Page 22 of Deeper

Rylan

Fifteen Years Old

My tired body hits the sheets with a thud. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a week because of all the chaos within my home, and on top of that, I’ve had midterm exams every day. To say I’m exhausted is an understatement, but tonight, my house is finally quiet. My eyes close after only a few seconds, and I begin to drift.

Late at night, I can’t help but think about my dad. He died two years ago of sudden cardiac arrest, and I’ve been in silent pain every day since.

That moment in this very bedroom ripped out my heart and branded me. Death has a scarlet letter, too, and its marking is powerful enough to take over who you are completely. I’ve become a teenager pissed off at fate, and the rage inside me is toxic. That day in the car with Aria, I didn’t know what my existence would become. I thought I had to learn how to live without the man I’d idolized my whole life, which was true but the changes were so much more than that. Everything else changed, too—my friends, my tastes, and even my morals. Not to mention, the way the world saw me and the way I saw the world, the people I could trust, my experiences, and my story. That day changed the path of my innocence, and my childhood was gone. I had been living in the light before Dad died, but now, everything was dark.

What was once perfect is now damaged.

A door downstairs slams, and I groan, interrupted from drifting off to sleep.

Voices echo against the walls, and music starts to blare. I pull a pillow over my head in an effort to drown out the noise, but it does very little, and I begin to toss and turn. My quiet night just shifted into another sleepless one.

This sort of thing has been happening a lot lately. It seems the only way Mom can cope is by finding the bottom of a bottle and surrounding herself with scum.

The revolving door of drunks and sketchy men opened only a few months after my dad’s funeral. My home that was once filled with love has quickly become a party spot for middle-aged train wrecks and men that stare a little too long at a girl much too young for them.

The transformation was so quick. Any traces of Dad vanished. Pictures, mementos, and his favorite coffee mug in the cabinet were there one day and gone the next. In one of Mom’s selfish fits of depression and booze, she didn’t even think to ask me if there was anything of his I wanted before tossing it all.

I lie in bed, too tired to even think but unable to rest.

Late into the morning, the house finally begins to settle. Drunks get in their cars, putting other lives at risk by driving home. The music shuts off, and the voices become murmurs until everything goes quiet.

I roll over on my side, hopeful I can finally sleep.

Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.

My whole body goes deathly still as my eyes open and stare, unblinking, at my doorknob. The handle on my door shakes, but it’s locked, so it doesn’t open. A shadow of whoever is outside cuts two dark patches into the hallway light filtering under the crack of my door. I sit up in my bed, unable to escape, petrified about who is on the other side. I was being so naive, believing the night was over.

In the last few years, I’ve discovered monsters that go bump in the night are very real. Living, breathing boogeymen and Bloody Marys bring more chills than anything hidden under your bed or summoned in your bathroom mirror.

This reminder gives me the courage to move. My hands shake as I tiptoe out of my bed, scanning the room. I can hear the lock being jimmied, and I pick up my speed. I use all my strength to push my dresser in front of my bedroom door. It’s heavy, and I have to brace my foot against a wall to leverage myself, but I move it. Just as the piece of furniture barricades me in, the lock clicks, and my door cracks open.

Tears spring up in my eyes, and I back up, hoping the piece of furniture is enough to keep whoever it is out. I sink to the floor against my closet door and pull my knees to my chest, willing my hands not to shake. Both fear and anger surge through me.

How can my mom bring these beasts into our home? She obviously gives very little thought about me.

“Let me in,” a slurred voice urges.

Panic turns my stomach as the man uses his shoulder to push the door, shoving the dresser hard enough that it moves a few inches. A beam of dim light slices through my room, and I know the man can see me. He pushes again, and my barricade begins to crumble.

Instinct takes over.

I need to get the hell out of here.

His eyes follow me through the dark. I scramble into action, find my backpack in the corner of the room, and sling it over my shoulder. I open my window with jerky movements and glance down at the ground from my second-story bedroom. Then, I pop the screen out, damaging it in my hurry. The dresser no longer holds him back, and books tumble to the floor. My right foot joins my left on the roof just as he successfully enters. His head darts out the window as I scale the edge of the roof and jump to the ground.

My ankle twists on impact, and my skin is scraped from the landing, but there are much more detrimental bruises that occur within. I now know that I’m on my own, and Mom can’t be counted on to keep me safe. I won’t let her turn me into a victim. I’ll have to adapt to my new normal. I need to survive even if the person I once was doesn’t.

I walk to the neighborhood park and curl up for the night. The realization that the cold metal of a public bench is safer than my own bedroom hits me hard. I’m in and out of sleep for a few hours, but it isn’t long before the sun peeks over the horizon, and I head over to Aria’s. She is my only safety now, my last foothold left in a world that can be good. She’ll keep the evil from completely tarnishing me.

My knuckles tap against the glass, and it wakes Aria up. With sleepy eyes, she opens her window, and without question, she lets me in. I crawl into her bed and relive my nightmare with the only person in the world I can count on. She cries for my circumstances, and I comfort her. It doesn’t sound like the dynamic that should follow, but it is exactly what I need, and she knows that. She is brave enough to cry for me because I can’t let down the barriers. When I comfort her, I am really consoling the scared little girl I have tucked away inside myself. It’s the only way I can be vulnerable while needing to be strong. In this scenario with my best friend we pretend I am the fearless one.

“Don’t you dare sleep in that park again, Rylan. Your place is with me,” she scolds me with a desperate plea in her voice.

I know she’s telling me that what’s hers is mine, and I love her for it. If I had anything to give her, I would give it to her, too.

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