The chilly night air whipped my hair around me and was drying my tears almost as fast as they fall, as I ran out of the house. I can still hear music and laughter carrying in the quiet night around. I stumbled in the dark, but I was determined to put as much distance as I can between me and that mad house with the cruel people in it. My lungs are burning from exhaustion. The sound of their laughter is barely discernable from this distance and I felt safe enough to stop and catch my breath, I felt in my back pocket for my phone and thanked God that it didn’t get lost during my ordeal which I’m determined to never think about again for as long as I live.
I took out my phone and dialed the one number I always call when I need reinforcement without questions. The car stops in front of me within a few minutes and the door flings open. I slide in and turn to the driver's seat, and that’s when the screaming starts.
I jerk awake, panting. Shadows seem to close in on me in the dark room, and I stumbled out of bed and crashed on the floor in my hurry to get to the light switch. I don’t start breathing well until I turn on the light. I always leave them on. Some well-meaning family member probably turned it off. Again.
I sometimes wonder what it is about human nature, that makes us ask questions we don’t really want answers to, like subconsciously a part of us is always afraid of what we will find out, like they say ‘ignorance is bliss’.
Everyone wants to matter, some have that need more than others. Some people want to have at least one person they matter to, while others want to matter to so many people that they could never be forgotten. Ì should know, I once did.
I guess that inherent fear of being forgotten makes people do foolish things, or sometimes not do anything at all. I have always wondered about that night, if I would have done things differently if I had a choice.
People see the face you project to them, some of them, deep down know that something is wrong, but it’s like they can’t just spare a few minutes from thinking about themselves to think about others or bother about anyone else, or maybe it’s selfish to expect them to ignore themselves and think about you.
I scrub my hand down my face clearing the lingering remnant of the nightmare and checked the time on my bedside clock, 12 AM, weird time for deep thoughts, but who cares? When is the best time for strange thoughts if not alone in bed at night, or is it morning? I don’t really care what anyone says. Well, if I say it enough times it might become true, right? I lean back on the headboard in the too lit room, too afraid to go back to sleep. Some days are better than others, it’s usually worst close to the anniversary, and it’s coming.
The persistent beep of the alarm clock wakes me up. I’m still feeling quite groggy considering I was awake through most of the night. I don’t know what time I finally slept. I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes, wishing I could just go back to bed.
“Honey, get up, you’ll be late for school!”
I hear my mum yell from the stairs, sheesh I’m up! I feel like I still need ten hours of sleep before I’m able to face that hell hole called school. I was never the best of students, but lately it’s been harder than it usually was. Walking through the halls, going through the motions like everything is fine.
But really, who told them it’s a good idea to force a bunch of kids to wake at 6:30 am every morning, struggle not to go back to bed and then go listen to a bunch of old people ramble for the rest of the day?
I stumble to the bathroom to find out how much of a zombie I resemble, and of course my skin doesn’t disappoint.
My skin is the bane of my existence. I trace the horrific dark circles round my eyes tentatively and grimace. I look like a zombie and probably with the brainpower to match right now, my nasty looking hair doesn’t help. I sigh and splash water on my face, tried to tame the hair as much as I could and gave up. Ponytail day it is.
I take the quickest shower I can only come out and realize, shit! I’m going to be late. I hate being late, though most times I can’t help it. I like the anonymity of being early.
I hate all the extra attention. I’m already dressed and rush downstairs, my parents are having breakfast with my siblings. “Dad, come on, I’m already late,” I said, trying to check my bag and hurry at the same time.
He looks up from his phone and wiped his mouth.
“I’m done, but you really should eat something.”
I take an apple and look at him expectantly. “can we go now?”
He kisses my mum and my brothers goodbye, but I’m already rushing out the door. “Dad, come on!”
He smiles at me. “You know if you actually ever start getting ready when we wake you, you’d never have to rush, right?”
I rolled my eyes and shrugged. “Can we go already? I’m officially late.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Alright then, buckle up.” As soon as I’m strapped in, we’re zooming off towards the school.
