You Would Never Know

Prologue

Have you ever heard the steps of someone's feet and been able to recognize who they belonged to?

Or who opened and closed the door at a specific hour?

If yes, then you most likely have a strict parent—maybe more on the extreme side too.

I never had that; in fact, I had the opposite, to the point where I barely heard footsteps around this place or the sounds of doors opening and closing unless I was the one behind these sounds.

While many welcomed themselves to the smell of their mother's cooking morning and night, I came to a meal preserved for me in the fridge by one of the caretakers, whom I never had the chance to put a name on.

It's not that my dear parents were doing this on purpose; it's just that they led a busy life that had no place for me unless I was needed. For instance, with the alliance between my family and his, I haven't agreed yet, but I haven't rejected it either.

He's a friend of mine, dearest to me. He's someone I know I can depend on.

All of my friends are like that; they're my chosen family; they're the ones who I go back to when this house doesn't feel like home.

All of them were like that until one. Papa didn't think twice before he took in his father when their home was no longer home. While his father worked as a driver or, at times, ran errands, he'd come and play with me.

We played in the fields, in the house, and in school. Everywhere you could think of.

My friends and family became his, and his friends and family became mine.

We were one big family until he didn't view it as such.

Around eleven is when it started; at first it was a simple, "Don't play with him!" Or "Why did you share the sandwich with her but not me?" Until it got out of hand at some point.

He was obsessive, possessive, and aggressive. Those who looked my way for a second came back to school the next day and never looked me in the eye again; those who complimented me sported a black eye and a busted lip; and those who flirted were never seen again.

I was confused until he cleared it up. He used to hide it from me, until he stopped.

He'd show me the consequences of looking my way, complimenting me, and taking an interest in me.

From being dragged by the arm to witnessing a poor boy drown by a determined grip on his head to another being hit till God knows when.

I couldn't do much to help; who would I have complained to? The parents who are barely there, the friends who are now his? The caretakers, whom I barely know?

So I bit my tongue, even when his wrath was slowly directed at me, like when my long raven locks were chopped off because of an innocent compliment or the clothes that were too revealing in his eyes were no longer in my closet.

Obsession, possession, and aggression grew day by day; it wasn't only limited to the random boys; I barely knew their names; it became my father, my mother, my best friend, and Abel dearest.

Abel's been on his mind a lot lately: "Why does he look at you like that?" That was how it started, and now all the messages on my phone hold the same contents: "I swear he likes you; you better put an end to it or I will Dali."

The fear of losing my friend numbed any sense of survival, so when he told me to come instantly to that library, I marched in there with a purpose—that Abel wouldn't die.

While the place seemed empty and abandoned, it was actually our most frequently visited place.

I tried to look at his face properly while he spoke, venom dripping from his tongue.

I wasn't focused; my heart was thumping so loudly that I couldn't even hear him. That happens a lot whenever I'm with him.

"I'm doing this because I love you; no one could love you the way I do. And if you don't believe me, see it for yourself. You'll find yourself coming right back."

How many times has he said that before?

"Focus, Dali, focus. This time it's not easy; this pretentious kid is protected by many, so it can't be only me who's thinking of how to fix this."

What exactly is it that needs fixing?

"He's our friend; you can't do that." I spoke, my voice weak and barely audible.

It was stupid to say that, because that led to him yelling and me getting defensive until everything went out of control.

Where did he get that gun? I thought to myself, but the answer to that didn't matter because I should be running.

I turned around, and with all I had in me, I ran out into the angry weather. The cold restricted my breathing, making it harder for me to run.

But I didn't have to do that for long once I noticed a familiar car, and I immediately got in the back, urging him to drive before he got anywhere near us. "Come on, Pablo, step on the gas!" I yelled, shaking his shoulder to urge him to move. He was frozen in place, ashamed of his son, yet deep down he still wanted to go check on him, but that was against the rules; once the only daughter of the Bernardi family tells you to step on the gas, you have no choice but to do so.

He was hot on our tail, but his reckless driving was the only thing that promised me safety, or at least that's what I thought.

Him being underage, without proper training on how to drive, and angry was an ugly fusion; one minute his car was close to bumping theirs, and the next it was close to driving off of the cliff.

And that's exactly what happened in that split second—we had a significant space between our car and his. Mostly due to his recklessness, and the other for the red truck that pushed him off fully, until he and his car turned into nothingness.

For a moment there, I wanted to go back to him when I looked back, but when Pablo's car stopped from his shock, I had this indescribable fear that he'd catch up to us, even when he was possibly dead, so I forced Pablo to continue his drive back to the estate.

There, I saw my Papa after a while. I was ashamed that he found me in such a state, but I held it together, deciding he should never see me like this again. And that's when I demanded I go away, somewhere far away; I should no longer tie myself to this place, or else things would get out of hand, and friends, family, and many others would know what happened. My friends can't see me like this; my parents never even see me often enough for me to be a setback to them, and I finished school not long ago.

Even if there was a good enough reason to stay, I shouldn't. And neither did my parents have a reason to keep me around.

He took up the chance and grabbed my things and started packing what's necessary for me and brought it to me downstairs, with a monotonous, "Your flight will be in under 24 hours; do what is necessary and leave as soon as you deem appropriate."

He turned around to leave as I watched his retreating figure climb the stairs to their room. He didn't leave any room for me to take the conversation further, and it's not like I wanted to, but I hoped he wasn't colder than this weather.

I'm sure my parents would want me to leave quietly for the sake of their sanity, unlike the rest, for whom I had a lot of goodbyes to say and many things to say to a certain someone. My words for him will be kept last, so there won't be any time for me to even reconsider my decision.