A gilded cage, a dangerous heart

Chapter 1: Shattered Reflections

The apartment always smelled like old smoke and that strong, gross cleaner that made my nose sting. It was everywhere-soaked into the curtains, the couch, even my clothes. I hated it. It made me feel like I was choking all the time. People at school would wrinkle their noses when I walked by, but I got used to pretending not to care.

My room wasn't really a room. It was more like a closet somebody forgot to finish. It was stuck onto the back of the kitchen, like it didn't belong. I only had a tiny window, and even that was dirty and looked out at a nasty dumpster that was always full. Sometimes rats crawled around out there. I used to name them when I was younger. Now I just avoided looking.

My dad, Arthur, was... scary. He was a big guy, taller than the doorway, with these heavy boots that made the whole floor shake when he walked. He yelled a lot, about bills or TV or the noise or nothing at all. Sometimes, he didn't even need a reason. One second he was just muttering, and the next, BAM-he was throwing things or shouting so loud my ears rang. I tried to be invisible. I walked quietly, didn't talk unless he talked to me, and kept my head down. But it didn't really help. He always found something wrong with me.

My mom, Brenda, was different. She didn't hit like Dad. She just... said things. Mean things. Cold things. Stuff like "You're such a burden," or "Why didn't I just get rid of you when I had the chance?" She didn't yell like Dad. Her voice was calm, almost bored, like she didn't care enough to get mad. That was worse. It felt like I didn't even exist to her-unless she needed someone to blame.

At school, things were better, kind of. At least I could breathe there. But even then, I kept to myself. I wore long sleeves, even when it was hot, to hide the bruises. I didn't want questions. I didn't want pity either. I just wanted to make it through the day. I sat in the back, didn't talk much, and focused on my books. Reading made everything quieter. My teachers said I was smart. I guess I tried harder than most kids. Not because I wanted an "A," but because I needed to believe I could get out of here someday. That maybe if I worked hard enough, I could make a new life-one where the air didn't feel like poison.

Today was worse than usual.

Dad lost his job again. I knew the second I walked through the door. He was pacing, muttering to himself, bottle already half-empty. The living room was a mess. Brenda was sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette in one hand and this bored, angry look on her face. She didn't say much when I walked in, just gave me a dirty glance like I was the reason everything sucked.

I went straight to my room and closed the door. It didn't really help-it was paper-thin-but at least it gave me something to pretend with. I picked up one of my old fantasy books. I'd read it before, like, a hundred times. The hero was about to fight a dragon, this giant monster made of fire and teeth. I liked that part. The hero was scared, but she still stood up and fought. That was what made her a hero, right? She didn't give up.

But I couldn't concentrate. The voices outside were getting louder. Brenda's sharp words, Dad's grumbles turning into shouts. I felt that old twist in my stomach. That feeling like something bad was coming.

Then I heard it-a crash. Glass breaking. A plate maybe. And then this horrible thud. I froze. That sound always meant something was about to happen. Something painful.

I held my breath. Dad's footsteps started toward my room, heavy and fast. I jumped to my feet, heart pounding, looking around like maybe there was somewhere to run. There wasn't. There never was.

The door creaked open. He stood there, blocking all the light from the kitchen. His face was red and sweaty, eyes wild. I could smell the beer on him from where I stood.

"You! What were you doing in the kitchen?" he slurred.

"I... I wasn't," I whispered. "I've been in here. I swear."

"Liar!" he shouted, stepping closer. "You broke that plate, didn't you? Always breaking things! Always costing me money!"

From the kitchen, Brenda's voice cut through, sharp like a knife. "She's always been clumsy, Arthur. Just like her good-for-nothing father."

I flinched, even though it wasn't about me. I hated when they said that stuff to each other. It always made everything worse. And this time was no different. Dad's eyes went colder, like ice.

"Clumsy, huh?" he muttered.

I backed into the wall, shaking.

He stepped forward and slapped me across the face-hard. His hand felt like stone. I hit the floor so fast I didn't even have time to cry out. My cheek burned, and I tasted blood. My ears rang. My eyes blurred with tears, but I didn't scream. I never screamed. It didn't help.

I lay there, breathing fast, my hands trembling as I held my face. In the other room, they kept arguing like nothing had happened. Like I wasn't even there. Like I was a piece of furniture someone had knocked over.

But something inside me snapped. Not loudly. Quietly. Like a thread that had been stretched too far and finally broke. I didn't cry. Not really. I just stared at the cracked mirror on my wall. My face was bruised. My lip was bleeding. I looked like someone I didn't recognize.

And then I thought-What if this wasn't my life? What if I left? What if I just... disappeared?

I didn't have a plan. I didn't even have money. But I had to do something. I couldn't keep waking up like this. I couldn't keep pretending this was okay. Because it wasn't. None of this was.

So I made a decision.

I was leaving. Tonight.

Even if I didn't know where I was going. Even if it was scary. I'd rather take my chances with the unknown than stay one more night in this nightmare.

I waited until the shouting turned into silence. Dad passed out on the couch. Brenda went to bed with her cigarettes and her glass of vodka. I packed my school bag-just a few clothes, my favorite book, and the little bit of cash I'd been hiding behind the radiator. $18.34.

It wasn't much.

But it was enough to start.

And this time, I wasn't going to look back.