Latch {Short Story}

Chapter Seven

~ October 14th, 1996 ~

I wake from my first blissful slumber in days to the sound of a hammer thrashing into wood. I wipe the crust from the inner corners of my eyes, throw on Berties' jumper (that was placed 'neatly' on the floor,) and gaze out the window. Of course, there he is. Stood on the tip of his toes on a wobbly ladder, chopping into our tree. WHY IS HE CHOPPING OUR TREE?!

In milliseconds I am out in the garden, shouting abuse at him & telling him that he's a shit boyfriend because he's chopping down OUR TREE. Ever so casually he jumps off the ladders, (still with the axe in his hand!) And stares at me smugly.

"What!" My roaring screech echoes through the woodland.

"You're cute when you're unnecessarily angry." He half shrugs.

CUTE?!

"But Skinny, I'm not chopping it down. I'm simply cutting out chunks that could act as stairs. Okay?" He plants a half giggle/half kiss on my cheek and carries on with his craft.

"Okay." ... "Are your Parents okay with it? Like, us using there tree to live in... Me living on their property... You and I most definitely fucking in their garden..." I'm building up a sweat as I imagine the many blockages between us and our future.

Before he can climb back up the ladder, he's plunged his lips onto mine. Probably to shut me up, but I won't complain.

As we force ourselves away from one another, he puts my worries at ease and informs me that he asked his parents this morning over breakfast. They were hesitant at first,- but once he explained why I couldn't be around my family any longer, they accepted.

They're kind. They're understanding. They've accepted me, despite my obvious flaws; and that's more than I can say for my own parents.

"No means no Etty! Do you hear me! You're not leaving! We're a family!"

Bullshit.

As usual, Father is doing all the arguing, whilst Mother sits at the dining table and pours herself her third cup of Vodka infused tea.

"Let her go."

Did she actually say something?

"What was that?" For once me and my Dad are on the same wavelength about something.

"Let her go." Mother repeats herself just as quietly as before, but we can hear her through the concentration silence.

"No! You're just as mad as her! Do you hear yourself? God, of course you're encouraging her!"

By this point I've zoned out. He keeps repeating himself because his only argument is that we're a family- a recovering family and that we all need to pull together.

We're past recovery. We're beyond repair.

Mum speaks up again.

"Let's just let her go for a few weeks and see how she gets on, okay? She's not coping well here, babe. The nightmares have started again, and Bertie has really helped her through it. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt and see how they get on. We have to let her be independent and learn."

My Mother isn't often the intelligent parent; but when she is, she does it well. Dad looks defeated. He knows he can't say no, especially after all he's put us through. After a hinged breathe, he lets out a forced "Fine." Another small rant, but that's okay because we aren't arguing anymore. They've granted me freedom.

"I'll go and pack my stuff..." I half mumble as I slide out of the kitchen.

Bertie ever so strictly told me to only pack the essentials. Right. Okay. I can do this.