Never Let Me Go

Phoebe

Mornings are not loved by Phoebe Rush. Some days, she struggles to slide out from underneath her old blanket and has to lie still with the fabric over her until she feels stable enough to truly awaken. Other days, she doesn't feel well enough to move at all. Today is an other day, when the world feels a little too grey around the edges, and the songbirds have all hidden so there is no sound outside Phoebe's window. She checks the screen of her phone, where the time and date shine up at her in a large font. Time passes by her in such a routine way that the black-haired girl doesn't often know what day of the week she is currently on. A Monday, apparently. She swallows. Phoebe Rush will get into medical school, and so missing lessons is not a viable option for her. She brings her fingers to her eyes, hoping to wipe away the exhaustion. After a long moment, she slides out of bed. Dressing well is not something that Phoebe particularly cares about, so long as she looks presentable, and so she changes into a creased blue dress. The sleeves are short and so the scars across her skin are in full display, but she knows that she won't be asked where they came from. No one ever tends to care. She tugs on pair of white socks, ensuring she wears a soft pair so as to allow her at least some form of comfort during the day. Phoebe grabs her navy backpack from the floor beside her bed, pulling it over her shoulders, and takes a deep breath. Phoebe's room is safe — albeit slightly cracked and broken — and she does not want to step down the stairs and into a world too difficult to breathe in. But school awaits, and so she shuts her room door behind her as she climbs down.

"Hi, Dad." She ignores the stiffness of her voice and watches him glance up from his computer. He has the same eyes as her: an amber sort of color that flickers with distaste. She hates those eyes with a passion that burns deep in her chest.

"You alright?" She doesn't answer, but it never matters because like every other day, he immediately launches into a monologue about whatever problems he's dealing with. "Laura – you know Laura, don't you? That blonde woman I work with..." He continues to talk, but Phoebe is no longer listening. She knows exactly how this goes: he'll talk about something foolish that a friend or a coworker or a relative has done, and then he'll explain how he's been a hero who fixed their mistake.

She hums, trying to sound somewhat attentive, as she takes an apple from the fruit bowl on the table. Her stomach burns with hunger but eating more than this will have her throwing up in seconds. Phoebe places the apple in the side pocket of her bag, where a water bottle would normally go. Her father narrows his eyes. "Just don't go stuffing yourself like usual."

Phoebe feels her throat tighten, and she wants to laugh. An apple is apparently too much for her, and yet her father has an empty family-sized bag of crisps next to him and a chocolate bar on his table. She lets her arm drop to her side, subtly running her fingers over her hip bones. They jut out with the sharpness of a blade. She is barely alive, and she knows it, but she cannot get better with him around.

"Yeah." She grabs her keys from the keyhooks, and gives her father a tight smile. "I need to get going."

He looks back at his computer, unacknowledging. Phoebe opens the door of the house, trying not to stare at the dents in the wood and the way the paint has been scratched off. She shuts it behind her and takes a breath. The air outside feels different. She doesn't feel like she's suffocating. She checks the time, and begins to walk to school.