The Blair House Companions

Prologue: Courtney

Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence, physical, verbal, and emotional abuse. Please tread carefully.

Leaving here was much simpler--and much harder--than I thought.

There was the whole suitcase situation. You can't really disguise it, and as much as I wanted to just wear all my clothes, store all my valuables in the largest backpack I have, and leave from there, it's the middle of June.

And it's already so hot.

So thus, I pack everything as nicely as I could, make sure everything was about to burst into seams just like my mother taught me over and over again, while locking my door so that nobody comes in.

Which, in the apartment that I live in, is a mistake.

I hear my lola banging on my door, and screaming in Tagalog and in English to be let in. I ignore her calls, though my hands keep shaking and my heart keeps pounding like crazy, like I'm living in a fortress under seige.

Basically, anything that doesn't show that you're always available to them and their bullshit 100% of the time, and that you have boundaries and needs for privacy, is immediately viewed as hostile, and even worse, disrespectful.

My lola's curses shoot across the walls, with each fist against my door punctuating each.

"Demonyo ka!" Bang. "Gaga?!" Bang bang. "Hoy, gaga! Tamad gallibanting!! Walang hiya ka!!"

You are a demon! Are you crazy?! Hey crazy! Lazy gallivanting!! You have no shame!!

Words that have accompanied me since I was five years old.

I sigh in complete and utter exhaustion, and it's not from packing a hundred books and god-knows-how-many clothes and other pieces of my life into a suitcase, a carry-on, and a backpack.

It's from living here. For two. Long. Decades.

Sure, I had everything material provided for me. Clothes, food, CDs, pillows and a bed, etc. But I am not welcome here. I have never felt at home here.

And soon, I will leave this awful place, and never come back.

I put on my wireless headset and listen to some rock music. A song by Evanescence. Another by Halestorm. Another by MCR, and then by Green Day. Just some hard music with screaming more aesthetic than my lola's. I nibble on some siopao I bought earlier from the nearby Chinese bakery, realizing that this might be the last time I ever eat anything from there.

I didn't even tell the cashiers there goodbye.

Eventually, my lola quiets, becoming spent from shouting her dirty mouth and beating my poor door that didn't ask for the verbal and physical damage it has gone through for years. She harrumphs one last time before heading to her room for a nap.

And now's my chance...

To wait for another hour. I need her deeply asleep in order to get out of here.

I did not read The Ranger's Apprentice when I was a child to mess this up. I thought to myself.

An hour passes. Then 15 minutes afterward.

Then, I leave.

Quietly, I open my door, whose hinges have been oiled to avoid making any noise, and wheel my suitcase and carry-on out of my room to the kitchen.

And then out our apartment door.

Then down the hallway, out to the front door. Then, I step outside, and head to my car.

Somehow, I couldn't help but sneak a glance back at my apartment. For all the horrible things I faced there, it was still my home. It was still where I grew up.

Where I watched Barbie movies. Where I slept with my toys.

I mended my memories with the full story.

Where they beat me whenever my grades were less than 80. Where I was constantly tested, and always failed in their eyes. Where I'm called awful names, and told to lose weight. Where--

"Where do you think you're going?!" A sharp, critical voice asks.

I turn around, and I gasp, seeing my mother standing behind me.

How? I thought. She wasn't supposed to be home until seven tonight. She must have come home early.

All this time, she must have watched me, practically breathing down my neck, seeing the suitcase and carry-on and large backpack. All the criminal evidence making a coherent, clear narrative.

That I am running away.

I can't lose my nerve. Not now.

I wordlessly slam the trunk of my car shut, which earned a smack from my mother. I raced to the driver's seat, but she races to block me, angry eyes practically throwing daggers.

"Hey!" She grabbed my arms and slammed me against my car. "I asked you a question! Where!" She began smacking me in the face. Smack. "Do!" Smack. "You!" Smack. "Think!" Smack. Smack. "You're!" SMACK. "Going?!"

Seven months ago, I would have dissolved into tears and begged for her forgiveness. She would have grabbed my wrist and dragged me home and locked me in my room. And possibly take my keys away from me and keep it close to her person, trapping me here forever.

But I have a job now, earning enough money for myself. And I have found a different place for me to stay. And I have attended group therapy full of recovering victims of DV after my friends saw me turn down things I truly wanted, or wear too much makeup and sunglasses indoors too many times.

And one of them have patiently taught me how to drive the entire winter break. So that I could break free one day.

That one day is now. Or never.

"I am," I began, and looked right at my mother's eyes, before screaming back. "GOING WHERE YOU AND LOLA WILL NEVER FIND ME!!!"

At that, I pushed her off me with all my strength. I couldn't help but gasp when I saw my middle-aged mother trip over a curb and fall.

Out of instinct, I picked her up.

She gripped my wrist as I helped her up, and began pleading with me, trying to bring me back inside.

"I'm so old," she said. "So weak. You're a good daughter. Please don't leave. Please remember, everything after the age of 18, I do out of love."

I hesitate, about to give in. My mother sees this, and brings me closer to the front door.

I know she loves me. I know she tries.

But I also know that it's not enough. That she and Lola still hurt me. And that if I enter that apartment again, I'll never get out ever again.

I break out of her grip and start racing to the car. My mother calls after me, but they fall on deaf ears. I open the car door and enter quickly, slamming it shut so that the only thing my mother smacks against will be the window glass.

Thank goodness I made sure they were closed! I thought to myself.

I dug into my jacket pocket to get my keys, only to find it empty. Anxiety rising, I checked my other pocket. Also not there.

On the window glass, my mother sees me struggle with a mocking smile. "Oh, so you think you're so grownup," I hear her jeer. "but you can't find your keys. Yeah, very prepared, stupid. You would never survive out there in the real world."

Yes. I. Fucking. Can.

I reached inside my shirt, and dug out my school lanyard full of keys, which to me, felt like brandishing a sword before slicing a dragon's neck. For it had a lot of keys.

Including, the car keys.

I locked the doors with the button, inserted the key into the gear and, because I couldn't help myself, I flipped the bird to my mother, before driving away.

She cursed as I did. But I was so fast, I didn't hear her.

And I will never hear from her or my lola again.