2. Scarlett
Chapter 2
Scarlett
T he bus ride home becomes a blur. Anxiety and dread swirl in my gut the closer I get.
My mind, a captive to the dark thoughts that consume me, fixates on what I’m going to walk into when I get there.
Will I walk into them both passed out on the sofa again? Or will it be to blood sprayed on the walls as their fists do the talking for them?
I sink further into my seat with a weary sigh.
I’m tired.
The constant anxiety that looms over me, the depression pulling me down into the abyss, because is this really a life worth living when I have no real sanctuary that I can escape to?
Home — funny word when it hasn’t felt like it since I was a child — is no longer safe to be in, though I have no choice since I’m not eighteen yet. The school was once a place I would happily escape to, my three friends my solace, as Mom and Dad started getting into shady things.
Then, one day, they turned on me, too, leaving me alone.
My stop comes into view, and I’m greeted by the familiar sight of my house. I hold up my hand to thank the bus driver, step off the bus, and walk towards my home. The smell of weed lingers in the air, and the sounds of shouting from inside my house make me want to turn around and go to the beach.
The sand and water have become the only place I can breathe—memories of Dad driving us down and spending hours with me scouring for seashells. Mom never joined us, but it was Dad’s and I’s time, and I loved it.
I’m jolted back to reality with a crash of a bottle from inside, and I look at the house we once took so much pride in and what it’s become.
The paint peels away from the outside. The roof is covered in moss, and the rusty gutters dangle precariously. Weeds twist and curl through the cracks in the concrete. The windows are covered in a layer of dust and grime, and the panes have a few cracks.
Broken, just like me.
Knowing I can’t stay outside any longer, I walk up the path and twist the door handle. I’m barely through the door when the arguing stops, and the silence that follows has my gut churning —silence in this home never means anything good.
The scent of liquor and the acrid smell of burning plastic tells me that they got another drop from their dealer.
I clutch my backpack tighter and walk towards the living room, where they are both sitting on opposite sofas.
Dad lies slumped on the sofa, his eyes hollow and distant, an echo of the man I once looked up to. His hands tremble, a bottle of vodka clutched in his hands as if it’s his lifeline, and the crack pipe on the coffee table in front of him lets me know he’s giving in... again.
He swore he would stop after he nearly choked me to death over a month ago. I can still feel the phantom pain of his fingers digging into my neck; the bruises have only just faded, and I know the self-deprecating is just going to make him worse.
Mom sits on the sofa across from him, barely clothed, surrounded by a haze of smoke. Her cheeks are hollow, no longer interested in food, as the alcohol and drugs fill her.
She lazily drags her eyes to me, a sneer contorting her face. “Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” she slurs, her tone sharp. “Not that it matters. We’ve been having our own fun without you.”
She leans back against the sofa, glass in hand, eyes glazed and unfocused.
Dad sits silently, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Leave Scar alone,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mom cuts him a glare so harsh that I know he’s going to pay for opening his mouth later, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him until he clutches the neck of the bottle tighter and takes a large mouthful of the foul liquid.
“Why should I?” she laughs cruelly. “She’s a dud. A daughter who doesn’t speak. Who would rather hide away on the beach collecting her pathetic seashells than have friends?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever does.
Not since that night.
I clench my fists, determined not to think about that night. The memories threaten to spill over, but I push them back, focusing instead on the heavy breathing coming from Mom as she works herself into a rage.
Dad glances back up, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment, and I see a flicker of something — apology, perhaps, or regret. He returns to his silence, but his knuckles whiten on the neck of the bottle as he glares at the side of Mom’s head.
“Nothing to say?” Mom taunts, “Nothing at all? Not a please, no mommy? You used to beg so prettily once upon a time before you lost your voice.”
My head rears back as if she slapped me, and tears sting my eyes that I desperately blink away, not wanting her to see me cry. She doesn’t get the privilege of knowing her words hurt.
“Enough,” Dad finally says, his voice shaky but firm. “She’s been through enough. We all have.”
Mom scoffs, rolling her eyes so hard I swear she can see the back of her head. “Spare me the drama. You’re no saint. You had your hands around her neck a month ago when she got in the way.”
“I…” Dad stutters, “I never meant that. Scar knows that, don’t you, baby?”
Their voices start to rise, hands flying about wildly as the drugs and alcohol begin to mix.
There is no begging for them to get better anymore. Nine-year-old me learned that the hard way.
My legs threaten to buckle from under me as Dad continues to beg me to listen to him. Promising he never meant for it to go that far, but the fear I felt as his hands wrapped around my neck has me fleeing the room.
Mom’s mocking voice follows me, her manic laughter echoing down the hallway as I escape to my room. Every step has my legs threatening to give out.
I’m exhausted and drained.
The relentless battle against the memories that invade my mind every moment of the day has left me weary. As I close the door to my room, a wave of relief washes over me, and I feel like I can finally breathe for the first time since waking up.
My room is painted a soft, pale yellow, a color chosen by Dad when he was sober and wanted to make my room look pretty, though the color has faded significantly over the years. On my windowsill, the carefully arranged seashells I’ve diligently collected during every visit to the beach lay in a perfect row, not one out of place. My mattress is worn and sagging from years of use, and the single bed looks as if it might give out any day now.
Yet, it’s the only place in these four walls we call a home that I can find any peace.
I’ve always felt like a second choice in this house.
A second choice to the drugs, the alcohol, and the way they always endlessly support one another in a toxic dance of enabling each other. I’m left standing at the threshold of the door, watching the way their heads lull forward, nodding on and escaping into another world altogether, while I’m left silently begging for my parents to be sober.
Shouting escalates as their voices rise throughout the house, anger and bitterness welling up into hurtful words meant to maim the other person into silence.
The sound of a bottle smashing to smithereens reverberates through the walls, and my hands begin to shake as adrenaline pumps through my veins.
“I’ve had enough of your excuses!” Mom screams, “You’re a fucking coward who loves to pretend everything’s fine.”
“And you?” Dad retorts, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Are you any better? Attacking your daughter because you’re a shell of who you used to be. You’re bitter and pathetic.”
Their words clash, their voices blending into one noise. I stand frozen in my room, every muscle tense, preparing for an impact that will inevitably come at some point.
The familiar feeling of dread coils in my stomach like a snake, its grip tightening with every insult hurled between them. It’s a dance I’ve seen far too many times—one that ends with me being the punching bag when their frustrations are no longer able to be taken out on the other.
I know I can’t stay here.
The air is suffocating, thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the bitter smell of burning plastic. My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic countdown urging me to escape before Mom sets her sights on me.
I open the window to my room, thankful the house is all on one floor, and climb out. With a final glance back at the house, I can see their shadows move violently, fingers pointing as they try to blame the other for their addictions.
I turn on my heel and flee.
My feet move on their own accord, carrying me away from the shouting and towards the one place where I feel peace.
The beach is quiet, the waves gently lapping against the sand. I make my way to my favorite spot, a secluded group of rocks where the world and everything else fades away into nothing.
Here I am, just Scarlett. Not a victim. Not the child of two drug addicts who are in debt because their addiction is more important than food. Or the girl who three boys at school bully relentlessly.
The sky above is a canvas painted in pinks and purples, and I let myself breathe in the salty scent of the ocean on the breeze. I slip down the cold rock, sinking onto the sand, and dig my hands into the sand, letting the cool grains slip between my fingers.
I focus on the water until my breathing evens out. How would it feel to sink under the waves until my lungs burn or to be free?