FriENDs: Chapter Six

FriENDs is a serialized novel Witherly Heights started publishing in the fall of 2017.  Here is its latest installment.

             Before I know it, my legs are moving on their own, frantically racing through the hallway and up to the attic where I feel the safest. The door clatters against the wall, hinges snapping and creaking like the high-pitched wails of a bird. I slam my back against the trapdoor to the attic, praying he doesn’t notice.

             “Julia!” Kiran shouts. “Julia, where are you? Answer me!”

             I can feel it. My heart beating inside of my chest like a drum, to a steady rhythm that pounds against my ribs in a thunderous chorus. Struggling, I stand up and rush to the closet, locking myself inside, rushing behind the clothes till I know I can’t be seen, with the smell of wood and laundry detergent smothering me in its familiarity. I let out a sigh until I hear it again.

             “Julia!” The voice shouts — my father shouts. “You can’t keep this up! You can’t have her taken away from both of us!” There’s a crash and then the sound of glass shattering. No. This can’t be happening. This only happens in crime movies, in Broadway musicals. This doesn’t happen in real life. Footsteps echo throughout the house as they make their way up the stairs.

             “Julia, goddamnit. You can’t keep playing this game with Sasha.” His voice softens enough for my skin to pale and chills to crawl across my arms and neck. That voice. I recognize it. I remember hearing it every day for the past week. History. That’s where I heard it.

             “My name’s Prakash Pariyar, and I’ll be replacing you old teacher, Ms. Ivy.”

             Holy sh*t.

             It’s him. It’s the man from school. It’s the man from the letter. It’s my father. I almost faint, my back hitting the solid wall of the closet, making a thud that vibrates through the walls and down to my feet. No. Don’t move. Don’t move or he’ll hear you. He might kill you. No. Why would he kill me? I shake my head, smacking it against a few raincoats worn with age. No.

             “Julia?” He shouts, his voice closer now. A single floor below me: the bathroom, the bedroom, the hallway. He could be anywhere. “Julia!?” And now it’s right under me, reverberating through the house like thunder during a rainstorm. This is bad. Really, really bad. I let out a small, quiet, choked sob as I pulled on a handle embedded into the wood paneling below.The sounds of breathing, heavy sighs, and boots on wood diffract up to me, coming from right beneath my legs.

             Bam. The trapdoor to the attic slams open, splintering against the floor in a series of cracks and snaps. Through the small gap in between the closet doors I can see his silhouette. Prakash Pariyar. Kiran. No. They’ve been the same all along haven’t they?

             He heaved a sigh and scans the attic, letting me catch a glimpse of his face for just a second. He really is my father, isn’t he? This strange man who broke into my house. He’s nothing like Mr. Pariyar. And yet they are so similar it’s a shame I didn’t notice before.

             Shaking in my shoes, I slowly open the door of the closet, watching him turn around and bang his fist against the wall. Stop. Keep going. Leave. Stay. There’s a part of me that wants this man to live, to be with me, because somehow I’ve always known that he was the person I was missing in my life.

             Kiran’s face whips toward the closet, and I let out a small shriek, hiding behind my mom’s old bathrobe. He shakes his head and climbs back down the ladder to the attic, muttering something while he whips out his phone. And then, I hear it coming from downstairs.

             No. It’s not coming from downstairs. Slowly, I reach behind me and into my pocket, feeling the cold, hard, phone ring and vibrate silently. Oh, god. The door downstairs slams shut and I let out the breath I had been holding the entire time. He’s calling the phone in my pocket. In my shock, I desperately push random buttons to attempt to silence the phone. My vision blurs and my fingers furiously, yet aimlessly, fly across the keyboard. The sound of Kiran’s rapid footsteps as he starts walking back up make me sick. My body starts trembling and the familiar metalic taste of blood suffocates me. I’m overcome with nausea as I hear the door  open. Gentle footsteps make their way to the closet. I shut my eyes like a child scared to face the consequences in front of her. The closet door opens and I am terrified to allow myself to look at the man towering in front of me. Somehow, that would make this real. That would make all of this the truth. The second I open my eyes is the second that my brain will absorb every minute of this moment that will haunt me throughout my life. Isn’t it petrifying to know that the next few moments of your life will be ingrained in your worst thoughts forever?

             “Sasha.” The voice is familiar–course, rough, exhausted, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s the voice of the person who took me to the ice skating rink instead of buying a coat during winter, and wouldn’t eat for days so that I afford to go for my annual checkup. It is the voice of the woman who works every second of her life to keep us out of a homeless shelter. It’s the voice of the person who sold her body away to strangers for five years so that her daughter could attend trumpet lessons and go to the mall with her friends. Tired hands wrap around me, and I allow my body to relax in the arms of the woman who put a price tag on her dignity so that I could be happy.

             “I’m so sorry, honey,” my mother’s voice trembles as she speaks against my head. “I really tried. I promise he won’t ever step into this house again.”

             “Why did he come?” I whisper.

             “To see you.”

             “Why did he leave us?”

             “What makes you think he left us?”

             “You left him?” My eyes widen.

             “It sounds so dumb to say it now, but he cheated. He was never loyal to me and he wouldn’t have been a good father. I left the house in the middle of the night when you were just a baby and I ran away.”

             “That isn’t dumb, Mom. Nobody should have to stay with a disloyal partner.”

             “It isn’t the fact that he cheated that makes my skin crawl, more who he cheated with.” She shudders.

             “Who?” I whisper.

             “It isn’t my place to tell you.”

             “Then whose is it Mom?” my voice rises. “You can’t keep hiding this stuff from me because it does affect me!”

             “It’s complicated, you wouldn’t understand.”

             “Mom, you know I’m going to find out anyway, right? You might as well tell me yourself.” My voice softens and I almost smile. “I’m ready to know. I’ve been ready for a while. Who was it?”

             Little did I know that that moment would be replayed in my mind every single day until the day I died. I wasn’t ready. I would have never been ready.

             “It was Miss Ivy.”

“Aliciana Brooks” is the nom de plume of Nicole Adams and Anusha Sharangpani.