Flashback
The door creaked when Mom pushed it open. Sunlight spilled onto the porch. It felt harsh, too bright, like an unwelcome guest. My fingers wrapped around Mom's hand, cold and clammy. The oversized brown bag in my other hand tugged at my shoulder. It was too heavy, the edges frayed, and I kept thinking it might tear. Inside were the things I couldn't leave behind: my pink hoodie, soft and comforting; the blue one, streaked with white like ice; the yellow one with the bear on the front. At the bottom was my one-eyed rabbit, its fur matted from years of squeezing, and my notebooks—each page wrinkled, ink smudged, stories I made with Dad.
"Get in the car," Mom said, her voice thin, like it might crack any second.
I froze at the door. Her voice—it felt wrong. Her face was pale, and her cheeks were wet with tears she hadn't wiped away. Tears are for sadness or anger. But this felt different. Heavy. Like the air itself was pressing on me. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but my throat closed up. The words didn't come.
I shuffled toward the car, my sneakers dragging on the wooden steps, each step harder than the last, like I was walking through mud.
The inside of the car was... too much. Too many smells. The old leather, the burnt coffee, the faint hint of something else. The sound of a water bottle rolling on the floor was so loud it hurt my ears. I sat in the back, my knees bouncing up and down, up and down. It helped. It made things feel less... wrong.
Mom slammed the door when she got in, and the noise hit me like a slap. She gripped the wheel. Her knuckles were white. She stared at the road, not moving. And then, the crying started.
It wasn't quiet. It wasn't like in the movies. It was loud and raw. Her body jerked with every breath. The sound cut through me like glass, jagged and sharp.
The noise filled the car, mixing with the hum of the engine, the air conditioner, the squeal of the tires. All the sounds were there. Layered. Loud. Too much. My skin felt tight. I had to make it stop.
I needed my AirPods.
I dug through the bag at my feet, through the glove box, under the seats. My hands were shaking. I couldn't think. My heart was pounding, like it was going to burst. The noise... It was too much.
"Settle down," Mom snapped, her voice sharp. It was like a whip against my skin.
But I couldn't settle down. My body was buzzing, vibrating. Every nerve was alive. The noise—it wouldn't stop. I couldn't think. I just... I felt everything too much. I needed to block it out. I couldn't breathe right. I couldn't... I couldn't stop.
"Settle down!" Mom shouted, her voice cracking.
And then, it happened.
The scream came out of me, so loud, so deep. It felt like it started in my chest and burst out all at once. I didn't know I could scream like that. My hands flew to my head, digging into my hair. My legs kicked against the floor. The thud, thud, thud—it was... better. It was a small, repetitive thing, and it made the chaos slow down, just a little.
"Dahlia! Stop!" Mom's voice was trembling. I heard panic in it.
But I couldn't stop. The world was... too loud. Too sharp. I couldn't make it quiet. I scratched at my arms, the sting helping, but not enough.
"Dai…" Mom whispered, her voice softer, broken. "Please."
She reached into one of the bags, pulled out her earbuds. She shoved them into my hands. Her hands were shaking. When the music started, the noise in my head... dulled. The sharp edges of the world blurred. I could breathe again.
I sank into the seat, heavy. So heavy.
The rest of the ride was silent. Only Mom's quiet sniffles broke it, but I didn't listen to her. I just... sat. Everything was softer now. Not quiet, but softer.
When we got to my aunt's house, I couldn't make sense of the words I heard. People were smiling, but it wasn't real. It was forced, like wearing a sweater that scratched. My cousin was standing by the stairs, glaring. She didn't say anything. Her eyes told me everything.
I held my one-eyed rabbit close. Its empty eye stared at nothing. My feet were cold on the tiles. I didn't want to put my shoes back on. I couldn't make sense of the voices. They were all mixed together—frustration, pity, anger. The words didn't matter. I only heard the tone.
I slapped my head, gently at first. It helped me focus. Helped quiet the noise. A rhythm.
"Dahlia, stop." My aunt's voice cut through, sharp. She grabbed my hands. I recoiled. A scream burst out of me. A real scream.
Later, in the room, I sat on the bed, feeling the walls around me. Mom was in the doorway. Her eyes were swollen. Her face was red, like she had been crying for hours. Her sister was next to her, murmuring things I couldn't understand.
But Mom's eyes never left me.
In that moment, I knew. I always knew. But it was clear now.
I wasn't like everyone else.
I wasn't normal.
And I never would be.