believe me // the black phone

chapter one

Sydney Cameron's life was far from perfect. Even before she took her first breath, her father had walked out on her and her mother, leaving behind a void that would never truly be filled. Her mother, once a radiant and successful model, harbored a deep resentment that simmered beneath the surface of their every interaction. In her eyes, Sydney was the embodiment of her greatest mistake, the child who had derailed her dreams and stolen her freedom. It was a bitter truth that her mother never hesitated to remind her of.

      "Getting pregnant with you was the worst thing that ever happened to me," her mother would often say, her voice laced with venom, her eyes distant as if she were reliving her glory days. She would reminisce about the lavish photo shoots, the glamorous parties, and the promising career that she had once believed would take her to the top. But all of that had faded away after Sydney was born. The spotlight dimmed, and the adoration she had once basked in was replaced with the harsh reality of motherhood—a reality she had never wanted.

      Sydney knew very little about her father, apart from the bitter remarks her mother would occasionally let slip. He was always painted as the villain in her mother's stories—a "dirty, good-for-nothing scumbag" who had abandoned them without a second thought. Whenever Sydney asked about him, trying to piece together the fragmented image of the man who had given her half of her DNA, her mother would shut her down, often with a sharp remark or an angry outburst that ended the conversation before it could truly begin. Over time, Sydney stopped asking. It wasn't worth the confrontation, and she had long since learned that her curiosity would never be satisfied.

      By the time Sydney was four, her mother's bitterness had morphed into something far more dangerous. What had once been the occasional glass of wine with dinner had turned into a nightly ritual of heavy drinking, until it consumed her. The woman Sydney had once known—distant but at least functioning—slowly disappeared, replaced by a volatile stranger. The alcohol brought out the worst in her, unleashing a monster that was unpredictable and cruel. Their home, which should have been a safe space, became a battlefield where Sydney was constantly walking on eggshells, never sure when her mother's anger would erupt.

      When it did, the consequences were brutal. Fights would break out, sparked by the smallest infractions—an unwashed dish, a forgotten errand—and Sydney would often find herself the target of her mother's wrath. The slaps, the punches, the words that cut deeper than any bruise—all became a part of Sydney's daily life. But she never let anyone see the pain. When people asked about the bruises or the cuts, she lied with ease, weaving together stories of clumsy accidents or rough games with friends. It was easier to lie than to face the truth, and besides, who would believe her anyway?

      Despite the chaos at home, Sydney remained a kind-hearted girl. She had a quiet resilience, a strength that allowed her to endure without breaking, though there were times when she felt close to it. Her smile, though, never faltered in public. She learned early on how to mask her true emotions, how to present a version of herself that seemed untouched by the darkness she lived in. Her introverted nature kept her circle of friends small, but the few she did have were loyal, offering her a brief escape from the turmoil when she needed it.

      In school, Sydney thrived. Academically, she was brilliant—her grades were impeccable, rarely dipping below an A, let alone a B. Teachers often praised her intelligence and dedication, yet those achievements meant little at home. Her mother never acknowledged her success, never showed up to school events or parent-teacher conferences, and certainly never offered a word of encouragement. Sydney had long since stopped seeking her mother's approval. She knew it would never come.

      School, however, was more than just a place for learning. For Sydney, it was a sanctuary. While many of her classmates dreaded the early mornings and long hours, Sydney relished every moment she could spend away from home. The buzzing hallways, the hum of classroom discussions, and the quiet comfort of the library were her refuges. It was in those spaces that she felt safe, where she could momentarily forget the weight of her mother's anger and the violence that lurked in every corner of their house.

      The library, in particular, was where Sydney found solace. She would spend hours there, losing herself in books that transported her to faraway worlds, places where she could imagine being someone else, somewhere else. The characters in those stories became her friends, her escape from a reality that felt too suffocating to bear at times. She absorbed knowledge eagerly, her mind hungry for anything that could distract her from the pain that awaited her at home.

      Yet, even as she immersed herself in schoolwork and novels, the shadows of her life followed her. There was no escaping the fact that, once the final bell rang, she would have to return to that house. And no amount of academic achievement or fictional adventures could change that. It was a cruel irony—she excelled in nearly everything she did, yet none of it seemed to matter. Not to the person whose approval she craved, not to the world that kept turning while she suffered in silence.

      But Sydney wasn't ready to give up, not yet. Somewhere deep inside her, beneath the bruises and the scars, a flicker of hope remained—hope that one day, she would break free from the cycle, that she would find a way to escape the prison her life had become. And that hope, however small, was enough to keep her going. For now, she would survive. And someday, she would live.