Safe

The day he leaves, coincidentally, is the day my mother buys new curtains.

They are a shade of brown that matches the furniture - a deep russet that distorts the pale yellow sunlight streaming in through the windows. The curtains themselves are of a thick material, patterned with a delicate Victorian motif, with beige tassels that hang over the top portion of the window.

I think they’re hideous, but I don’t say a word.

My mother hums as she strings them up, tugging at the nets beneath to get them to lie flat, ruffling the edge of the new curtains until they hang just right.

She’s singing an old pop melody as she moves through to the kitchen to cook dinner, and I don’t have the heart to ruin her good mood, not after he left her in ruins for so many weeks and months.

My sister leans over to whisper in my ear, and receives a hard pinch in the side upon voicing her distaste for the new decor.

I tell her they’re pretty, and that they make our mother happy, and that’s that. Of course, it isn’t.

The following Monday, we return from school to find thick black blinds obscuring our view into the house.

I open the door with my own key and call out for our mother - she bustles into the lounge with a tray of freshly baked cookies, croons over Madison’s new painting, and ruffles our hair before asking our opinions of the new addition to the house.

She’s beaming so hard that I force out my lie through my teeth, a smile of equal volume plastered to my own face.

My sister looks awestruck, and when my elbow collides with her ribs, I pretend it’s an accident.

He’s been gone for a whole month when she changes the locks.

There, we’re much safer now, darlings! she proclaims, and we nod and gush in all the right places.

My mother promises to get another key cut for me as soon as she can, and I nod enthusiastically, not quite believing her.

His presence no longer lingers in the house. His heavy work boots are gone from under the stairs, his rain jacket missing from the porch hooks, the bathroom divested of his cologne bottles.

I wonder after his new life, sometimes, whether he’s moved in with Ashley or Hilary or Sandra, whoever the last intern was, or whether he’s holed up in a bedsit somewhere by himself, surrounded by dirty socks and plates of rotting food.

I don’t know which I want to be true.

On their anniversary, the fuse box blows, and the house is plunged into darkness.

I hush Madison’s crying with the promise of ice cream before dinner, and we manage to eat a whole tub before it melts.

My mother promises to go down into the basement to take a look at the blown fuse, but it’ll have to wait until morning, because she’s forgotten where she keeps the flashlight.

We light candles, instead, and get to work on the rest of the frozen food that won’t keep until tomorrow.
I know what, we’ll make it into a game! You like games, don’t you, Maddie?

Madison’s eyes are wide and glinting with unshed tears, but from behind my mother I beam my encouragement, thanking a god I don’t believe in when Madison melds her own expression into one of painfully forced delight.

We play hide and seek in the darkness until Madison’s eyes are droopy with the promise of sleep, and she curls up by the fireplace.

My mother lies down beside her, and I watch their breathing slow to match each other’s; mother and daughter, safe and sound in slumber.

It’s been six months.

School stopped calling after three.

Our mother still hasn’t fixed the blown fuse.

My old key sits by the front door; no matter which angle I apply it to the lock, it won’t turn.

I wish he’d come back. It’s so dark here.

Madison stopped crying a few days ago, and my mother sits on the old rocking chair in the lounge and rocks to and fro, holding her limp daughter in her arms, singing that old pop melody she so likes.

I want to tear down those vile curtains and rip off the blind; break the windows and storm out into the daylight.

But I can’t. My mother needs me.

She calls to me, now, reaches out a spindly arm to pull me closer to her, and she holds both her daughters, rocks us back and forth, and sings so sweetly that my eyes drift shut of their own accord, and I drift away.

I drift.

I drift.

Yes. We’re much safer now.

Shortlisted for the BBC Young Writers' Award 2015