2. two
two
LYSANDRA
As I reached for the doorknob, it crashed open. I fell back against the arm of our ripped couch.
“D-dad, you’re home.”
I hated myself for even stuttering.
“How’s it going, pretty girl?” he slurred, trudging into the mobile home. Mario had begun to make his way toward me, and his hazel eyes were bloodshot. When he neared me, I could smell the tequila in his breath. I gagged silently, covering my mouth.
“All good.”
I slid away from him and went toward the door, which had been wide open for my escape.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He motioned for me to come closer. I remained still while I thought of ways to distract him and get out of there.
“You—you should get some sleep. You seem like you had a difficult day at work.”
His scrutinizing stare caused my heart to pulse faster. The silence between us was deafening. My fear was transparent. And I wondered whether he knew how much his presence disgusted me. Did he know I could barely tolerate him? And myself, for that matter.
“You’re right,” Mario burped. “Always taking good care of me. Good girl.”
Mario shifted in place, then his body fell to the ground. His arm collided with the wooden table beside him, toppling it over.
The crash reverberated in my mind, echoing into the deepest parts of my soul.
Splinters of the table seemed to puncture my heart and not just my body.
I hissed softly, reaching for my arm, not wanting to attract my stepfather’s attention to my pain.
Although he wouldn’t care much if he ever saw me bear the wounds of his violence.
And there he lay, unconscious from too much liquor. This was the card I was dealt. There was nothing I could do about it, now or ever.
There was no other choice but to choke back my anger and clean up the mess he made. Our barely decent table was shattered, and the TV in the living room had a swirl of colors surrounding a dark spot in the middle. Broken.
I looked around the kitchen and living room. This place was hardly standing; I don’t know how I hadn’t crumbled along with it.
Maybe I was just as broken as this house and everything in it.
I looked down at my hands, which trembled without any bit of willingness from me.
Every limb in my body quaked as my breathing grew short.
That was the result of what happened when I heard loud noises, and I despised it deeply about myself.
Mario’s snores and coughs caused me to clench my teeth so hard it felt like I was about to crack a tooth.
Nonetheless, I picked up a few scraps of the table and made my way out, setting them in the garbage can.
I scanned the trailers that were parked around, checking to see if any of my nosy neighbors heard the destructive ruckus that happened inside. But the trailer park was empty.
As I stared at the graffitied bin, frustration took control of my body and I kicked the dumpster, a clang following each strike. A low, ugly cry teared out of my chest. Pain shot up my shin. I sucked in a breath and bent forward, hands on my knees. A humiliating urge to cry crept up my throat.
I wouldn’t cry; it had never helped before anyway, so I forced it back down. I gave one last look at the garbage bin—small dents covering the side of it—before I made my way back to the trailer.
Every step I took back into that hellhole mocked me. I needed to get out of there. I couldn’t stay there anymore. It only reminded me of how my mother decided to abandon me to a stranger, her ex-boyfriend.
She left me in a life of violence, manipulation, slavery, and abuse attempts. Thankfully, my anger and resentment never allowed me to let him come into my proximity. And whenever he did come too close, it hadn’t been for long.
I could use the money I had saved up to buy a bus ticket to another state. Far away from him. But where would I even go?
As I walked back to the steps of our shattered mobile home, I saw a white crumpled envelope with a blue stamp pressed onto the corner, atop the front doormat.
The Scottish saltire flag had been imprinted on the polished sticker, and intricate calligraphy was sprawled across the middle of the post. It was the type of writing that came from someone important.
My name and address were etched across the center of the envelope.
Once I had pulled out the piece of paper, I couldn’t contain my excitement. I covered my mouth to muffle the squeal that dared escape my lips.
But there it was, my exit out of this miserable life:
Dear Lysandra Guerrera,
Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that we inform you of your selection as a recipient of the Van Dorren Annual Award to attend Blackthorn House Academy.
This prestigious grant is a testament to your exceptional achievements, character, and potential.
We are thrilled to welcome you to our community.
An acceptance letter to a school I had applied to study abroad.
I recalled that night clearly. I was packing my bags, ready to leave and not come back.
But Mario stopped me before I made it past the kitchen.
He threatened that he would find me and bring me back to him, that I would never escape him.
In my desperation, I looked for several schools out of the country and applied to all of them.
That was over four months ago. To be truthful, I forgot I even sent these out.
This was a divine intervention. It had to be.
He didn’t see the letters when he marched inside in his haze. He was too drunk to notice, and I thank God for that.
Swiftly, I darted back into my house, closing the door, jumping above Mario, and rushing into my room. Holding onto the envelope as if it were my life, I pulled out my phone. My fingers trembled as I unlocked it and searched for the mail app.
Today was December 5th. The post office delivered this late, as usual. I groaned with annoyance.
I couldn’t find an email from the school. Then I went to my spam folder, and there it was. My hands shook as I typed out an email, refining it to the best of my abilities, giving appreciation to the school for the scholarship, and accepting the award.
Mario would not stop me from leaving this godforsaken town.
I was going to leave. And I wasn’t coming back.