Between the Lines

Eighteen - Oliver

Perfect. Just Great.

Of course. When I decide to finally leave after years of my mum's excessive drinking problem and abuse, she's locked me in. And I know it's not just something propped against my door. There's been a latch secured to my door since I was sixteen. She screwed it there simply because I was sneaking out at night. I wasn't even doing anything bad. I was sixteen, I'd just come out to my parents and the only person I could rely on had just left me for some shitty reason. Life was incredibly stressful so I would go for walks through the streets trying to prevent mental breakdowns and kick a few mailboxes over.

But that's not what my mum thought. She thought I was sneaking out to parties and kissing boys, and what better way to fix your gay son then lock him in his room for three days? She even flipped at Dad when he found out what she did, after coming home to my locked door. He couldn't do anything; she knew exactly how to threaten him, in ways that he won't even tell me. All Dad could do was sneak me food and anything I needed. The thing is that this time, she's twice as mad and there's no dad to be my saviour. This isn't good.

Wait. Calvin. There's going to be at least three days until I'm let out. And we're meant to be meeting at the library today. He's going to think it's his fault. That he forced me to sneak out and that's the reason Mum's mad. But it's not, it's my fault. I shouldn't have said yes, and I should've called the police so many years ago. I just didn't know any better.

Double great.

I bet that's what Mum wants. For us to never meet again. For it to be like we never met. To ruin everything I know and love.

My mind starts to race and guilt, hate and regret play pass-the-baton with my brain. There have been so many times I could've called the police. I could be so much happier if I did. Safer even! Dad said I shouldn't unless it was the only thing I could do. He always looked so powerless when she threatened him too, but I never heard what was said.

She's been a horrible Mum from day dot. She managed to leave the hospital without me when I was first born. I needed a midwife to care for me because she refused to breastfeed me. She would always be so careless of me. When I was five was when she first physically lashed out at me. Dad yelled at her, and she disappeared for the next six months. She came back hurt and crying, but I wouldn't be surprised if she was just manipulating Dad's good nature to keep him around. She faked therapy for two years and my parents officially split when I was seven, but we could never get rid of her. I don't even think Mum's parents knew they split for years.

Nowadays it's just fights, drunk nights and her storming off for a few days. Rinse and repeat.

I realise the frantic anger and notice my vision spinning. Maybe I should sit down and just take a moment to breathe. I walk over to my bed and lay back onto my bed with a long sigh. The springs of the bed creak under my body and the unmade sheets lay awkwardly. I shuffle until I don't have too much pressure on any of my tender cuts. Then I lay there, testing if my body will consider going back to sleep. But I don't think sleep is an option after my mental overload. I don't move for a few minutes longer. I want sleep to consume me so I can wake up from this nightmare.

I stay frozen in my own head, staring at my bloodied sheets. I don't want to think, because I know whatever I think is just going to make me depressed. Everything about this situation I'm in is bad, and I need to escape but I can't get up.

By the time I move again, bright, yellow light floods directly through my windows. I quickly glance at my clock and it's around 6 AM. Knowing that I won't be able to do much with these injuries, I scour my room for my phone, but its no use. I can't see it anywhere. I fuss around in my sheets praying, begging. My hand contacts something cold and I rip it out from under the cover immediately writhing in pain. The screen is shattered and bent awkwardly inwards. Shit. But it won't stop me from trying. So I try to turn it on. Nothing. I try again, spamming the button. It must've been in my pocket when I fell. Come on. Maybe it's just flat. I grab the charging cable from my bedside table and plug it in. Please, please just be flat. There is nothing about my phone that would suggest its flat. It definitely was smashed into oblivion like the cheap drugstore phone it is, but this is my best hope right now.

I refrain from testing it straight away. I give it five minutes, then I pick it up again. It still looks dead but it's my free ticket out of here. If it turns on, I could call the police. They would come find me. They would arrest her. Dad would be called back as well. Then maybe I could go see Calvin too, after all the legalities. My fate hangs so heavily on this phone. I push and hold the power button, sucking in a quick breath of air. My entire focus is on the screen, looking for any sign of life. Absolutely nothing happens.

I try it again and there's not even a flicker. I collapse carefully onto the bed, dropping the phone on my pillow. Now I'm just frustrated. My eyes squeeze shut to prevent the helpless tears from flowing down my face, but it happens anyway. I look up quickly to wipe my face and I catch a faded white light.

The screen is on.

I pick it up quickly but as cautiously as I can. The screen blinks for a second but stays alive. A whitewashed version of my lock screen taunts me. The time and notifications are barely visible. I see one from Dad and go to click it, but I stop myself. I need the police right now, not Dad. Gently, I move the phone in my hands until it's comfortable, then I take another quick breath. I press the emergency button lighter than a feather could. Nothing happens, so I try again, this time pressing a little harder. The screen flickers dangerously. It changes to the emergency call screen. I hover my finger over the zero and press it. A strangled dial sound comes from my phone. But the screen snaps under the weight of my second press, flashing a mixture of pink and green before returning to black. I desperately push on the screen again, exactly where the zero would be. Triple zero. I hold it to my ear and hope for a ring... there's no ring.

A strangled whisper escapes me, "Please, Please I need police. 34 Anglers Street. Please." Then I cry as silently as humanly possible, dropping the phone in my lap and crying.

Triple great.

I can't stay here. I'll die.

- - -

It's Monday. Mum still hasn't unlocked the door. Not even once. Which means no food, and no escape. And I don't think there will be.

I lay tossing and turning on my bed. Nothing here is comforting. I've hidden Calvin's jumper, so Mum doesn't find it if she comes searching through my room. The bloody sheets have only gotten worse and my pillowcases are tear-soaked from the breakdowns and pain. I found out that the only food I have is half a peanut-butter sandwich that I forgot to take out of my bag on Friday and a handful of chewy lollies. I haven't eaten any of them. I don't know how long I'll be here. Everything else hurts to look at.

I really want to get out. There are technically two escapes out of my room: the locked door or the window. My windows aren't normal sized windows, or really even windows at all. They're more thin slits in the brickwork. Clerestory windows, not big enough, or easy enough, to get through. I did try to get through them once, about a year ago, but that failed quite badly.

I've already done everything I'm physically capable of here. I've cleaned myself up and scoured through anything that might help me. I found a book to read. I even tried to move around a bit, but my movements are still shadowed with pain. Most of the time, I just sleep.

I sit up on my bed and fiddle with my bandages. I wonder what Calvin will think when I see him again. What he'll think of whatever I tell him. I mean he knows my mum's abusive, so I'm sure he won't be overly surprised, but still concerned, like he always is. Hopefully by then I would've called the police. Hopefully she'd be gone.

I just want Calvin here. Maybe not here exactly, but with me, somewhere where no one can hurt us. I want to hear him laugh again. I want him to make small talk with me to fill the silence. I miss how loud he can be. I feel like I should hate that, but it makes me feel so safe to hear him talk. And I miss how he always asked for attention. Even if it sometimes annoyed me when I was too tired to function, I still like that he wanted to be so close. I want to feel his touch on my skin. I just want Calvin. It's only been three days and I'm already starved of him but I guess that's because he's the first person who's really been anything to me.

I'm disturbed by a loud grumble in my stomach. I guess Calvin isn't the only thing I'm starved of. I haven't eaten anything since Friday night. But I shouldn't eat yet. As long as I have water, I should be alright if I ration this small bit of food. And besides, the grumbling goes away after a while.

I'll take a nap, that should fix it.