Left turn.
1656 Words
The car ride was silent.
Only the sound of the tires against the road filled the air. Dad’s face was blank, his hands tight on the steering wheel.
I stared out the window, watching the city blur into colors — gray buildings, flashing signs, people laughing on sidewalks. They all looked so normal. So free.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and wished I could disappear into that world.
When the car stopped at a red light, Dad said softly, “You didn’t tell her anything… right?”
My heart stopped.
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Right, Ariana?”
I nodded quickly.
He smiled, that fake, twisted smile that never reached his eyes. “Good girl.”
The light turned green, and the car rolled forward again.
When we reached home, I rushed to my room. I locked the door and sat on my bed, my hands shaking.
The room was small, but it was the only place that felt like mine. I stared at the cracks on the wall, the ones I used to count when I’m scared — one, two, three… until I fell asleep pretending they were stars.
I picked up my small mirror from the table. My reflection stared back — messy hair, pale skin, purple marks peeking from under my sleeve.
The doctor’s voice echoed in my head. “He won’t hurt you again if you tell me.”
But what if she was wrong? What if telling made it worse?
I touched one of the bruises on my arm and whispered, “It already hurts.”
The door suddenly banged open. I jumped — I forgot he had the spare key.
He stepped in, holding a brown paper bag from the pharmacy. “Your medicine.”
He placed it on the table, his tone cold now. “Don’t make me regret wasting money on you.”
I nodded, looking at the floor.
He turned to leave, but paused at the door. “Don’t think you can talk to that doctor again. She knows nothing. People like her… they ruin families.”
Then he left.
The house fell quiet again, the kind of silence that feels heavy — like the air itself was afraid to move.
I opened the paper bag. The cream and pills sat inside, wrapped neatly. I placed them on my nightstand, next to the only photo I had of Mom. It was old and faded — she was smiling, holding my brother in her arms.
“Where did you go, Mom?” I whispered.
Sometimes I liked to believe she didn’t really run away. Maybe she was taken. Maybe she forgot. Or maybe… she’s out there, waiting for me to find her.
A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it.
I wiped it away fast. Crying made my head worse.
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. The walls creaked. The wind pressed against the window. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
Then I heard it — Dad’s footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Heavy. Coming closer.
I froze.
The handle turned once. Twice. But the door stayed locked.
He sighed and walked away.
I exhaled shakily and looked at the ceiling. The moonlight spilling through the window painted silver lines across my blanket.
I whispered softly, “Please… just one more day. Let me survive one more day.”
My eyes closed, and I drifted into a shallow, trembling sleep.
The next morning, the sound of his footsteps woke me up. He knocked softly.
“Dear, are you awake?”
“Yes!” I blurted out, still half-asleep.
“Get down in five minutes,” he ordered, then walked away.
I rushed to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and got dressed — baggy jeans and a black top. I brushed my hair and then put it in a messy bun, grabbed my backpack, and went downstairs.
Dad looked over me, expression unreadable. “Go have breakfast,” he said.
I sat down, ate quickly, took my pill, and rinsed my dish. Before I could even wipe my mouth, he shouted, “Let’s go! We’re getting late!”
I ran after him. The car ride was quiet, like always. Just the sound of the tires on the road and the occasional sighs from Dad.
When he stopped, I realized we were already at school. I unbuckled my seatbelt, about to thank him, but he suddenly got out, walked to my side, and smiled.
He raised his hand — I flinched instinctively — but instead of hitting me, he laughed softly and patted my cheek. “You’re very cute,” he said, hugging me briefly. Then he pressed a few notes of money into my hand. “Have a nice day, my dear.”
He walked off, leaving me frozen in confusion.
What is happening?
Is he sick? Or dying? Maybe this is what it feels like when your prayers start to come true.
The school bell rang, pulling me out of my thoughts. I joined the crowd of students rushing inside, trying to push away the unease in my chest.
⸻
After School
I sat under a tree, waiting for Dad to pick me up. The day had been surprisingly quiet. No bullying. No stares. Just peace.
I pulled out my journal again.
Dear Diary,
Today was kind. No trouble. Elijah was absent, and so was Lisa.
Dad acted… normal. Like a real dad.
I kind of enjoyed the day.
I hope it ends well too.
Love
Aria.
I smiled faintly and closed the book. Just then, something caught my eye — a black car parked a few feet away. I didn’t remember seeing it there earlier.
It looked like Elijah’s car. My stomach twisted.
I got up and marched toward it, knocking hard on the window. The glass slid down, and my breath caught.
An older man was inside, staring right at me. “How can I help you, dear?”
I froze, then shook my head quickly, muttered an apology, and ran off, covering my face.
Oh my God, Aria, what were you thinking? I nearly broke a stranger’s window!
I turned around to make sure he wasn’t following me — and bumped straight into another man.
He removed his sunglasses and asked, “Are you Ariana Carter?”
I nodded, confused.
He pointed to the car. “Your father sent me to fetch you.”
My heart skipped. “My father?” I whispered.
He nodded, then pulled out his phone and called someone on speaker.
“Hello?” Dad’s voice.
“Hi, Mr. Carter,” the man said. “What was your daughter’s name again?”
“Ariana. Her name is Ariana.”
“I’m with a girl now. Is she your daughter?”
“Let me hear her voice.”
The man handed me the phone. I hesitated, looking at the ground.
“Speak!” Dad’s sharp voice barked.
“Hi,” I murmured.
“She’s my daughter,” Dad confirmed. “You can take her.”
Take me?
The man ended the call, smiled politely, and opened the car door. “Milady,” he said, gesturing for me to get in.
I hesitated but climbed in, clutching my bag to my chest. The car was luxurious — black leather seats with red trim. Everything smelled new and expensive.
He fastened my seatbelt for me and got in. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Your father asked me to take you somewhere safe.”
Safe? My pulse quickened.
He drove quietly for a while before asking, “Are you bored?”
I nodded.
“You can play whatever music you like,” he said. His tone was calm, almost kind — but something about him made my stomach twist.
The car stopped at a red light. When it turned green, he took a left turn — not the route to my house.
My heart thudded. Why this way?
“Don’t worry,” he said, noticing my silence. “I’m taking you out for lunch. You must be hungry.”
Lunch? With a stranger? My fingers gripped my backpack tightly.
When we finally stopped, I looked out the window. A tall, elegant building stood before us. Royal Hotel.
My throat went dry.
He stepped out and opened my door. “Come on.”
Maybe there’s a restaurant inside, I told myself. Maybe he’s telling the truth.
I followed him slowly. Inside, the air smelled of perfume and money. We stepped into an elevator, and he pressed a button. My heart beat faster as the numbers climbed.
When the doors opened, we walked down a quiet hallway. He stopped at a door, took out a card, and unlocked it.
He walked in — I didn’t move.
He turned back. “Come in.”
I shook my head. “No.”
He laughed softly. “Don’t be scared. We just need to change.”
We?
Before I could speak, he gently took my hand and pulled me inside.
My body froze. He walked to the wardrobe, took out a bag, and handed it to me. “Go to the bathroom and change. I’ll change here.”
I nodded slowly, clutching the bag, and hurried to the bathroom. I locked the door instantly, my heart racing.
His laughter echoed through the door — deep and unsettling.
The bathroom was bigger than my entire bedroom. I opened the bag and pulled out a long black dress. It was beautiful — soft fabric, long sleeves — but the back was completely open.
I stared at it in the mirror, my voice trembling. “Why would he bring this?”
The scars on my back would show.
Didn’t Dad tell him about them? Of course not. Why would he?
I pressed the fabric to my chest, whispering, “This is wrong.”
Something inside me screamed to run
- Writer
