ELLA
I never thought I'd be relieved to leave Seattle.
I loved Seattle at one point, but a lot changed — a whole lot. So when Mom announced we were moving to Alaska, I didn't argue.
The drive up had been long and tiring, but as soon as we pulled into the small town, something inside me eased.
I couldn’t exactly describe it, but it felt like an invisible boulder had been lifted off my shoulders; I felt at ease, I felt as though I was truly home.
My expectations fell short when I saw our new apartment.
It was small and a bit shabby and it was surrounded by thick, inviting forest. The forest I liked.
Immediately I had set my eyes on it, I was drawn, and I knew I had to explore it someday.
But not today. Today was about settling in.
I surveyed the room.
The door was rickety, hanging slightly off its hinges. Each time I opened or closed it, it groaned in protest. The windows were old and drafty, with bits of paint peeling off the wooden frames. The wooden floor had creaks, unlike the smooth floorboards back at our Seattle home.
I dropped my duffel bag on the bed, and the carton box on the floor. With little luggage to unpack, it didn't take long to settle in.
I hung a few clothes in the tiny closet, placed my toiletries in the bathroom that looked like it hadn't seen a renovation since the '70s.
Then, I laid out my books on the wooden shelf that came with the apartment.
I picked the box up and started unpacking.
Posters of Seattle's skyline and bands I used to love felt out of place here, but they were familiar, so I tacked them up anyway.
But then, I paused.
The room had started to feel a bit like my old one again. I didn’t appreciate the nostalgia so I stopped hanging more posters.
I’d make new memories here and fill up the walls with them, not with the life I was hellbent on leaving behind.
I was happy to be away from him; the best part about this new place was that my stepfather and mom had a bedroom upstairs.
In our old apartment, both our rooms were on the same floor, and I dreaded the nights when he'd stumble down the hall, knocking on my door.
Here, he was a whole flight of stairs away.
Maybe now I could sleep without clutching a baseball bat under my pillow.
*
When it was evening, I decided to head to the town store for some essentials. I grabbed my jacket and was halfway out the door when he appeared in the hallway.
Oh, fuck me.
I raised my gaze up to behold my lovely step father. He was a true sight to behold.
His potbelly strained against the fabric of his stained t-shirt, which probably hadn't seen a washing machine in weeks.
Patches of scraggly hair shot out in every direction of his chin, making for an excuse for a beard. And the smell of stale beer and sweat clung to him like a second skin, creating a stench that made you want to gag if you got too close.
His bloodshot eyes blinked at me with the kind of slow confusion that came from one too many drinks.
"Ella…h-hold up," he slurred,"G-get me some…” he trailed, spluttering. I grimaced, turning my head away from his flying saliva. “–Some condoms while you're out."
My brow arched.
The guts of this man! And the funny part was that he expected me to get it with my own money.
Money that I spent all summer working from because he couldn’t get a job to provide for us and mom spent her money helping him make a mess of himself AND cleaning up those same messes.
"What?" I spat, unable to hide my disgust. "Get them your—“
"Ella, don't start," Mom's voice drifted from the kitchen. She walked over. “Listen to your father. Do as he says and don't be a freak about it.”
“A freak?” I snapped open my mouth to say something again but I just clamped it shut.
Arguing with my mother , especially in matters concerning the ‘love of her life’ , was useless.
She took his side always, anyways.
“I am not a freak, mother.” My voice came out low, my hands trembling.
I badly wanted to point at the drunk error of a man before me, and give him a peace of my mind too, but I resisted.
He didn’t get that memo though. “Listen to me young woman, quit being a bloody brat and—”
“Enough.” Mom chipped in and then she turned to me, “Ella, listen to your father.” she instructed, adding. “And gods, you two will be the death of me. We just got here. The fighting and bickering can wait at least a day.”
“He’s not my father, still.” I crossed my hands, muttering.
She glared at me and I expected another scolding but she simply sighed, touching her temples. “Bloody hell. I have a damn headache already.”
I watched her walk away.
Mom looked like she had aged a decade in the past year. Her hair now had more sprouts gray aligning next to the brown.
Lines creased her face, carving deep grooves around her mouth and eyes—the kind of lines that come from too much worry and not enough sleep.
She was thin, almost fragile-looking, her shoulders perpetually slumped as if the entire troubles of the world—and her wine addiction—were pressing down on her.
Her eyes were dull, rimmed with dark circles that no amount of makeup could hide.
Freak.
The word stung every time.