Until We Break (Formerly Wicked, Wild, Wonderful)

Original Edition: Chapter Eighteen

THAT DAY, MRS. MORGAN HAD COME BACK ONLY ONCE TO TELL NAOMI THAT SHE HAD AN HOUR TO GET READY, AND SET HER BREAKFAST ON THE NIGHT-TABLE.

When Naomi saw her come in, her hand stung with recognition and when she walked out her eyes tinged with shame. She almost called after her. She wanted to ask if she could feed her again, like yesterday, but all that felt like centuries ago. The door clicked shut and she thought how odd it was that one action could shift time so much that normal things felt alien and comfortable things felt impossible.

She nibbled whatever was on the plate and skipped the orange juice, just like she skipped her shower, and threw on the easiest thing in her closet. Walking down the stairs and out the door was a lot easier than she expected. She imagined that her fight with her mother startled her body awake, or perhaps it was the very act of leaving the Morgan house that she gravitated towards. In her heart, she knew which of the two was right.

Mrs Morgan didn't see her daughter again until she got in the car seat next to her. Neither of them said anything. Though Naomi supposed she should have said sorry, the untrue words could not form. She was tired of spitting lies. She was not sorry for slapping her mother. On top of that, she silently hoped that by not apologizing her mother would know it too. Mrs Morgan clicked on the air conditioning and they drove off in silence.

In contrast to everything Naomi felt, the physiotherapist said that she was fine. She'd be able to dance in a few months. He said it in the most congratulatory voice and Mrs Morgan nodded pleasingly but Naomi couldn't figure out what there was to celebrate. It felt, absurd. She slumped lower into his hard office chair when he started speaking about her diet. For the rest of the visit, she zoned out.

When they finally returned home, Mr Morgan's car was parked out front, gleaming under the column lights. Naomi thought it looked more natural under the Riverside sunlight of 6th avenue. They parked behind his car and the engine shut off. Breathlessly, Mrs Morgan started to manage a sentence. It was an utterance really, of something that would no doubt sound like regret and frustration; something Naomi had had enough of. Ultimately, it went unheard when Naomi Morgan opened the car door and got out. The cold night air washed over her briefly, and then again when she slammed the door shut behind her.

Naomi tucked her hands into her jeans pockets and moved toward the front door. She knew what she was doing and it hurt her, of course, it did. But there were larger and more powerful parts of her that revelled in it. For once, she was selfish and she couldn't get enough.

Naomi Morgan decided that when she got inside, she'd blow the dust off her phone and download some music. It would perhaps be something with a piano and cuss words if she could find anything like that. But, when she got to the front door, there was something on the floor awaiting her. It looked like mail, some sort of notice flyer.

Riverside didn't do flyers. They did emails and house visits if there was ever a need. Naomi immediately knew who this was from. Her mind thought back to the animal faces she saw in the pouring rain not that long ago. Her jaw tightened. She stepped over it and went inside.

That night, instead of heading to her room like she said she would, Naomi found herself walking straight to her brother's. She opened the door, sighing when Williams' eyes trained on her. He scooted over on the bed. "Close the door behind you."

When Naomi told her little brother that she hit their mother, he didn't flinch.

"I know," he said. "Mom and Dad haven't stopped talking about it."

"Don't call him that," was the first thing to run out of her mouth. "That man isn't our father." Even though, her mind paced relentlessly on so much more. She was sure it was impossible to overhear anything in the Morgan home. The walls might have been thin but there was nothing to travel past them anyway. No one spoke. Perhaps that's why when he asked her if she heard, she took a little longer than expected to shake her head.