Niamh

I lie awake that night, wondering if I’ll ever sleep in this bed again, listening to the sounds of night through my cracked-open window. The distant car driving through the village, the hoot from a nearby owl, the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves.

All the time, I’m waiting, for the sound of his car on the drive, then his key in the door, his heavy footsteps as he comes upstairs, his muffled angry voice. I imagine him breaking in, slapping my mother’s face, which still hasn’t healed from the last time, shouting foul words at her, before glancing at me as though I don’t exist. And if we’re gone when he comes here, he’ll search the countryside until he finds us.

My father didn’t like Hollie coming here. Hollie’s independent streak, her free-spiritedness, threatened his hold over me. Her way of questioning what my parents said, asking too many questions I couldn’t answer; never accepting what everyone told her. Digging deeper until she found what she was looking for.

I remember her coming over to my house that evening. Fragile in her silver dress, her hair tangled. When she told me what she’d found, I didn’t believe her. I remember her hands shaking as she pulled it from her pocket, handed it to me. A piece of paper that changed her world—and mine—forever.

* * *

It’s early the next morning, when my mother packs our bags into her car, then locks the house. As we drive away, the countdown begins to my father’s explosion of anger; to another moment that’s coming closer.

I can’t put off what I have to tell my mother. She should know why Dylan died. Then when she knows, she’ll be able to understand why Hollie died, too.

I know I made Hollie a promise, but I really don’t know how much longer I can keep it.