5. Scarlett
Chapter 5
Scarlett
“M iss Reyes, what on earth are you doing on my classroom floor?” My biology teacher’s voice slices through the fog of memories that are holding me hostage, yanking me away from the tangled threads of my nightmare and back to reality.
The suddenness of the question jolts me as the familiar surroundings of the classroom come into focus. I struggle to stand, my mouth parting as I intend to tell her what happened, but my voice catches painfully in my throat.
Why can’t I explain?
It’s simple. Open your mouth and tell her that they locked you in here, leaving you alone with the memories of that night all over again.
But no words come out; silence engulfs me like it always does.
She lets out a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Silence, as usual. I remember when you were a chatty little thing, never mind. I’ll leave it this once, but if it happens again, it will be a week of detention. Do you understand?”
I nod my head, feeling a mix of relief and anger that they left me here. I quickly pick up my backpack off the floor and sign thank you to her before rushing out the door.
I stomp to my locker, anger surging as my frustration at no longer being able to talk and the betrayal of my old friends boil over.
I want to talk. I want to be able to explain to my teachers why I’m late. Speak to my dad and beg him to get sober because watching him slowly kill himself as he wallows in his self-pity is not how I want to watch him die.
There’s a persistent mental barrier lodged in my head that prevents me from forming words. I know precisely the moment it took hold of me, rendering me voiceless in my worst moment, but no matter what I do, I can’t talk.
I’ve tried in the silence of my room with no one there as I try to practice sounding out the words again like a baby learning to talk for the first time. I’ve tried visiting the beach at midnight, hoping the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks would be enough for me to talk under it, but nothing.
Not even a scream leaves my lips anymore, and Mom has tried more than once to make me break.
I slam my locker door shut, the metallic clang echoing down the hallway.
Anger, frustration, and loneliness coil tightly around my heart, squeezing until it feels like I can’t breathe anymore.
Just as I’m about to turn away, I notice a small, crumpled piece of paper fluttering to the ground. I sigh, knowing exactly what it is, but curiosity has me picking it up.
The words scrawled on the paper make my heart hurt, and I blink away tears as I stuff the note in my pocket, my eyes scanning the hallways for the three boys who love to make my life hell, but thankfully, they’re nowhere to be seen.
I head to my last class and try to find some peace, as it’s one of the only classes I don’t share with the three of them.
Mrs Tully greets me with a warm, understanding smile as I sneak into class and continues to talk as I take my seat. She’s one of the few teachers who don’t try to demand a reason from me after witnessing what Roman and the others do to me.
However, she can’t do much about it. Roman’s dad owns this shitty little town, including our school, basically making Roman and, by extension, his friends untouchable, free to do whatever he tells them to do.
My thoughts keep drifting back to the note in my pocket. It feels heavier than just a piece of paper, so I pull it out. The paper is worn, the ink smudged, but the message is clear... cruel.
This isn’t the first ‘message’ they’ve sent me, but it seems with each one, their hatred for me intensifies — every word cutting deeper than the last. I fold the note carefully and push it back into my pocket.
My heart feels heavy, like the ache that has lived there for years is slowly killing it.
Is there anyone in this world who truly loves me?
* * *
I turn eighteen in forty-eight hours, and I don’t think Dad is even going to remember this year. He’s far too busy drowning his sorrows at the bottom of the bottle and his pipe.
I hastily write a note for Mom about the money she owes and stuff it into my pocket for later, just as the bell rings. Then, slowly, I put my things away, wanting to avoid bumping into the guys as much as possible.
Maybe it’s also avoiding going home since the last few months have turned into a waking nightmare. Every time I step through the door, I’m met with a mom who’s itching for a fight with her voiceless daughter, who no longer has the energy to fight back, fueled by the alcohol that runs through her veins, and a dad who’s too high even to notice.
I want to escape to the beach, breathe in the air there, and daydream about another life — one where I still had my three best friends who cared for me when my parents didn’t.
A time when my dad stuck to his promises of being sober, protecting me from Mom, when she fell further into her addiction. Escaping with me to the sand and water for hours to keep me from witnessing what my mom had turned into, shielding me from the harsh reality that our lives were getting worse.
And when I wasn’t ruined, voiceless, and completely and utterly alone.
I get off the bus, silently thanking the driver, and make the usual walk home.
Each step feels heavier the closer I get, as if I know what’s waiting for me on the other side.
When I finally reach my doorstep, my limbs feel like dead weight. I pause and take a deep breath to steel myself.
The moment I turn the handle and step into the dimly lit living room, the stench of spilled, stale alcohol hits me. Mom is slouched on the sofa again, the drugs spilled out on the coffee table, her eyes glazed over with a sheen of tears and anger.
Dad’s nowhere to be seen, and I discreetly glance around for him, knowing she’s worse when he isn’t home.
“Oh look, it’s the dud,” she slurs, her words dripping with venom.
I stare at her, unsure if I should pity her for the addiction that is ravaging her body, turning her into a mere ghost of who she once was, or be angry that Dad and I were never enough for her to want to be sober.
She stumbles to her feet, pointing a wavering finger in my direction. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? You think you’re so perfect?” Her voice rises, echoing off the now bare walls, but I stand motionless, trying to be invisible.
“Answer me, dud!”
I shake my head. I don’t think I’m better than her— I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I’m tainted… ruined.
I grab the note from my pocket, thrusting it at her, silently begging her to take it. She snatches it from my hand, opens it, and laughs. “How do they expect me to come up with ten grand in less than a week?”
My gaze fixates on the drugs behind her, and a sarcastic remark flashes through my mind. Why not just not take the drugs? Be a normal mom for once, but of course, the words don’t form, and I’d like not to provoke her even if I could speak.
I watch as her eyes, glazed and unfocused, flit between the note and me, her anger boiling just beneath the surface, ready to blow.
The living room is silent except for the ticking of the fridge in the corner of the room, devoid of any food, because their addiction comes first. It always does.
“Did you write this to fuck with me?” she finally asks me, her mind conjuring ways to lay the blame elsewhere because god forbid she takes responsibility. “Did you?”
I shake my head in response. I have no desire to mess with them, especially not about this. I know all too well how vicious the boys’ dads can be; I’ve experienced it firsthand, and I know Roman’s dad is serious about his threats.
The message is crystal clear — it has been for years. Pay, or I pay the price — a burden Mom has willingly allowed me to shoulder while her debt grows by the day.
My hands tremble as Mom moves closer to me, her eyes narrowing as she looks me up and down. “You’re just like them,” she mutters, her voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “Always looking down on me, always judging. Thinking you’re better than me. Daddy’s favorite little princess.” Her words are a tangled web of resentment and pity, spun from years of bitterness.
I wish I could say something. Reach her and make her realize the danger she’s putting us all in, to understand it’s more than her addiction. It’s our lives. But the alcohol and drugs cloud her vision, making her only see what she wants.
Her hands suddenly grip my hair, and I shut my eyes tightly as the pain shoots through my scalp. “I hate you,” she snarls, her face inches from mine, the stench of alcohol heavy in the air. “I hate you so much that I don’t give a damn what happens to you.”
A tear escapes me, her words cutting deeply as they always do. I twist my head away, desperate to hide any vulnerability from her.
Her eyes bore into me, filled with hatred and disgust. I don’t think there’s ever been a day when she’s looked at me with love or remorse. For a moment, her grip loosens, the strands of my hair falling from between her fingers.
She turns away, stumbling back to her spot on the sofa, done with me for now, and picks up her pipe with shaky hands. I stand, locking my knees so they don’t give out on me, and watch her with a mixture of relief that she’s leaving me alone and sadness that this is my life.
Maybe turning eighteen is a good thing.
I can move away from all of this and start again somewhere where the water is crystal clear, and the seashells are different.