SPEAK

Chapter 3: Running away

I was in third grade when the school discovered my talent for running. Yes, running. It wasn't something I sought out intentionally, but the joy it brought my mother was undeniable when she learned I would be representing the school in a regional race. Despite her happiness, I hated the daily practice sessions. I despised the feeling of sweat clinging to my skin, the sharp pain of a twisted ankle that I had to pretend didn't hurt for weeks.

As the race approached, just two days away, my classmates still gave me the stink eye, a habit they'd maintained for two years. Ignoring it had become a necessary skill. While I hadn't gotten used to their disdain, I managed to compartmentalize it. In my mind, I was the only one in the class alongside the teacher, if need be.

Last night, I heard my mother come into my room. I never slept until she was back home, but she didn't know that. She always returned very late, and you might wonder why, considering she was a teacher. But being a teacher and a single parent taking care of two children didn't quite cut it. She took on other jobs to make ends meet. I didn't know what those jobs were at first, but I later discovered that she worked shifts at multiple restaurants-not just one, or two, or three-you get the idea. She was slowly killing herself, and she knew it.

"I'm proud of you, hun," she whispered before standing up and heading to her room. Her words hung in the air, filling the silence with a bittersweet comfort. The pride in her voice was genuine, yet it was tinged with exhaustion and sacrifice. I lay there, with the feeling of sadness, I was going to run and win only for her.

Before I knew it, it was the day of the race, an event that had the potential to change my life and the way I viewed it. The atmosphere buzzed with students warming up and the cacophony of excited chatter. I despised loud places. When a senior runner suddenly collapsed, the wail of the siren pierced the air, sending me into my comfort zone. Like others might say, I dissociated. In my head, it was dark, and then I saw a bright light above me. I looked up to find the moon, my solace, with stars gradually appearing like scattered grains of salt.

A tap on my shoulder jolted me back to reality. Turning, I saw a teacher smiling at me.

"Asha, your dad is here and he asked for you to meet him," she said. Dad? She had to be mistaken. I hadn't seen my father in almost four years, and now she was telling me he was here. I had almost forgotten what it meant to have a father. My brain shut down, and my legs took over.

"Asha? Where are you going?" the teacher called out faintly as I bolted from the spot. I didn't know where I was headed or why I was running, but I knew I couldn't face him. My father, the man who abandoned us, was a ghost I never wanted to confront. Tears blurred my vision, and a familiar lump tightened my throat. The announcement for the race echoed through the PA system, calling my name, but I kept running.

Exhausted, I finally collapsed into a corner, hugging my legs as tears streamed down my cheeks. The thought of seeing him again filled me with dread. I hated him with a passion that consumed me. I didn't want to see him. I couldn't. I hated him.

Soon after, I felt a looming shadow cast over my small frame. Reluctantly, I lifted my eyes and saw my father standing there, accompanied by another man my mother later identified as my uncle. There was no smile from me, no meeting of their gaze. Silence stretched uncomfortably until my father roughly shoved me to the ground. I stumbled, scraping my knee against the rough surface. Despite my efforts, tears welled up and dropped down my cheeks, betraying my resolve. Why didn't the other man intervene?

"How dare you run away from me? I am your father, not some beast!" His voice thundered, making me flinch involuntarily. From a distance, I saw my mother hurrying towards us, her face etched with worry. She reached us and tried to pull me back up.