:Dalla
"mum… where are we going?"
"Mum?"
Her face looked tense; she just pulled me by my arm so I could walk quicker. We only had a small back pack with us, which she carried—her nails digging into my skin like at any minute I was going to snatched of her.
"Mum… please stop, you're hurting me!"
Tears formed in my eyes.
She stopped—crouching down to meet my eye.
I looked down, avoiding her gaze, to my sparkliy shoes I got for my 8th birthday.
She lifted up my chin. Her eyes looked glossy.
"I love you, ok baby. Do you… trust me?"
I nodded my head slowly.
She said in a soft tone, "it will be ok, just follow me and try to keep your head down?"
She adjusted my mask.
I didn't know why I had to wear this.
I was scared.
She just planted a kiss on my head…
before we carried on walking.
"No—ow—stop!"
I jolted upright in bed, my chest heaving like I'd been dragged out of water. The flashbacks never come quietly. They soak me through, leave me sweating like a bucket tipped over my skin, my hair plastered to my face. I hate them. I hate how real they feel.
I wish I could go back to that day. I have so many questions running through my head but always get very little answers.
I miss Dad, Ellis, Noah, Teddy—especially Aunt May. I just don't understand why we had to leave and why Mum took me out of everyone else. I don't mean to be jealous, but I envy them, and at the same time I am glad they don't have to deal with this.
It's been eight years since Mum and I left. Eight years of running without ever knowing what we were running from. We're staying at a small inn in Texas thanks to Mum's friend Bria—who Mum insists on calling a godsend. I help out serving drinks, though I can't at certain times because of my age. No one really cares about that, which is… unsettling. Old men flirting with a minor like it's nothing. Like I'm nothing.
I go to school not far from here. I am turning 17 this weekend. I can't wait till I am 18; then I can flee from this *****
place. And Mum knows it. She knows she can't stop me
I walked down the stairs, a waft of pecan pie drifting up from the kitchen, fresh out of the oven. Mum and Bria were cooking—warm butter and toasted nuts melting together, thick with brown sugar and vanilla. The scent wrapped itself around the room, comforting and heavy, the kind that made your stomach ache in a good way. It lingered in the air, slipping under your skin,your memories stir, whether you want them to or not.
The inn carries it, soaked into old wood and time. Pete, the owner's son, helped decorate the place; he loves carving. He carved horse heads along the banisters, and the beams smell faintly of polish. It looks nice. I gently run my fingers over them.
"Morning, sweet. You okay?" Bria says, notices me immediately.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
She lifts a brow—liar—then leans in and presses a quick kiss to my forehead.
"Hey—watch the hair."
She scoffs. "Alina."
"What?" Mum calls from the other side of the room.
She turns, eyes softening the second she sees me. "Aww, my baby's growing up so fast," she says, half-teasing.
Bria laughs. Mum joins in.
I just stand there, pretending it doesn't make my chest feel tight.
"Cut it out I am 16" I snatch the wisk out of mums hands and lick it "mmhh...so good"
Mum rolls her eyes and says "still a child "
Bria grins and says " come on let her do what she wants even if she wants to get pregnant at 16" she jokes
I chock mum laughs and pats my back
I look at her in shock "You had me at 16?"
"Yea and I am not proud of it I don't regret having you I just don't like the decisions I made " her eyes soften
The room goes strangely still after that. Even the whisk drips slower.
Mum looks away first, busying herself with nothing in particular. Bria's smile fades, like she's suddenly realised she joked too close to the truth.
"Oh," I say, because I don't know what else to say. The word feels small in my mouth.
Mum glances back at me. There's no anger there. Just something tired. Something careful.
"I grew up fast," she adds gently. "Too fast."
I nod, even though my chest feels tight. I don't ask anything more. I don't trust my voice not to crack.
Bria clears her throat and claps her hands once, loud. "Okay—pie's not gonna bake itself," she says, forcing the cheer back in.