Chapter 5

I bolted out of my room like a madwoman. "Where are my things?"

For the first time in my 19 years, I screamed at Dad and Mom.

My voice shattered the lingering festive atmosphere of New Year's Day. Even I was startled by how loud it sounded.

My parents were sprawled on the couch, watching a rerun of a comedy sketch and laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

When they heard me shout, they froze for half a second before their expressions darkened.

"What's with all the yelling?" Mom frowned.

"My diaries! The letters in my cabinet! Where are they?" I rushed to the coffee table, trembling from head to toe.

After 19 years of swallowing my pain, something inside me finally cracked. I couldn't hold it in anymore.

Dad peeled an orange leisurely without even looking up. "Oh, that pile of scrap paper? I told your mom to throw it away. It was long overdue. All it did was take up space."

"Throw them away?" Something in my head snapped. "Where did you throw them?"

"In the dumpster downstairs. We tossed them yesterday. The garbage collectors have probably taken everything away by now," Mom answered casually.

She even crossed her legs and changed the channel with the remote.

"Your diaries were full of depressing nonsense. All that whining about feeling trapped and wanting to give up on life. Just looking at them dampens my mood. And those letters from Janey were even worse. She was trying to turn you against us. Why would we keep that poison around at the start of a brand-new year?"

"Those were my life..." I whispered the words as tears suddenly flooded my eyes.

My diaries were the only place I could speak freely during countless sleepless nights. Every page was soaked with my tears and stained with my blood.

The letters had arrived from Aunt Janey every month. She always drew little illustrations in them and wrote things like, "Keep going, Shiloh. I will always love you."

They had been the last bit of warmth keeping me going.

"Your life?" Dad suddenly blurted with rage and flung the orange peel at my face.

The acidic juice stung my eyes and made them burn like they were on fire.

He thundered, "Your life belongs to us! And you dare scream at me over a few worthless notebooks? Have you forgotten your place?"

Instantly, he jumped to his feet and glanced around frantically. He grabbed a solid wooden stool from the corner.

"Kevin! Don't hit her in the head!" Mom shouted.

I didn't dodge.

I'd seen this scene too many times before.

When I was six, he beat me until my nose bled because I'd accepted candy from a neighbor.

When I was ten, I came in second on an exam and was forced to kneel in the snow all night.

When I was 15, I fought back against a classmate who bullied me, only for Dad to drag me over and force me to apologize to my tormentor.

The stool came crashing down. Pain shot through my whole body, and my vision went black.

I curled up on the floor, hearing nothing but Dad's ragged breathing. I'd stopped crying out in pain a long time ago. Every time I did, the beating only got worse.

"That'll teach you to yell at me! How dare you glare at me? I'm your father!"

Mom finally stepped forward and grabbed his arm. "That's enough, Kevin! Stop hitting her. Look at this!"

She picked up my phone, grabbed my hand, and forced it to unlock the screen. There was a draft in my notes app that I hadn't had the chance to delete.

I'd wanted to get into a graduate program in Aunt Janey's city. I wanted to leave this place forever.

Mom stared at the words, crouched down, and shoved the screen right in my face. "Are you trying to run away? And you plan to go to Janey? Trying to cut us out of your life, huh?"

She stood up and held the phone out for Dad to see. "Look at this! Her heart has been set on escaping for a long time! She hid the money and her diaries. Now, she wants to run away. We can't let her go back to college!"

Dad nodded, still breathing heavily. "So all that studying has taught her to run away from home, is that it? Fine! She can work in a factory right here in town instead!"

Right in front of me, Mom called my academic adviser, Greta Zeller.

"Hello, Ms. Zeller. Happy New Year! This is Shiloh Cormier's mother."

The next moment, her voice turned sorrowful. "We need a leave of absence for Shiloh... Yes, she has to pull out. She's gone crazy at home. Not only did she steal money, but she even assaulted her parents. There's something seriously wrong with her mental state."

I lay on the floor, desperately trying to reach for the phone. I wanted to scream that I didn't do any of that, and that she was lying!

However, I couldn't make my voice work. My throat was full of bloody phlegm, and all that came out was a hoarse, broken wheeze.

"We're afraid she'll hurt someone if she goes back to school. Dropping out altogether would be better. She's never going to amount to anything anyway. Yes, yes. Thank you for your help, Ms. Zeller. We'll take care of the paperwork later."

They were destroying the last path I had left to escape.

After hanging up, Mom opened my WhatsApp and found my year group chat and class group chat. Right in front of me, she used my account to send a message.

She wrote, "This is Shiloh's mother. She's been stealing money at home and assaulting her parents. She has extreme thoughts and has been detained at home for discipline. If she owes anyone money or has behaved inappropriately, please be understanding. We apologize for any trouble she's caused."

Then, she hit "Send".