Passion for Perfection | Open Novella Contest 2019

1. The Beginning

I realise now that my life was simply destined to crumble. I was destined to rise up and fall down hard and painfully. Even now as I stand on the edge of sanity, prying at old wounds, I realise it was a death sentence. It was as if I spent the first three decades of my life on death row and not known about it, grasping desperately and clinging onto any hope I had left.

But there was no hope. Just an illusion. An illusion that started some time during high school.

The school bell echoed through the halls and I remember my heart stopping for a moment. It was home time.

I always dreaded going back home from school. I wanted to stay there with the teachers, where I was appreciated and loved. Where I was envied for my intelligence and looked up to by the younger ones. Where I was safe. I didn't want to be humiliated. Not again.

You'll worry your mother if you don't return.

The feeling of guilt made my stomach knot. That little voice was enough to make me start walking down the road towards the bus stop. If I didn't come home, she'd be left alone with that monster. I couldn't let that happen. I quickly walked down the street, the cold January winds nipping at my face.

"See you tomorrow!" I heard Sally's voice call after me and I turned to wave at her. She was the only person who greeted me in the mornings, the only person who spoke to me at lunch and the only person who wished me farewell at the end of the school day. She was my closest friend. My only friend. I smiled at her and carried on walking.

The bus didn't take long to arrive, much to my dismay.

I fidgeted the entire ride home, my brain suggesting countless scenarios where everything goes wrong; where things get out of hand. The more we neared to my town, the more my hands got sweaty and my face more flushed. I felt my heart thump against my chest and I closed my eyes. I had to stay strong. For her.

The bus lurched to a stop and I slowly got off. The little voice inside my head was the only thing propelling my feet forwards. I watched as the bus drove off into the distance and wished I could still be on it. I wished it would take me away to... anywhere; anywhere but home.

I turned a corner and walked down our street. The suffocating smell of pollution filled my nose and a can rolled across my path, breaking the deathly silence. My house emerged from behind the orderly row of small grey identical houses. It was part of many, but it always stood out like a sore thumb to me, even when I would return years later. It was the only house that I knew from the inside, and the inside wasn't pretty.

I crept up in front of the door and inserted my key. With a twist and a click, the door swung loudly open like an ominous gate to a graveyard, except no one had died in there yet. At least not for another decade or so.

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, any noise that could have been coming from outside was silenced instantly. I never locked it in case I would find my father in a bad state and had to make a quick escape. Things got out of hand very easily.

The house was eerily quiet apart from a rhythmic tapping coming from the kitchen at the end of the hallway. I slid my school bag off my back and gently set it down beside the door. Then I made my way down the hall. The kitchen door was on the left, wide open to reveal who was inside.

The first thing I saw was my mum and I instantly relaxed a bit. She was fine. She stood with her back to me, cutting vegetables on a chopping board. Her knife hitting the wood was the source of the tapping I could hear. As I rounded the corner and walked fully into the kitchen, I spotted someone who made my muscles tense instinctively again. My father. He was sitting at the dining table, a sheet of paper in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. I froze in the doorway.

"Jane." My father's low, raspy and slurred voice made my skin crawl. His tone seemed neutral. I didn't know what mood he was in and that made me nervous. I glanced at my mum, but her back was still turned to me, mutely focused on cutting the carrot.

"Hello, Dad." I managed to choke out. He expected me to greet him when I came home. A sign of respect, he always said, but that man didn't deserve an ounce of my respect.

"Do you know what this is?" He looked up and waved the page at me. His eyes were slightly sunken and his pupils struggled to focus on me. Dread came over me like a wave and my palms felt clammy again. This wasn't good.

"My school report." I guessed with confidence. Grades were the only thing he ever talked about to me. The only thing he cared about. As those hard eyes glared at me, I knew what he was thinking. He wanted a son, not a "self-obsessed girl that only thinks about herself". He wanted me to be strong and independent; "like a man," he'd say. He hated me. Me, and everything I stood for.

"Bloody damn right, it's your report." He growled in response, slamming the glass down onto the table. Some of the toxic liquid spilt over the sides and became one of the numerous stains on the table. "And do you bloody know what it says?"

"No Dad, I don't," I responded calmly, trying to mask my fear. I knew it was bad but I needed to play dumb. He hated when I acted like a know-it-all.

"You barely got a B!" My Dad exploded, standing up and swaying slightly. "A low B, Jane. That is not good enough! How are you going to get into a good university with a grade like that!?" Before I knew what was happening, he was in front of me, looking down into my eyes like a driver would look at an insect that just splattered on his windshield. The pungent smell of alcohol and cigarettes almost made me gag but I stopped myself. I had to remain calm. Don't encourage him, whatever you do, don't encourage him. I was focusing so hard on not crying and keeping my emotions deep down that I think I blacked out for a couple of seconds. When my eyes finally focused on him again, I took a staggered breath.

"I'm sorry, Dad." I managed to get out. "I'll try harder next time."

"That's not good enough!" He yelled in my face, making me jump. The rhythm of my mother's cutting got uneven. I saw her hand shake. "Listen, young lady!" My father grabbed my face with rough fingers and made me look straight at him. "Either those grades go up, or you're not my child anymore."

You never treated me like one in the first place. That's what I wanted to say, but I didn't. I would regret it for years after if I did.

"Yes, Dad." Is what I actually said. I blacked out for a second again. Probably from fear. When I got my bearings again, my father was stumbling out of the house without a word. I didn't look after him, instead, I waited until the front door slammed shut. He was on his way to the nearest bar. He always was.

I ran over to my mother and hugged her tight.

"I'm so sorry darling, I really am." She wept, stroking my hair. I looked up at her and smiled sadly. She looked at least 20 years older than she actually was. All the worry and fear had aged her immensely.

"It's okay Mum," I reassured her. "There's nothing you could have done."

We hugged each other and didn't let go for a long time. By the time my father got home, we were already in bed, not wanting to confront him after more pints.

That was merely the first time he threatened to disown me. The next few years only got worse.