Page 4 of Bound By Threads
I’m exhausted and drained.
The relentless battle against the memories that invade my mind every moment of the day has left me weary. As I close the door to my room, a wave of relief washes over me, and I feel like I can finally breathe for the first time since waking up.
My room is painted a soft, pale yellow, a color chosen by Dad when he was sober and wanted to make my room look pretty, though the color has faded significantly over the years. On my windowsill, the carefully arranged seashells I’ve diligently collected during every visit to the beach lay in a perfect row, not one out of place. My mattress is worn and sagging from years of use, and the single bed looks as if it might give out any day now.
Yet, it’s the only place in these four walls we call a home that I can find any peace.
I’ve always felt like a second choice in this house.
A second choice to the drugs, the alcohol, and the way they always endlessly support one another in a toxic dance of enabling each other. I’m left standing at the threshold of the door, watching the way their heads lull forward, nodding on and escaping into another world altogether, while I’m left silently begging for my parents to be sober.
Shoutingescalates as their voices rise throughout the house, anger and bitterness welling up into hurtful words meant to maim the other person into silence.
The sound of a bottle smashing to smithereens reverberates through the walls, and my hands begin to shake as adrenaline pumps through my veins.
“I’ve had enough of your excuses!” Mom screams, “You’re a fucking coward who loves to pretend everything’s fine.”
“And you?” Dad retorts, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Are you any better? Attacking your daughter because you’re a shell of who you used to be. You’re bitter and pathetic.”
Their words clash, their voices blending into one noise. I stand frozen in my room, every muscle tense, preparing for an impact that will inevitably come at some point.
The familiar feeling of dread coils in my stomach like a snake, its grip tightening with every insult hurled between them. It’s a dance I’ve seen far too many times—one that ends with me being the punching bag when their frustrations are no longer able to be taken out on the other.
I know I can’t stay here.
The air is suffocating, thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the bitter smell of burning plastic. My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic countdown urging me to escape before Mom sets her sights on me.
I open the window to my room, thankful the house is all on one floor, and climb out. With a final glance back at the house, I can see their shadows move violently, fingers pointing as they try to blame the other for their addictions.
I turn on my heel and flee.
My feet moveon their own accord, carrying me away from the shouting and towards the one place where I feel peace.
The beach is quiet, the waves gently lapping against the sand. I make my way to my favorite spot, a secluded group of rocks where the world and everything else fades away into nothing.
Here I am, just Scarlett. Not a victim. Not the child of two drug addicts who are in debt because their addiction is more important than food. Or the girl who three boys at school bully relentlessly.
The sky above is a canvas painted in pinks and purples, and I let myself breathe in the salty scent of the ocean on the breeze. I slip down the cold rock, sinking onto the sand, and dig my hands into the sand, letting the cool grains slip between my fingers.
I focus on the water until my breathing evens out. How would it feel to sink under the waves until my lungs burn or to be free?
Chapter3
Scarlett
Idon’t know when I got home, but it was well past the time when Mom and Dad had gone to sleep. They were sprawled out on the sofa, completely knocked out, the effects of the drugs finally fading enough for them to be less restless.
With a deep sigh, I rub the sleep from my eyes and slowly push myself to sit on the edge of my bed.
I wince, feeling the ache in my body as I shift. Every part of me feels heavy and sluggish as I try to convince myself to stand and get ready for school.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
I never asked for the attention of the three most notorious boys in our school. Sure, we were friends once upon a time, sharing innocent promises of always being there for each other, but everything has changed. Now, I find myself at the center of their anger.
It’s ironic, really; I should be the one filled with anger and resentment.
After all, they are the ones who chose to abandon me when I needed them most.
