Maladaptive

1. Life of Noya

LIFE OF NOYA

Bedroom Ceiling [Citizen Soldier]

Do you ever dream about being somewhere else and living a life of royalty? A princess in a castle, waiting for true love to find her? Maybe even dreaming of slaying dragons, or being a mythical fairy living your life in the Summer Court, tasting the finest riches.

Well…I do.

When I was younger, my mum would record me playing on my noble, stuffed stallion, Farin. We rode all over this magical world, fighting off the evil residing within it. At the time, I thought it was hilarious watching them back.

I even laughed it off as if it were a silly phase I went through.

But I envied that girl, her imagination, and the world I built.

After my third therapy session, I discovered I was escaping reality. Mrs Jones believed my maladaptive daydreaming would disappear as I got older, but she was wrong.

Way wrong.

Those maladaptive daydreams were a safety net, shutting out everything terrible I experienced. Those daydreams became realistic.

And. It. Hurt.

Instead of a noble steed called Farin, I dreamed of a car that wouldn’t stall. Whenever I drove down the road, I imagined myself in another car that passed, listening to the radio that worked, and cranking up the heat during winter storms.

Instead of living in a castle with a prince for a husband, I envisioned a home that wasn’t falling apart and a functional family who loved me.

I dreamed of lying in bed, with the fan brushing my face to cool me off from the scorching summer heat.

And instead of tasting the most luxurious food available, I dreamed of anything that wasn’t off-brand: no more two-minute noodles, packet pasta, or butter sandwiches squirted with tomato sauce for dinner.

Sometimes, I would stand in the aisle of my local supermarket where I work and stare longingly at the pack of mouth-watering spare ribs. With it, my thoughts became darker. In those moments, I watched that imaginative part of my brain hide the ribs inside my bag and walk out unnoticed.

So, yeah…I wasn’t that girl anymore who pushed this fictional narrative. I grew up and wanted something more out of my life. I wanted better for myself, so I imagined realistic scenarios to hold on to.

Now, I stare at the damaged ceiling with flaking paint and cracked walls. The fan doesn’t work, and sweat runs thick down my face. I try to focus on that rather than the yelling happening outside my room.

The sheets cling to my back when I roll over and face the door. Shadows from underneath move at lightning speed. Mum screams, shouting at Dad while his words slur out of his mouth. I barely blink when I hear the bottle smash against—I guess—any surface nearest to Dad.

Oh…that reminds me.

I grab my phone from the bedside table, unplug the charger, stuff the phone under my pillow and hide it from view.

Memories from two months ago flash in my mind to torment me.

I knelt on the ground and patted every surface, hoping to find my SIM card so that I wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of memorising a new phone number again.

“Get the fuck away from me!” A thumping boom shudders these hollow walls, followed by a wailing, pitched cry. Before I can blink, my door swings open and Dad stumbles in, the can of beer slipping from his fingertips, dripping the last droplets of alcohol when it hits the ground.

I sit up and lift the blanket with me to hide my chest.

Dad reaches inside his pocket, pulls out a note and a few coins, and tosses the money on the ground near my bed. “Go to the servo and get me some fucking beer.”

My fingers tighten on the blanket.

Have you ever looked at a blood relative and thought, I hate you? Every time I look at Dad, the horrors flash through my mind, followed by disgust and hatred.

I’ve never connected with him. Not once. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t drunk on my birthday. A stumbling fool who ruined everyone’s time before Mum cancelled the party.

The last one, he even tried to pick a fight with Andy’s dad.

It was the last time I had a birthday party.

It was also the last time I brought friends over.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Dad spits.

A monster.

I imagine my fan breaking—some faulty wire would be the cause—and it slams on his head so hard his skull cracks and blood spools out.

But that isn’t life, and I’m not that lucky.

“What brand?” I ask.

“You know what kind of fucking beer. Don’t be a smart arse!” He steps into my room, but before he can come closer, I shuffle out of bed and pick up the coins he threw at me. He chuckles darkly as he leaves the room.

I close the door for a moment to dress. I shrug on my favourite shirt. The front has the logo of my favourite band, Imagine Dragons, and the back has a list of their names.

Then, as I grab my phone, I take out the earphones from the second drawer before slipping on my thongs.

When I leave my room, Dad enters the living area. He slumps in his recliner, a gargled, throaty laugh coming from him as he watches a sitcom.

Away from him, Mum is in the kitchen, an ice pack on her cheek. Dark brown eyes quickly look away from me, and she turns to hide her face.

I do the same, and act as if I didn’t hear what happened ten minutes ago. It’s easier that way. Less trouble, as I leave the house like a ghost.