Short Story Collection

No False Positives

"135 Reuben Street." I say to myself. I'm not sure that I'll ever read that address again, but the now off-white siding is rotting, the stairs are cracking, the railing is rusting, and the maroon paint on the front door is chipping. Although the house is down to its last thread, I know I won't be any better off when I leave.

As soon as I rush up the creaky stairs and throw myself onto the twin size mattress resting on my floor, I recall that text I received from my mother earlier, "We need to have a talk when I get home." The front door slams and fear is a river rushing through my body.

"Celia Ann, get your ass down here right now!"

Before I'm even halfway down the stairs she yells, "What the hell is this?" Her shrieking gives me chills and my hands shake more than I thought possible. I'm not able to see her, but I can hear her anger warning me that she'll break soon.

"What's what?" I mumble, forcing my words to break through my lips and hiding behind a mask of blonde hair. Her silence makes me more anxious. She slowly lifts a pregnancy test off the glass table next to the rickety, forest green couch she's slouching on. Her eyes are empty as they stare into mine. I'm afraid to be honest; I'm afraid to say anything at all.

"Celia Ann," she growls, rubbing her eyes with her hands.

"Yes, mother?" I reply, my words more forced than before.

"How did this happen?" she asks, "You're only sixteen."

With nothing to say, I fall silent once again and mess around with the loose threads on my sweater. Tears are streaming down my face, but if she sees that she'll hit me.

"Stupid slut," she says under her breath and pushes herself off the couch, ignoring all of its stains. She's much calmer than I had expected her to be, maybe it's because she didn't notice my shaking or the tears in my eyes; I fear it won't last long. It never does.

My mother walks toward the kitchen with her back turned to me, but without seeing her expressions I can still tell she's crying by the way she's pushing back her hair and hunching her back. I can imagine the redness in her face and the way her eyes narrow when she raises her fist above my head. Instead of sprinting to her and making sure she's okay like I would've when I was younger, I stay there, try to hide my tears and ignore the still dark bruises on my body from a few days ago.

"What the fuck did I do wrong?" my mother cries to herself. Though I can barely see into the kitchen, I'm able to see her arms moving back and forth and the clumps of hair in each hand. "First Jayden cheated on me, then Wyatt ran away, and now all I have left is you?" Her voice is sharper now, a knife to my throat, it breaks my heart to see my mother this way. I remember her as this beautiful woman, one with soft, loving hands, and hair tickled as it brushed against my cheek when she went down to kiss me goodnight. I remember her always saying her dinners tasted so good because of her "special ingredient": love. But I don't know that woman anymore. Now she is fear.

"Do you see how much you're ruining my life, Celia?" she says harshly, swinging open the cabinet doors just to shatter plates against the wall and slam glasses onto the linoleum floor. With one of the glass shards, she tries to attack me, and I'm more scared than I've ever been in my entire life.

"Mother, please!" I take hold of her wrist, gripping hard enough that when I let go she's left with a purple and red outline of my hands.

"You shouldn't have done that," she says, pushing me against the wall with her hand grasped around my throat. Her breath smells of whiskey and cigarettes. "You're not my daughter."

The second she loosens her grip I sprint up the stairs, nearly tripping over my own two feet. I turn the handle to my door, slam it shut and run to my closet, leaving the door unlocked and hoping she doesn't barge in before I'm able to grab my things and run.

While in my closet pulling a few sweaters off hangers, taking pants from my drawers, and a pair of shoes from the floor, piling them up to shove them into my backpack that's only good for a few folders and maybe a notebook, I hear my mom's muffled yells, and more glass shattering. I hear the creaks after every step she takes and the banging of her fists against the walls. I need to hurry.

I run down the stairs, skipping a few steps as I go, and checking my pockets for my phone. Rushing out the front door, I ignore her screams and footsteps following me closely behind me. If I keep running I'll be free at last.

It's cold outside, mid December, my thin sweater, torn apart jeans, and nearly sole-less shoes aren't enough to keep me warm. I skip over piles of snow, and avoid sliding on the icy pavement. I know she's not chasing me anymore, but I'm afraid she'll somehow find me.

Ring!

"Hello?"

"Celia! Did you make it out?" asks Owen. Just the sound of his voice puts me at ease.

"I did. Can you please come pick me up?"

"Are you waiting where we had planned?"

"Almost."

"See you soon, babe," Owen replies. I can hear the smile forming along his face by the change of his tone, which gives me hope.

Waiting on the porch of the cobalt blue house on Remy Street, a few blocks from my house, feels like years but in reality it's been a few minutes. My hands feel like ice, and I can't stop shaking but it doesn't matter the second I see Owen. His black curly hair falls over his eyes as he opens the door of his rusty, silver 1987 Chrysler Conquest. It may not be much, but it's enough for us to get away. After shoving the door shut, he runs to me, throwing his arms around me and lifting me up.

"We should go before your mom finds us."

"Agreed," I reply. Together we drove into the watercolor sunset, knowing that the morning's light would gift us a new beginning.