Page 136 of Maladaptive

Me: I don’t have work tonight. My dad cancelled every night I have this week.

Conner: We’re leaving tomorrow. Delete our entire conversation.

Me: Okay.

After I delete our messages, I place my phone in my lap, drag my hands through my hair and groan. What do I do? I suppose if I can stay up late tonight, there might be an opportunity for me to leave. All I need is patience.

My phone vibrates. I expect it to be from Conner, but it’s a message from Olivia, to my surprise.

Olivia: Hey, Noya. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to you. You were a fantastic worker, and we were SO happy to have you in our team!

I look forward to knowing what your next adventure will be!

I furrow my brow.

What is she talking about? She’s acting like I am… what did Dad say to her? Did he do something to jeopardise my job? Who am I kidding? That’s what he would have done.

Should I reply to her? If I ask questions, she might send Dad a message, and I don’t want him to know Olivia sent me a message. I don’t know what to do because I want to know what she means, but I don’t want her to send Dad a message questioning whatever he said to her.

Weighing up one or the other, I’d rather not reply.

A few hours later,Mum knocks on my door and announces dinner is ready. Taking a deep breath, I sit up in bed, place myphone in my pocket, unlock my door, and leave the room. Dad’s already at the table, a bowl of pasta in front of him, and Mum’s serving mine and sliding it to where I’ve sat for breakfast and dinner for the past few days. Next to the pasta is a cup of orange juice—a weird additive for dinner.

I hesitantly sit down and swallow the sickness rising after inhaling the pasta’s smell. Again, I wait for them to eat theirs before taking my bite. Even knowing it’s leftovers, the thought of eating first in this bizarre world frightens me.

“Lilly,” Dad says, calling Mum by her first name. It’s been a long time since he called her Lilly. It’s usually some provocative, horrid slur. “Let’s have a roast dinner tomorrow night.”

Mum stiffens. Her eyes widen before she tugs that fake smile and straightens her posture. “I thought we were having a roast for Noya’s birthday.”

Dad leans back in his chair and smirks. “I thought we could celebrate earlier.”

Celebrate earlier? What does that mean? Why am I on edge? As if something terrible is going to happen tomorrow night.

My mouth goes dry, and the food tastes like poison dancing on the tip of my tongue. I take a sip of the orange juice.

All my surroundings heighten. The sound of the fork scraping against the bowl. The loud chewing from Mum and Dad. The shuffling movements of our bodies as we try to get comfortable in seats we’ve never sat in before.

The news is blaring, telling me about a girl dying in her home after years of neglect and torture. The drip of the faucet Mum doesn’t tighten. They all consume me as this rush of fright hits me like a truck, smashing into me and shattering me into pieces.

I need to get out of here.

After dinner, I go into my room and lock the door. Pacing back and forth, I eye the window. I grab hold of it and pull until my fingers slip. Silently screaming, I cradle my throbbing,wounded finger. Blood swells underneath the Band-Aid, and my hands tremble at the sight of it.

Can I smash the window in time and escape? By the time I break the window and try to run, Dad can round the front of the yard. There’s a chance Mrs Crawford could hear me if I shattered the window and screamed her name, but would it be too late?

I drag my hands through my hair and swear under my breath. I don’t know what to do.

Well, there’s nothing you can do until your parents fall asleep. That’s your chance.

I sigh while slumping onto my bed. I gaze at the still fan, realising I’m right. There’s nothing I can do until Dad falls asleep. So, I’ll wait for…

My eyes grew heavy.

I’ll wait for…

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LAST DAY