I’ve got to get out of this house. This is the Helping Hands guy. The one that stood in my kitchen a couple of months ago, ogling my nearly naked frame. I remember his dark eyes climbing up my body like a cockroach.
Bullshit he had a key. Bullshit he was following company procedure. There’s no way my mom would let anyone have a free pass to our house. I should have known that, should have been able to see through his lies. I don’t let my mind question whether or not he’d planned to rob us that day, because if he had that would mean I interrupted him. God, he must be pretty angry at me for that.
I watch him disappear towards my bedroom, and then I carry on sliding down the stairs until I hit the bottom step. I can’t take it twice. I don’t have time. I wonder if he figured out what was wrong with me. He’d only have to ask his boss.
I’m suddenly afraid he’ll catch on to my escape attempt if he finds my room empty. My heart tries to choke me.
I slide onto the floor on my hands and knees and crawl towards the door. My teeth slam down on my tongue when something bites into my palms. There’s a popping sound. Several popping sounds. I freeze. Try to swallow back more tears and a mouthful of hot saliva.
At first I can’t figure out what it is. Something is slicing into me and my best guess would be I’m crawling through a field full of sharp paper. But when I lift my hand, I see it, glistening in whatever moonlight has managed to sneak in through the porch windows. Broken glass. My head snaps around to survey Gran’s Georgian glass cabinet. He must not have been able to pick the rusty antique lock because he’s totalled the front of it, and I’m bleeding all over the debris.
No time to dwell. The door is only a few feet away and my eyes are rolling again. I hold my breath, think of my bed, my soft warm sheets, my favourite book, Mom and me talking about television, Luke’s smile and the way his skin feels against mine.
The pain doesn’t stop, but the popping sound does. Somehow, I’ve made it.
My hands are soaked ruby red. They shake like the tail of a rattlesnake as I reach for the latch. It clicks, and I pull back the bolt. The door is unbroken; he must have found another way in. I pull it open a fraction, let the moonlight pour in. A rush of fresh air engulfs me, and it never felt so good.
But now I have to make it across the driveway. It might as well be an army assault course. I pause, squeeze my teeth together so tight my jaw feels like it’s going to snap. The sweat surfacing on my palms exacerbates the sting and sets my cuts on fire.
I can’t do it. Fuck. I can’t do it.
This is my new hell. This is definitely what being damned feels like. I think Fuck a thousand more times. It’s a mistake to run a hand through my hair, but I do it anyway, splashing blood into my blonde.
I hear the faint bump of a jackass stumbling into something upstairs. God. I hope he caught his shin on a sharp corner. I hope he smacked it down to the bone on my gothic dressing table and that it hurts so bad his stomach starts turning. But then I guess if he’s hurt himself, he’s probably going to be even more pissed off.
I really gotta go. He could discover me at any second.
I crack the door further so the gap is wide enough for me to fit through.
I don’t have a heading, but I’m looking at Luke’s house. His car is in the driveway. I was hoping there’d be a light on, but the place is bathed in blackness. The Trips’ house is dark too. Triangle Crescent is sound asleep. I wonder if any of our neighbours will wake to discover missing valuables and lakes of shattered glass.
Luke’s house is the closest option. And he brings me ice cream without black bits because he knows I don’t like them. He gets me orange juice when my legs aren’t working. He brings the stars to my bedroom so I can lie beneath them. He talks about my future, even when I’m not sure I have one. He makes me feel safe.
I need to feel safe again.
My legs are still as stable as jelly, so I have no choice but to move forward on my hands. Placing my palms one at a time on the ground, I give a brief thought to all the sneakers, boots, sandals, and shoes that have trodden their crap on this porch over the years. It makes me whimper. All that bacteria I’m dipping my open wounds in.
My shoulders emerge from the door and everything grows to twice its original size.
Come on, Norah. You can’t stay here.
I pant out a breath, scrunch my eyes shut and then open them in the hope it will clear my vision. It doesn’t.
I lift my palm, move it forwards slowly, and do the same again. And again. I tune out the squelching sounds until my sliced-up knees have joined my hands on the infection-imminent porch.
The night is cool. It feels big, infinite, impossible to think the sun can overcome it. Every muscle tightens, as if my insides were being strangled by elastic bands. Snivelling, I make my way down the steps, wishing they’d stop moving and make this easier.
With my dignity still trapped inside the house, I flop off the porch and collapse on the concrete driveway. My left hip smashes against the ground, and I bump my chin so hard my teeth slam shut, almost severing my tongue in two.