Page 2 of Seduce & Destroy

“I’m so sorry this is happening.”

No proper response came to mind. I couldn’t accept her commiserations right now, accepting the situation was the furthest thing from my mind. I needed a plan. Something to look forward to before I melted in a puddle like the wine that seeped into the cracks of the hardwood floor. But it was fear that overruled my thoughts.

“It’s so much worse than I imagined. I’m panicking!” I said. I could tell it wasn’t what she was expecting, but God, it was honest.

“What?” She asked, anxiety filtering into her voice. “What happened?”

“With Grandfather’s disappearance, father promoted himself.” It poured out of me. If he was taking this as an opportunity to escalate operations, especially to the point of outgrowing our home, and it meant only one thing. “I’m scared he will move us away.”

“No way! London is your home and business! Your father can’t just–”

“Tilly, I don’t want to move away from the city. I can’t stand the quiet.”

“I know Laney, I–” A distant cry sounded in the call's background. It was piercing but, in a way gentle. “Sorry. I swear that girl can sense something is up before I can. Georgia…” She cooed to her nine-month-old daughter. The ink on her marriage certificate barely dried before she announced her pregnancy, and with the baby, her priorities changed. “I hope they find him soon. I can’t– We can’t have more stressors in our family. I won’t regret bringing a child into this world.”

I hadn’t seen her in so long, I needed a friend. “If he moves us,” I began. “Can… can you come visit me? I know you have a baby and a husband now, and things are different, but–”

“Laney, Laney, yes,” she said. “I’d love a weekend where it’s just us girls. Georgia is amazing, but I need a break too. I’ll be there, promise.”

I lifted a finger on my left hand. “My pinky is up.”

“So is mine,” she replied.

“Promise.” We said in unison, our signature. Soon after, she hung up. Something about her husband needing her or something. I could cry.

Tilly was three years younger than me and had it all.

I was twenty-two and didn’t even have a key to the front door.

I’d only known independence once. It was brief and according to my father, not to be repeated.

Every Christmas, I used to wish to go to school.

And each year, Father gave me books instead to develop my intellect, he used to say. Grandfather would look into the fire every time I’d ask. My father taught me to read prose before navigating a proper conversation, claiming that words on a page could be the windows of my life. But books could never replace the desire for connection. I could feel it in my bones, even though I couldn’t articulate it to him, something was missing from my upbringing.

Then, a mysterious present appeared under the tree that wasn’t neatly rectangular. It was soft, and when I opened it, I cried. I tore the paper away to reveal a tartan skirt, a blazer and a tie. Tucked in the breast pocket of the blazer was a note for January enrolment to St James’s Academy.

Signed, Grandad xx

I ran into his arms. That day was one of the few days when I saw him smile.

Please, be okay granddaddy. I vowed it to be true.

Two weeks later, with a skip in my step, I walked the corridors of a real-life school. Too soon, I discovered that the hollow in my chest wasn’t going to be filled by simply being around people but by getting close to them.

My gleeful smile wasn’t welcomed by many. It turned out that spending my entire life under the thumb of a criminal father and a rotating door of staff hadn’t equipped me with great social skills. My father thought it was depression; I thought it was circumstance. My overeagerness to learn and unearned confidence designated my social status as weird, so quickly I resigned to the outskirts of social circles, merely an observer.

There was a girl, though. A little older, a little taller, and stunning.

She made it all worth it.

I only saw her between classes, looking almost ethereal in her confident stride. Her hair was the darkest brown I’d ever seen, catching the wind with each step she took. I admired her like a girl did her mother in later years. It wasn’t a crush but an attraction I’d never felt. She was everything I wanted to be and everything I feared I would never be. My heart ran marathons in her sightline, but despite my fear, I always wished her eyes would find me as mine did hers, but they never did.

I dropped out on my birthday—also, the anniversary of my mother’s passing. No one noticed my absence as I hid in the girls' bathroom. My face stared back at me in the mirror as I passed the morning in the science block toilets, sitting in a stall with the door open. It was quiet, and the motion sensor lights blinked off. I was truly alone. The crushing weight of loneliness felt like a fracture of the brain as tears poured down my cheeks.

I felt a presence that I knew was the girl. Would she finally look at me? Talk to me? Like me?

I stood and walked out of the stall, my vision clouded by tears, but no one was there. With a sigh, I hunched over a sink. The crush of solitude began anew when I felt something behind my back. A hand placed softly in the centre of my back, its thumb repeatedly combing the fabric of my sweater. It was the first touch I felt in years.