What Happened to Sarah?

Chapter Two.

It was still very early in the morning, but Sarah was ready to leave. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting a soft, golden light through her window. Today was the day she would escape Santa Haraya, a place that felt more like a prison with every passing moment. She had packed everything she could fit into her worn backpack—clothes, a few personal mementos, and her father’s old pocket knife for protection. She felt a mix of excitement and fear knotting her stomach.

As she glanced out her window, a wave of nausea washed over her. There, in the crisp morning air, stood Mrs. Angoye's sixteen-year-old son, his lithe body on display in a pair of worn boxers. He was a familiar sight by now, a grotesque tableau that had become an unwelcome part of Sarah's daily routine.

The boy's behavior was nothing short of obscene. He would stand there, his movements deliberate and suggestive, his eyes fixed on Sarah with an intensity that chilled her to the bone. It was as if he was daring her to look away, to ignore the spectacle unfolding before her. Sarah's heart pounded in her chest as she tried to shield herself from the intrusion, her fingers tightening around the worn curtain fabric.

The sight was so repulsive that Sarah had taken to keeping her curtains permanently drawn, hoping to create a barrier between herself and the boy's disturbing rituals. But even when she was cocooned in darkness, the memory of his leering gaze lingered, a haunting presence that refused to be banished.

Desperate to put an end to the harassment, Sarah had once approached Mrs. Angoye, her voice trembling with anger and fear. However, the mother had met her with a shrug of indifference, insisting that her son was simply a teenager going through a phase and wasn't harming anyone. Sarah was outraged by this response, finding the boy's actions both disrespectful and deeply disturbing. She couldn't understand how Mrs. Angoye could be so indifferent to her son's inappropriate behavior, as if she were blind to the torment he was causing.

She quietly slipped out of her room, the wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet, but she was careful to tread softly. In the kitchen, she spotted her mother, Angela, standing by the stove, stirring a pot of something that filled the air with an unexpected warmth. This was unusual; ever since Arthur had died in his sleep, her mother had withdrawn, retreating into a shell of silence and sorrow.

“Oh, you’re awake! I was just about to come and wake you,” her mom said, her voice unusually bright, a contrast to the heavy atmosphere that had enveloped their home for so long.

“Good morning!” Sarah replied, forcing a smile that felt more like a mask than a genuine expression.

She approached the dining table, where her mother had laid out a plate piled high with her favorite dish—giniling with boiled eggs. It reminded her of her father, who used to cook it on special occasions, and the memory stirred a bittersweet ache in her chest.

“Thanks for cooking, Mom,” Sarah said, her voice softening as she sat down, trying to grasp this fleeting moment of normalcy.

“Happy birthday!” Angela exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with a momentary joy that made Sarah’s heart swell.

“Thank you,” she replied the same words again which makes her sounds stupid by now.

But inside, a familiar weight settled over her. This warmth felt temporary, a fragile bubble waiting to burst. Moments like this were what she had always wanted, yet she knew they would evaporate like morning dew once she stepped out the door.

It hurt to leave her mother behind, but Sarah understood that staying would only lead to more pain. She felt like a ghost in her own home, drifting through memories of laughter and love, knowing that if she remained, she might die from the inside out—not by her own hand, but by the suffocating despair that lingered in every corner of their house.