Ava's POV
It felt like I was laying on a lump. My head and back fit on the mattress but my legs were on the hard floor. My shoes were still on, and I never slept with my shoes on, as most people don't. I also had a KILLER headache, much like one I got after drinking but this was much worse. I wanted Stella, but I was alone.
I lay on the tiny mattress forever, eyes closed, waiting for the pain to become bearable, and when I finally forced my eyes open I thought I was in a nightmare.
This was my childhood bedroom.
The mattress I lay on was a mattress from a crib. They never upgraded me to a big girl bed, just threw my crib mattress down in here and gave me a blanket and called it good. I remember being so excited because a lot of my friends at school had to share rooms with their siblings, but I got my own. But I always secretly wished I had a sibling to share my room with so that maybe it wouldn't feel so empty like it did now. I rolled over on the tiny mattress and looked at the wall. Near the baseboards were the same crayon drawings from when I was 4 that reminded me of the little girl I had been. The little girl who had to teach herself how to wash her clothes like soup in the bathtub, the little girl who talked to herself because no one else was around. It was no wonder as soon as I got kindergarten my parents started getting calls about my concerning behavior. It was the first time I had ever been around other kids. I didn't know how to act. I wasn't the same kid I was back then though. Back then, I didn't know any better. I didn't know this was wrong. I didn't have anything else to compare to. I hadn't met Stella yet, I hadn't met Peter or Aunt May or Abuela or anyone other than my parents and kids at school who just made fun of me for having weird clothes and messy hair and for not knowing the ABCs. The little girl who lived in this room thought it was home, because she didn't have a true home to compare it to. But now I did.
"Hello?!" I called, forcing myself off the floor. The only thing in this room was the mattress and a closet full of tiny little girls clothes. The closet doors had a sliding lock on them, because that was where I was put when I was bad, but I knew the bedroom door did not, so I twisted it open.
"Ava? Are you up?" Her voice hadn't changed in the last 20ish years. She still put on that sweet, everything-is-okay voice until everything wasn't okay. I followed her voice into the living room and found my biological parents sitting on the couch, white powder on the coffee table like this was a bad movie. I had seen them do this before when I was really little, but I didn't understand what it was until I saw someone else do it at a party once. At the risk of turning out like my parents, I decided not to try it.
"Why am I here?" I asked, barely able to hold myself up because my head was still throbbing.
"You don't want to visit your parents?" She asked, looking at me with a sad pouty face.
"Stop playing with her, Miranda." My father complained.
I had not known her name was Miranda.
My father stood up then, tall, with a hardened face that drooped in places, looking like a man who had been cracked out for years which is basically what he was. He was skinny, but he looked strong enough, and he had this mean sort of coldness in his eyes that reminded me of Paul. He was the one who would hit me and push me around when I was really small. Mama was the one who yelled and locked me in the closet, but Papa was the one who would hit me just for getting in his way. Mama made these empty promises like "I'll come home and cook you dinner" or "Tomorrow I'm going to take you to the park!" and dressed me up for school pictures and taught me neat things like how to give myself a shower and cook myself Ramen noodles, while Papa was the one making excuses to leave. It didn't hit me until this moment, but I wasn't scared of Mama, but I was scared of Papa.
