AMORA'S POV;
Finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of another long day at school. I let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling the weight of the day lift off my shoulders. "Well done, Amora," I whispered to myself, satisfied that I had managed to blend into the background once again, just as I always wanted. Being the unknown student had its perks—no unwanted attention, no drama, just the peace and quiet I craved. It was a small victory in a world that often felt overwhelming.
As I began to pack my books and carefully organize my stationeries into my bag, I allowed myself a brief moment of contentment. The routine was comforting, a familiar pattern that grounded me amidst the chaos of school life. But just as I was lost in my thoughts, a loud, piercing voice shattered my peace.
"Amora!!"
I winced, recognizing the all-too-familiar voice of my best friend, Hazel. "For fuck's sake, Hazel!" I muttered under my breath, feeling a mix of irritation and amusement. She had a knack for making herself heard, whether I wanted to or not.
Hazel bounded over to me, her face lit up with that infectious energy that was impossible to stay mad at. "Can you call me with a human tone for once?" I snapped, trying to keep my voice stern, though I knew it was a losing battle. "You freaked the hell out of me!"
"Sorry, sorry… my bad," Hazel said with a grin that showed she wasn't sorry at all. "But you know calling you like this makes me feel good!"
"It makes me nauseous," I shot back, though there was no real bite in my words. This was Hazel, after all—my loud, exuberant, and endlessly lovable best friend. She was a force of nature, and trying to change her was like trying to stop the wind. Futile and unnecessary.
"Whatever," Hazel said, brushing off my comment with a wave of her hand. "Can I tag along with you today to the library?"
I paused, giving her a mock-serious look. "Hazel… you know you don't have to ask me to come along, right?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow in playful suspicion. It wasn't like Hazel to be so tentative.
"Well…" she hesitated, her usual confidence faltering for just a moment. "I feel bad for taking advantage of you to see David," she confessed, her lips curling into a pout that would have been adorable if it wasn't so transparent.
I couldn't help but smile at that. "You don't have to be," I reassured her, giving her a gentle nudge. "I know your crush on him will die down soon, so enjoy the sight while it lasts."
"Ohhh! My baby, you know me so well! That's why I love you," Hazel cooed, pinching my cheeks in that affectionate way of hers that always made me roll my eyes.
"Okay, okay, stop with the affections," I said, gently swatting her hand away. "Let's go before we're late and I get scolded."
Hazel laughed, linking her arm through mine as we made our way to the library. There was something comforting about her presence, like a bright light that made the world a little less daunting. As we walked together, I realized that despite the noise and the chaos she brought into my life, I wouldn't trade Hazel for anything. She was my balance, my opposite, and somehow, we made the perfect pair.
Every day, as the clock ticked closer to closing time at the library, I felt a bittersweet pang. Leaving the library was like saying goodbye to the one place that brought me true happiness and peace. The quiet rustle of pages, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the scent of old books mingling with fresh coffee—it all felt like a sanctuary, a world where I could escape from everything that weighed me down. But the reality of it all was that the end of my shift signaled the start of a different kind of routine, one I dreaded with every fiber of my being.
Guess what? It was time to go back to hell.
After collecting my payment from David, who, unlike most people, understood the solace I found here, I set off for home. As I walked, my mind raced with thoughts of what awaited me there. The idea of stepping through that front door, facing the suffocating tension of my father and sister, filled me with a familiar dread. Every evening, it was the same—anxiety gnawing at me, a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different.
But when I finally arrived home, something unexpected happened. The house was empty. I was alone.
A wave of relief washed over me, and for a moment, I stood still, savoring the silence, the stillness. It was a rare gift, this solitude. A bundle of joy in the midst of my daily turmoil. I quickly made my way to my room, eager to change out of my work clothes and rinse off the day's stress with a quick shower.
"Dinner is always on me," I muttered to myself as I threw on a fresh set of clothes. Phoebe, my sister, never lifted a finger when it came to house chores. It was one of the many things that added to the strain in our household. But tonight, with no one around, I didn't mind. I headed to the kitchen, moving quickly as I prepared dinner. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of food in the pan—these small tasks gave me a sense of purpose, something to focus on other than the anxiety that often lingered in the back of my mind.
With dinner made, I set the table, ate in the comfort of the empty dining room, and then retreated back to my room. There were assignments to finish, and though the work was tedious, it was a welcome distraction. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to hold off the inevitable confrontation that would come when my father and Phoebe returned.
But, of course, peace never lasted long in our house.
"Amora!!!"
The sound of my name, bellowed from downstairs, pierced through the quiet like a sharp knife. That voice—it was the one I dreaded most, the one that haunted my nightmares. My father. There was no mistaking the slurred, harsh tone. It meant he was drunk again, and that was never a good sign.
Heart pounding, I hurried downstairs. The faster I responded, the less likely I was to provoke his ire. As I entered the living room, I saw him slouched in his usual spot, the only comfortable chair in the room, looking as wasted as ever. The sight was all too familiar, yet it never failed to make my stomach churn.
"Dad? … You called?" I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady, respectful. Fear and resignation mingled in my chest as I waited for his response, bracing myself for whatever was to come. This was my reality, a far cry from the peace of the library, and there was no escaping it—not really.
"About time," he grumbled, his eyes bloodshot and filled with disdain. "Go to the store and get me another bottle of whiskey. I'm out."
Amora's breath caught in her throat. She had been dreading this moment, but it had become all too common. It wasn't just the whiskey; it was everything about him that weighed her down—the way he drained the life out of her, siphoning her hard-earned money for his vices, never giving her anything in return but fear and bruises. She had been hiding her age to buy alcohol for him for far too long, using the little she made from her job at the library to cover the cost when he, as usual, didn't provide her with money.
"Dad," she started, her voice trembling slightly but firm, "I can't keep doing this. I'm not even old enough to buy alcohol, and you never give me money to pay for it. I work hard for what I earn, and I—"
She didn't get to finish her sentence. The words were barely out of her mouth when he moved, quicker than she expected for a man in his state. The back of his hand connected with her cheek with a force that sent her reeling. The impact was so sudden, so violent, that the world around her spun out of control. She stumbled, catching herself on the arm of the couch, her vision blurring as pain radiated through her skull.
"How dare you talk back to me?" he snarled, standing over her, his presence menacing and overpowering. "You think you can lecture me, girl? After everything I've done for you?"
Amora wanted to scream, to shout back at him that he had done nothing for her, that he had taken everything from her instead. But the sting of the slap still lingered, and the sharp, metallic taste of blood filled her mouth where she had bitten her tongue. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let him see her cry.
"I don't care how you get it, but you will get me that whiskey," he hissed, his breath hot and foul against her face. "And if you ever talk back to me again, you'll regret it."
Amora nodded numbly, her cheek throbbing where his hand had connected. She couldn't bring herself to speak, afraid that any words would only provoke him further. Her father stared at her for a long moment, his chest heaving with the remnants of his anger, before he finally turned away, dismissing her with a wave of his hand as if she were nothing more than an annoyance.
As she stumbled out of the living room, she felt the weight of her father's contempt bearing down on her, heavier than ever before. The world still tilted on its axis, her mind reeling from the pain and the shock of what had just happened. How much longer could she endure this? How much more could she take before she finally broke under the pressure?
But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew the answer. Just a few more months, she told herself. A few more months, and she would turn eighteen. And when that day came, she would be gone, far away from this house, this town, and this life that had been nothing but misery. Until then, she would endure. She had to.
Wiping away the blood from her lip, Amora grabbed her jacket and headed out the door, her face still stinging, her resolve hardening with every step she took. She would get the whiskey, as he demanded. But one day soon, she would walk out of this house and never look back. And on that day, she would finally be free.