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No saviours but also no demons.

FORTY-ONE

Elara

Age Thirteen

Girls are mean.

They told me my mum doesn’t love me, because she never comes to pick me up from school. My sister leaves early and they pity me because I have to walk home alone.

I started hanging out with boys.

Boys are mean too.

They told me if I show them my boobs, they’ll let me hang out with them.

When I said no, they laughed at me. They said my sister’s boobs were prettier. They said she’d shown them to a boy, and everyone thought they were pretty.

That night, when I get home with a bleeding fist, my mum scowls at me.

She doesn’t ask who hurt me. She doesn’t ask why.

Her hand closes around my ear. “Girls your age doesn’t say such filthy things.” She chastises. “Don’t make up stories.”

I stopped hanging out with boys.

That was the first time I wondered if the girls were right. About my mother—not loving me.

Amara barely acknowledges my existence. Maybe our six- year gap is wide enough for her to see me as a burden she has to carry everywhere.

She told me once not to talk to her. She said I should go find friends my own age.

I stopped leaving the house then.

So imagine my surprise when Amara texts me, asking me to pick her up from a house across the neighbourhood while Mum and Dad are out of town.

The fact that she thought of me at all makes something inside me bloom.

I don’t even notice the cold. I don’t even think to grab a coat. I just climb onto my bicycle and ride fast, blind, breathless yet excited.

Only an hour later do I realise I should never have come.

The house is dark and gloomy, a single, battered lamp in the corner casting barely enough light to see.

A slow lullaby drifts through the rooms, echoing softly around the living room.

It’s scary.

Like the horror films Amara used to make me watch before she stopped hanging out with me.

I don’t realise I’m not alone until I hear the slow creak of a chair and I gasp.

“Amara?” I whisper as my steps take me inside. “Amara? I’m here, let’s go home.” The door creaks with the swing as I take a step forward with trembling legs. “I’m scared, please let’s go home.”

Silence.

“This isn’t funny, Amara.” My voice echoes as a shadow appears, the boots hitting the wooden floor.