Kylar.
Monday |

Looking down at my weary feet, I urged myself to carry on, to hurry home. The warmth of his hands still lingered, lacing my fingers with gentleness and calm I did not know before. He was the closest thing to kindness I had ever experienced, how he lived so in spite of the blow he was dealt was another conundrum I was to figure out, with time. Alistair. I whispered his name smilingly to myself, feeling dumb and happy all the same.

But my life, my reality, it was the exact opposite of kindness. It was dreadful, to say to least, but I had grown to live through the numbness. That is, until, he came by, and I found myself pining for his comforting presence a tad too often, if not all the time. I escaped the clamouring walls of my suffocating home at the merciless bounds of school and the reverse when school ends; and return back to repeat this every burdened day.

Looking back, going to school could have been my refuge, the way going to church is for me as of now. But he had to spoil everything, as he always did. First his marriage, followed by my childhood and then my chance at a normal social life in school. That memory is still etched deeply into my heart; it had burned a scar right across the middle. I couldn't go to sleep the night before the first day of school, not because of the nervous anticipation of what high school life would bring, but because of the debilitating fear that he would do it again. Every few minutes the sound of a crushed can kicked to the ground shook the thin walls of my room, and his growls of anger intensified with each passing tick of the clock by my bed.

I cried and prayed and prayed and cried all night, not getting a single bit of sleep. My eyes were sore and puffy with grief, and I slipped out of the house at the crack of dawn, hoping to evade him. Only when I reached the gates of my new high school did I allow myself to rest and have a little sleep. An hour later, when it was thirty minutes to the start of classes, I woke up abruptly to the sound of crushed cans kicked against the sidewalk.

Oh my goodness. This isn't happening.

I blinked the stars out of my eyes, only to find myself mortified by what I saw. My father had stumbled his way to my school, and was haphazardly lumbering into the compound.

"Dad, stop! Go home quick, please, people are coming already!" I did my best to suppress the growing tone of alarm in my voice.

"Get the hell out of the way Kylar! I know what I'm doing!" He barked, pushing me to the ground.

The other students who were there early, mostly seniors, gave us wary looks, inching away from the monster of my father flailing about wildly.

"Why are you here? Please, please just go home!" I pleaded desperately, grabbing his arm.

"What the hell Kylar! I said get out of my way!" And with that, he slammed his fist right into my eye. I staggered back, giddy from the sudden impact, loud white static noises pounding into my ears. He did this before, countless times, but they were all within the four walls of my home. Doing this in public, for so many eyes to see; it was a first.

And it was excruciatingly shameful.

Someone must have called security, because within minutes I was sent to the hospital and my father sent to the police. It was the first time they were informed of his abuse, since the previous instances all happened at home, so they released him with a warning.

If only I too got a warning, about the impending misery I was going to face.

Every day since then, everyone avoided me like the plague. Some were kind enough to give me polite smiles, but no one ever dared to get close, to talk to me. I thought they would forget the incident after a month, two months, a year, but sophomore year came and nothing changed. Perhaps it became a thoughtless habit, to ignore the girl with a troubled home, to stay safe, stay clean.

And I was sad, and painfully lonely; surrounded by people who were as good as being non-existent.

That is, until I met Alistair.