Chapter 3 Hope
HOPE
The strangest thing happens. Nothing happens.
Dad drags me home after thanking officers, giving them smiles and sweet words, he goes to his bedroom and doesn’t come out.
I stand in the hallway for five minutes before telling that I need to escape before he changes his mind and comes for me.
Turning the lock on, I lean my back against the door of my bedroom and take a deep breath. It doesn’t calm my racing heart or quiet my loud head. It does nothing.
I step away from the door, looking for my phone so I can talk to Sebastian, since I can’t talk to Heath but something on the floor catches my eye.
Blood.
The wood is marked with dry spots of blood that I know belongs to Heath.
I clench the material of my shirt as I try to contain my heart inside that starts beating wildly and uncontrollably.
Heath bled because of me.
The reminder is all I need to realize that if he stays by my side, only the worst will happen to him.
I can’t bear that.
He’s someone I care deeply about. And it’s not just because he’s the guy I like, but because he’s also my friend. He’s done so much for me and all I’ve done is give him worry and distress.
He said he doesn’t deserve me. He’s wrong. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve him.
He’s too good to be caught in the middle of the mess my home life is.
With my heart in my throat, I near the blood stains and kneel on the floor.
The longer I stare at it, the more awful I feel.
My chest packs with air and it feels full. Yet I can barely feel any oxygen flowing through my blood and reaching my cells.
I can feel myself getting dizzy.
No! You can’t crumble now.
Get yourself together.
Standing up, I get my phone and search online on how to get rid of blood stains. The article says to use water and vinegar—both of which I need to get from downstairs.
As much as I don’t want to go, I can’t have the stains on the floor. They’ll haunt me.
For the sake of my sanity, I need to clean it up so I don’t overthink and drive myself crazy—which I know I will. Just by staring at them I’m spiraling.
I grab the stuff from the kitchen. It’s quiet in the house which is rare. The mere presence of Dad is loud enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. Seems like he left because I can’t sense him in the house.
I hurry back into my room.
As I sit on the floor to clean, my hands start trembling.
My world turned upside down a few hours ago.
And it all happened so fast.
One minute Heath was getting over the window sill because he wanted to talk to me and the next Dad was knocking on my door like a madman.
What occurred afterwards is a blur. A film of events I keep pushing back because as soon as I remember, my heart hurts and I feel terrible for causing Heath all the trouble.
Because of me, he’s locked up in a cell right now.
I wonder if he’s okay.
That’s another thing that I’m forcing myself to not think about because I don’t trust myself to not run the seven blocks so I can get to him.
I hope he gets out. He has to.
I’ll do anything to get him out of there. Anything.
Scrubbing the floor with more force than needed, I try to not let my mind wander, but it does.
I keep thinking about Heath and prepare myself for the moment he’ll break things off with me.
I mean any sane person would do that. He doesn’t need to bother himself with me, no matter how much he likes me.
In fact, now that he is locked up in the cell, he must have already made up his mind to break up with me.
Which should be fine.
We weren’t in a relationship or anything, but there was—is—something between us that maybe isn’t worth the trouble.
At that thought I hear the cracking sound of my heart breaking into pieces.
I want him like I’ve never wanted anything.
I really, really, really like him.
I’m falling in love with him.
But now I have to abandon all these feelings because after what happened last night Heath wouldn’t want to do anything with me.
It takes me far long to clean the stains.
Putting away everything, I step into the bathroom and turn on the shower. When I stand naked in front of the mirror, it’s then I notice a small gash on my temple. The blood has dried and the wound has closed, but it appears fresh.
With my fingers I touch the gash and wince as it hurts. I clearly remember the worry on Heath’s face when he saw it even though he was the one who got stabbed. My pain bothered him more than his. Just like I forgot about all the aches in my body when I watched him get hurt.
Gathering every bit of courage from within me, I push myself away from the mirror and step under the shower. The warm water cascades down my back and soothes me.
I stand there for a long time before I start washing myself.
Thirty minutes later I return to my room dressed in a new pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt and sit on my bed.
Picking up my phone I text Heath.
Hope: I’m fine. I’ll see you at school.
I know he’ll worry about me. I hope this puts him at ease.
I set my phone aside so I don’t reach for it and spam Heath with messages and calls.
After what happened, I don’t know where we stand. I’d be okay with whatever he decides—even when it involves leaving me.
I hear the door open downstairs that makes me sit rigid on the bed. Chills race down my spine and my body turns cold. I don’t think I’m breathing with how scared I am.
I start counting to distract my head, but the sound of the footsteps climbing the stairs makes me stumble over numbers. There’s only my room on this floor. The attic is filled with dust, cobwebs and piles of used stuff that Mom doesn’t want to throw away because she’s sentimental to the core.
Wood creaks outside my room and I know he’s here. Dad is standing right outside my room.
I start hyperventilating and no amount of breathing exercises that Heath used to do with me helps.
The door knob turns and Dad steps in looking and smelling drunk. In one hand, he’s holding a Scotch bottle and in the other he has a cigarette.
His eyes lock on me and I quickly jump to my feet.
I’m tall but he makes me feel like the smallest woman in the world.
“You’re alone,” he says, as he walks into my room. I move back but my legs hit the mattress. There’s no escaping. I’m trapped.
When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Because your boy is spending the night in the cell.”
I let
“I told you to stay away from him, but you didn’t. He’s there because of you,” he reminds me.
He’s there because of you. Those are the only words I hear.
I clasp my hands together and fidget with my fingers as the ball of anxiety starts rolling around in my stomach.
“It’s all your fault. You’re the reason why bad things happen to people.”
I stay quiet, listening to him intently.
Dad walks to the book wall and stares at it.
He takes a long swig from the bottle and then takes a puff from the cigarette.
“First you ruined my marriage and now there’s a boy suffering because of you.
” He faces me. His dark eyes bore into mine and all I see is darkness. “Hope, you’re nothing but a bad omen.”
Bad omen.
I cause people problems.
They get hurt because of me.
I’m a problem.
My chest aches as those words fill the spaces inside of me.
I find all the pieces of the puzzle that I’ve been trying to put together for years.
The reason why my parents fought.
The reason why I didn’t have friends.
The reason why I’ve always been empty and lonely.
It’s because I’m the problem.
Dad watches me closely, as he drinks the last bit of the bottle and then tosses it away. It clinks on the floor then rolls away into a corner, stinking my room in its pungent smell.
“I told you to stay away from him, but you didn’t listen to me,” he says in a low, quiet voice.
It’s past midnight and the world is sleeping at this hour. There’s silence and peace circling in the air that it almost feels eerie.
“A boy was in your bedroom when you know you are not allowed to have boys in the house, let alone in your bedroom,” he finishes and clicks his teeth in disappointment.
Averting his gaze from me, he looks down at the stack of books—my book wall—and says, “You made a grave mistake, Hope. And mistakes have punishments.”
Bending down, he picks up a book that I’ve read more than twenty times because it’s one of my favorites. I consider it my comfort-read; the book I read when I’m feeling down and just want to feel something.
I stiffen as he flips through the pages, his eyes taking in the words and my notes.
My thoughts are written on those pages. Anyone who’ll read them will know me from the inside out.
People find intimacy vulnerable, but I find my favorite books to be read by others vulnerable. They’re my most treasured prize because they contain pieces of me that I’ll never show to anyone.
“Books. You’ve loved them since you were a kid.” He closes the book with a thud using his both hands. The cigarette hangs between his mouth and his eyes now back on me again.
I gulp under his fierce stare, seeing darkness swirl in patterns.
Keeping his eyes on me, he rips apart the book making sure each page is torn out of the spine in the most brutal manner.
I stand five feet away from him like a stone statue. I can’t move.
I watch him rip it to shreds before starting on the second one, then the third, and the fourth until he’s on the last book.
While he’s doing it, I only stand and watch. Tears push past my eyes and fall down my cheeks, burning my skin like acid. A few slip under my jaw, move down my throat and slide down my chest—the place where my heart is weeping.
Dad tears all my books until the floor is a mess of pages and I have no idea which page belongs to which book.
Striding towards me, he steps onto the pages—pages that I turned countless times and had my thoughts written on them—and coats them in his dirty mud footprints. The footprints make my heart clench and more tears rush down my eyes.
Stopping in front of me, he says, “That’ll teach you a lesson as you’re so determined to disobey me.”
I meet his gaze and all I see is anger. For what, I don’t know. I haven’t since he first raised his hand on me. “Remember, I straightened your mother into obedience, making sure that she doesn’t forget that she belongs to me.”
My heart pounds in my ribcage as I hear those words.
“Now, will you stay away from that boy or not?”
I nod, trying my best to not stare at the pages on my floor.
“Good, otherwise you won’t like what I do,” he warns me. His face grim and his eyes filled with hatred.
With that he leaves and closes the door with a loud thud. The sound shakes me and I gasp. Suddenly I find the room too suffocating to breathe air.
Rushing towards the windows, I open them and lean over the sill as I try to breathe.
A thorn seems to prick me in the chest. With each breath I draw in, pain spreads through the nerves. It hurts. It hurts.
Leaning over the sill, I try to regulate my breathing when I see Nadina looking up at me from her window. She’s sitting in a rocking chair knitting what appears to be a sweater but it’s small and red in color.
She stares at me and I feel like she can read me better than Heath does.
I push back and close the windows. When I turn around, the utter mess of my torn books awaits me.
With each step I take, my stomach tightens.
I crouch down on the floor, and pick up a few pages. My hands shake as I hold them. Some pages are torn so badly that no amount of glue or tape will ever put them back together. They won't be the same as before.