Behind Closed Doors

Chapter 6

"What's going on?" Esme asks, squinting her eyes at the light I turned on. Cate sits up in bed too, looking irritated and nervous. "I want to tell you something," I say carefully, "something bad that I did. You deserve to know because I did it for us, for our freedom." Esme's eyes are now wide awake with caution, not even daring to blink. Suddenly, Cate speaks up, "I'll go get the others."

Lilia and Izzy walk slowly into the room rubbing their eyes and yawning. I wait anxiously as they settle down on Cate's bed. A moment later, Lilia looks at me, her eyes wide with uncertainty, and says, "So, are you going to tell us what you did?"

The summer before my freshman year of high school, things at home got worse. The fighting between mother and father became more frequent, and our consequences became more severe. That's what our parents have always called them; consequences, as if minimizing the terror of which they really consist. One evening, father had struck me so hard that I hit my head on the ground upon falling, and then was sent to the hospital. My sisters had been n hiding when it occurred, but I shutter to think about what would have happened to them had they come to my defense.

Our situation was making me more desperate by the day. My sister's and I lives were being controlled by fear. Everyday, we had to hide, or leave the house, or wear baggy clothes and makeup to conceal the marks. Never being able to go to a friend's house, or have a birthday party, or go places unaccompanied for fear of someone finding out. We had no social life outside of school. People will often see a family with these dynamics and assume it's a classic case of an overprotective parent, but what no one realizes is these actions double as carefulness.
As prevention of privacy.
As control.

So, one day, I snapped. I decided once and for all that it was time to move out of my house and take my sisters with me. "If we no longer live with him," I reasoned, "he can't hurt us. He can't control us. We'll finally be free." I was nearly fifteen, old enough to carry responsibility, so I was sure I could convince someone to let me rent a small apartment despite my being underage. First, of course there was the matter of money. I had some savings, but nowhere near enough to afford food for all five of us, and certainly not enough for a months rent. I had only one option, I needed to make money, and fast. A regular job like working at Dairy Queen or McDonalds wouldn't pay enough, and would be too obvious to mother and father. No, I needed to do something different, something that would pay a lot and allow me to work unbeknownst to my parents. I knew a conventional job wouldn't work, so I asked around at school, offering to do people's schoolwork for a fee. After a few weeks though, I still barely had enough money to afford a days worth of food, so I decided I had to try something different, something bigger. So one day after school, I met up with him. I told my parents that I was staying to do homework in the library, so mother was to pick me up an hour later. It had been hard enough trying to schedule a meeting, so I was making sure to have ample time.

We met up in a janitors closet in the back of the school, so it was less likely for us to be spotted. James was tall, about six feet, and had piercing crystal blue eyes. He was stocky and muscular with short, dark hair cropped close to his head. When James spoke, his voice was thick and raspy, probably from his avid alcohol consumption. "Hey," he said, "I hear you're looking for a job." I nodded, and responded, "Yeah. I can start as soon a possible. I'll make sure to give you your ten percent, too." James cocked his head to the side, as if sizing me up before nodding. "We have a deal." He stuck out his hand and gave me a firm handshake before handing me my first white plastic bag. "You know," he said, "I never thought I'd see a girl like you come to me. Usually, you all act like your above my business, so you must be pretty desperate." I nodded my head solemnly. You have no idea.

The next day, I started the job. The business was slow at first, but eventually, I started making up to one hundred dollars per gram. As I was handing over some Xanax to a girl in my grade, I realized just how bad things had gotten. Me, a drug dealer. What would father say?

My most popular produce was cocaine, marijuana and heroin, so I was constantly coming to James to restock. I never used any of it myself, but I know lots of other kids did. It made me sad to think of all of the kids, mere high schoolers, slowly poisoning myself because it made them look cool, or feel good. However, these thoughts would quickly fly away as I reminded myself of the money. "Think of the money, Adelaide, think of the freedom." But one day, everything changed.

It was a Monday, about eight thirty in the morning when we first heard the news. The principal announced over the PA system that a student in our school had committed suicide the night before by overdosing on illegally attained Xanax. Immediately, my head started spinning. Everly, that had been the girl's name. She was one of my most common clients, buying a new batch every few days. She told me how much the drug helped her, how it kept the grief and pain away. But the grief and pain weren't really gone, they were just hidden. Waiting, biding their time with the help of the drug. I felt nauseous. It was because of me that Everly died.

I sold her the drug.
I took her money happily, taking it out of her bony fingers.
She's dead because of me.

I killed her.