The first rule is to never let them know you can see them. The second rule is to never make a deal with them. And the last rule is to never ever get possessed by them.
Brighton High is the most expensive school in the world. Olympic size pools, conc...
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*T/W: Following chapter includes domestic violence.
I wouldn't have wished for death if I knew that my wish would come true so soon.
I heard the shouts even before I stepped into the hallway. My fingers tightened around my school bag and I stopped in front of the apartment door. He was home earlier than usual. Shouting at something. Or someone. His words were intangible—a blur of curses and profanities—but I could feel his anger. The loud pulsating emotion reverberated through the thin walls and gripped me in its cruel hold. My heart rate doubled. Sweat formed on my forehead, dribbled down my face, and disappeared into my school uniform. I raised my hand to unlock the door, but then fisted my trembling fingers. Could I really face him?
The door next to ours opened and a middle-aged couple got out of their apartment. Blood rushed to my face, and I ducked my head. It wasn't embarrassment. I wasn't ashamed. Rather, it was anger. Hot and ruthless, it engulfed me in its dizzying spell. I was angry because I couldn't hide the truth anymore. Now they would know that I didn't belong to a happy family—that my life was worse than theirs.
Perhaps it was my young foolish pride that wanted to hide this shameful part of my life. But I didn't want them to know. Not about this, not about anything. I wanted to cut it off like a rotten limb and forget that it ever existed. However, the sweetness of that alternate reality only left a bitter aftertaste. It was a futile wish. Life wasn't that easy. Even if the limb was gone, the stump would remain. And it would stand out jarringly. Everyone would see it, even if they would never talk about it.
My neighbors' steps faltered near our door, and I tensed. The shouts were loud and unmistakable. Would they question it? Would they offer help? I stole a quick glance at them. Our eyes met, and I panicked. What should I say? How should I explain? As I contemplated this, they gave me a small forced smile. I curved my lips to return it—when instead of stopping; they continued to walk away. I hid my look of surprise and snapped my gaze away. Anger clawed the insides of my stomach once again. They didn't have to say anything for me to know what they were thinking. I had been listening to those words my entire life.
Poor Tamara. Her mother married the wrong man. A drunkard for a stepfather.
Pity. They always looked at me with pity. They watched me as a person watched a wounded street dog. There was nothing to do but watch it tremble in misery. It was a life that the dog had to get used to living or die trying. Tears pooled at the corner of my eyes, and I gritted my teeth. I didn't need their pity. It solved nothing. There was no way out of this hellhole. This was my reality. And I had to face it alone.
I opened the door and stepped inside. The reek of booze and cheap tobacco smoke flooded the apartment, and I scrunched up my nose. Empty bottles, dirty dishes, and stubs of cigarettes littered the floor. A few bottles were broken—perhaps in another one of his drunken stupors—and I navigated through the shattered glass with care.
