56. Last Day
LAST DAY
Bulletproof [Godsmack]
Graphic Scenes
I jolt awake as if a burst of energy hits me. I sit up on the bed, my eyes darting around my room. The door is still locked. It’s dark outside; nothing looks to have changed since…
What happened? I was awake one moment and suddenly felt drained the next.
Did they… did they drug me?
The handle of my door jiggles.
My stomach drops, and I lie back down and pull the covers over my head.
The door clicks, and I hear it creak inwards.
I breathe in and out as evenly as possible so it seems as if I’m still sleeping.
They must have tried to drug me to keep me asleep.
If they notice I’m awake, I am afraid of what they–
“Where do you think she puts her phone?” Dad spits.
“I… I d-don’t know,” Mum cowers.
“You told me you would fucking find out this morning. What the fuck were you doing, slut?” I breathe out and keep my body from jolting when I hear the slap. “You’re fucking useless. You had one job: to figure out where Noya hides her phone so we can grab it before she wakes.”
“S-sorry,” Mum whimpers.
Dad groans, exasperated.
I clench my eyes shut while Dad’s hands pat the bed, moving my body and slipping his hands across where I lie. My heart sinks, but I already know when he cackles in satisfaction. The phone was underneath my pillow, and he now has a hold of it.
“Hmm, she has a lot of messages from Sammy. We need to think of a reason she’s not going to school anymore after tomorrow.”
What?
“I can do it after we leave.”
“Bitch, you couldn’t even find the fucking phone.” Mum whimpers when I hear another slap. “Get the fuck out of here and pack our shit. I want us out of here tomorrow night.”
I hear Mum’s scurrying footsteps fleeing. Dad stays in my room for slightly longer. I sense his presence above me as if he’s waiting for me to move. When he’s satisfied, he leaves, taking my phone with him. He closes the door, and I hear the click as if he locked the door from the outside.
I wait a few more minutes, afraid he’s in my room, waiting in the darkness until I move. When I hear them in the other room, I pull the blankets down and exhale a longing, shaky breath.
That was close.
Moving? Is that what they’re going to do tomorrow night?
They’re going to drug my food, maybe even my drink.
And when I’m out of it, they’re going to smuggle me in the car, tie me up, I presume, and we are leaving the city—leaving everything behind.
I wouldn’t have my phone, so Conner wouldn’t know where I went.
I should have memorised his number. I’m an idiot! Why did I put his number in without trying to remember it first?
My eyes widen, and I look up at the fan.
Conner’s number is in there. I should… where’s my chair?
I blink a few times, hoping the chair will manifest itself with every blink.
But this is reality, and inside reality, the chair is gone.
Therefore, how am I supposed to get the phone without making a massive amount of noise?
I fucking can’t. There’s no way for me to get the phone without them hearing it.
Shit.
I scurry around the ground, struggling to see the little light of the moon and streetlights. Grabbing a shirt, sweatpants, a jumper, and sneakers, I quickly change while listening to them pack their belongings in the other room. I assume they think they will pack my things while I’m at school.
I put my socks and sneakers on, ensuring they are double-knotted, before lying back in bed.
There’s a chance they might come in again, and I don’t want to be bolting back from hiding beside the door if it happens.
I will wait for the right time and run. I can’t call Conner when I escape, but I know where his home is.
I can run through back streets and weave through yards if I must. I’ll do anything to escape my parents.
They are still packing by morning. I glare at the still fan, wondering when they will sleep, until I realise it’s too early for them to sleep now. If anything, Mum will sleep when I’m at school, and Dad will patrol the area. However, it seems like the only plan I have right about now.
“I’m going to have a quick shower,” Dad announces from their bedroom.
Closing my eyes for a fleeting second, the exhaustion weighs on me.
Everything feels heavy until I hear the bathroom door close, and this surge of energy rushes through me.
Without hesitation, I yank the blankets away from me and go to my door.
I twist the lock and open the door, my sights on the front door, when I stiffen.
Dad is at the door, his arms folded, glaring at me. With a shaky breath, I turn to the bathroom. Mum is at the door, her eyes cast down, unable to look me in the eye.
“When did you wake up?” Dad questions.
“Not long ago,” I lie.
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Noya, you’re a horrible liar.” He takes a step forward, and my breath hitches. “You know what, Lilly? Noya is sick today. I don’t think she will attend school after all.”
I move. Stepping back into my room, I swing the door shut when a hand comes into focus. I slam the door using both hands, jamming his fingers. Dad cries out, and when I loosen the pressure, he slides his hand out. I shut and lock the door.
No stopping.
Keep moving.
Keep going.
Keep pushing.
I step on my bed, look at the fan, jump up, and grab the blade. As I reach the centre, it bends, and I twist it until it pops.
The door trembles as Dad repeatedly slams into it. I hear the snapping of the wood as it splinters around the hinges.
I tear the phone out of the box, flick through contacts and tap the call button—my breath hitches, accelerating with every moment, with every ring. The door bends, and Dad’s livid, frothing words haunt me, making me uncontrollably shake while Mum sobs.
The screws rattle, twisting away from the frame.
“Noya?” a voice answers.
“Mrs Jones, can you please call the ambulance?” I cry. “I don’t have time to call them. Dad’s breaking down my door, and I’m scared.” Tears slip down my face, and my breath hitches as I struggle to breathe. “Please, I don’t want to die.”
“O-okay, Milo! Call the fucking police, ambulance, fire-fucking department now! Stay on the phone with me, Noya. Okay. He’s calling—Conner, where are you going?!”
The door tears from the hinges.
I put my phone in my pocket, hiding it from view.
Dad towers at the exit, hands on either side.
His eyes bulge out of their sockets, his face burns red, and froth foams at the corners of his mouth.
He launches at me. My insides turn to jelly, but my legs still move.
I step onto the bed, jump off behind him and race to the door when I feel the strands of hair pulling me back.
I cry out as I stumble away from the door.
Twisting around, gritting my teeth, I push my fingers into his eye sockets, gouging them out, uncaring how deep I go as he wails and screams. Then, I knee Dad between the legs not once, not twice, but three times.
His hold on my hair releases, and he drops, cradling between his legs while I race to the exit.
I grip the lock, twist it until I hear it click and burst outside into the sunlight.
Into my freedom…
But that’s not reality, is it?
I blink back into the room and see Dad launching at me.
I turn towards the bed, but he’s faster and brawnier.
He grabs me by the hair, and I feel strands break away from my scalp.
A surge of pain swells in the pit of my stomach, my mouth widens, and my eyes bulge when Dad’s fist slams into my stomach.
Then he shoves me out the door. I land on my hands and knees.
My legs buckle, and my arms tremble. The pain throbs, and it takes all ounces of my strength not to cower and cradle where it hurts.
I roll onto my back and whimper when Dad stands over me.
I kick while shuffling away, but he grabs my leg, dragging me towards him, and sits on top of me within one movement.
I cry out, screaming for anyone to hear, when his hands wrap around my throat, and he squeezes.
“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep!” he barks.
My legs lash out underneath him, and my hands scratch at the arms that grip around my throat. My chest rises and falls in short, panicked bursts, struggling to breathe. Dark blotches swell in the corner of my vision, and saliva dribbles out of my mouth.
“Stop it!” Mum wails, coming into focus. She grabs his hand that’s around my throat and tries to pull it away from me. “You’re killing her, John!”
“Fuck off,” Dad snaps. He releases one of his hands and whips Mum across the face, knocking her backwards.
I suck in a deep breath, enough to muster out one single, desperate sentence. “Daddy, please!” I sob.
Dad’s eyes widen, and his hands relax in the slightest. Gritting my teeth, I lift myself, and my fingers claw at his eye, hooking in and feeling the slime on my fingers. Dad hollers and falls off me, his hand covering his wounded eye.
I roll over, press my hands into the ground, and stand.
My legs move as I aim for the door. I take another step towards my freedom when my leg stops moving, kicking up from underneath me.
I fall forward, and my face collides with the tiles without anything breaking its fall.
I hear a snap, and blood spurts from my nose, soaking into the white tiles.
It hurts.
It hurts so badly.
I lift my head, and through the blood and blurry, tear-streaked appearance, I move my arm forward, army crawling towards the door bound by the shackles.
Whimpers of pain break through my torn, croaky voice.
My legs move achingly slowly as I prop myself up on my hands and knees.
My hands drag across the sleek tiles, bloody fingerprints sticking on the tiles like finger painting.
Blood pours out of my nose, this unstoppable faucet colouring my hands crimson.
“Get the fuck off me!” Dad shrieks out.
I turn my head, and through the blurry vision, I see Mum standing over Dad with a knife at his throat.
Turning away from them, I eye the door again. Wheezing breaths croak out. A throbbing pain pulses across my ribs, stinging with every movement. I take another step towards the door, my legs dragging at this point, and my hands sliding across the crimson until I finally hit the door.
I feel the cold metal: the shackles that bound me to this house. I clutch it so tightly that they break on contact, shattering.
The bird flaps out her wings, stretching them, readying them for flight.
I flick the lock and grip the handle. My hand is slippery, so as I twist the knob and push the door inwards, my hands slip, and I collapse, half my body out. Half my body is basking in the sunlight. Half of my body is ready for freedom.
My mum cries out, and I hear the rush of barreling footsteps storming toward me.
Like thunder in a rainstorm, the hurricane comes for me one last time.
My face contorts into pain and sadness. I can see the cage closing.
Maybe the bird was never supposed to be free.
Perhaps the bird’s dream was too far-fetched, and here she stayed, living in the darkness.
I close my eyes, seeing my fate, as Dad drags me back into the house. My body goes limp. I’m not strong enough. I was never strong enough. I could never do this alone.
Then I hear the shotgun reloading through the chaos and screaming. “Back the fuck up, John,” a woman’s voice snaps through the overwhelming darkness.
I force my eyes open, and I peer out, and there is an angel. An angel in the form of Mrs Crawford stands over me, shotgun in her hands, and directed inside my broken, crumbling home.
In the distance, the sound of sirens wailing comes into focus, but they also fade simultaneously. The black blotches crawl through my vision, consuming me until my body feels safe enough for me to rest.