it was. I still don’t remember anything that happened for the rest of that whole day.
I clasp my forehead, but there’s no pain inside my head. No dizziness. Nothing weird.
I peek up through my bangs while keeping my head down. The sky peeking back at me between leafy branches isn’t cloudy or grey. It’s blue. A really bright blue.
Now that I think of it, this whole forest is pretty bright. It all sort of glows like one of those fancy paintings you see in church.
There’s flowers everywhere I look—like somebody speckled paint by flicking a brush. Even the leaves here look like they’re painted on the trees. When I look down at myself, my crappy shirt and jeans are dull in comparison. Even my hand looks all washed out and pale with how glowy everything is.
“So…I did it,” I mumble while staring at my palm. I curl my fingers inwards, thinking I should make a fist, but I let them fall back open instead.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I outran him. I don’t know what to do next, but I don’t care about any of that. “I got away.”
The weight of those words take all the strength from my knees. I sink to the ground to kneel, revelling in this strange new feeling filling up my stomach and making my lungs feel like balloons about to pop.
I got away. I’m free now. Just like Mom.