Simultaneity

by J. Raisian

The keys jingle as the front door unlocks, and my ears are ringing. Did I leave anything out on the table? Maybe my university bag, or my crayons?

Her footsteps echo across the laminate and I hear him clear his throat. My heart quickens. I chastise myself for still having the same reaction all these years later, and wonder if the other kids at school feel like this when their dad arrives home.

Image credit: Windah Limbai on Unsplash

She slams her door. It’s the one right across from mine. We split the rent. There’s no way out of my seventh story flat that won’t put me in her path. At least he is still downstairs while I’m upstairs. The last time I climbed out the window and jumped off my second story roof, he called the police. I couldn’t stay at my friend’s house. He reported they were “harboring a runaway.” There will be no escaping. Not then, not now.

I didn’t lock my door before she got home. I hadn’t expected her back this early. But if I do it now, she’ll hear it and know I’m in. What then? But then, the doorknob doesn’t have a locking mechanism from the inside. Only from the outside, for when he’s really angry. Will he come in? Am I ready if he does? I won’t move a muscle. If I’m quiet enough, I won’t attract either of their attention.

I keep a big water bottle in my room. It won’t help if I need to use the toilet, but at least if I get thirsty, I won’t have to go out. I guess I don’t really need another meal tonight. Though, there’s leftover Pad Thai from my anniversary date in the fridge, and some string cheese and applesauce for my school lunches. If I time it strategically—am quick, silent—could I sneak out and grab them then tiptoe back without either person noticing? But the string cheese and applesauce are meant for packing, and maybe he’ll be mad if I take them. No, I don’t need to eat.

She goes to the bathroom. She’s only one thin wall away. There it is—the tell-tale signs. Her breath hitches in that way it does. She hits the light switch a little too hard. The curses start quietly, then louder, then the door slams and I flinch. She had a bad day at work. My breath is shallow. Did I leave a dirty sock on the bathroom floor after my shower? Was the toilet not cleaned out well enough after my potty, or my toys left in the tub? Did he not get his fix? Did he notice that the pipe had been touched, even though I swore I put it back exactly as I found it? I only picked it up because I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t spill any of the crystals, I pinky promise, no crosses count.

I decide to risk it. I lock my door, from the inside.

***

J. Raisian

J. Raisian is from the Sonoran Desert, USA, now based in the Black Forest, Germany, pursuing doctoral research on resistance narratives. Her writing draws primarily on lived experience ranging from her childhood to struggles as a migrant blue-collar worker. Raisian is a penname and tribute to the author's maternal great, great grandmother, whose name was almost lost to time, but whose strength saved her family during the Armenian genocide. Esther Raisian's legacy now lives on through these works.