CHAPTER 1
750 Words
The eviction notice was placed on the wooden door of Avery’s house like a sick kind of decoration. Avery didn’t even bother to take it down. She just stared at it. Stared at it like it wasn’t the fourth one this year. Like it still had the power to surprise her.
It didn’t.
She slid in her spare key into the lock and stepped into her mockery of an apartment, already exhausted. Her body felt like it was being dragged down by something invisible, something eerily heavy. Her backpack barely clung to her back. The strap had snapped a week ago and she’d fixed it with dental floss. Because when you’re broke, creativity is no longer a choice.
The smell hit first; sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely sour. Her dad’s usual scent. He was slumped on the recliner, shirtless, looking dirty as usual, the Tv playing static like it was humming a lullaby for drunks. He looked up as she came in, blinking slowly, like looking at her, hurt his eyes.
“you’re home early”, he slurred.
It was 5:47 pm. She had just closed from her shift at Wendy’s
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t even stare at him for long. Just enough to register that he was breathing and not dead. Barely.
She walked past him, stepping over a knocked-over beer can, ignoring the way the carpet squished under her feet.
Her dad mumbled something behind her as she headed for her room, something like” we’ll be fine, I’ll figure it out. “
He said that every time.
When the light went out. When the fridge was empty. When the landlord would bang relentlessly on their door. AND SHE WAS f*****g EXHAUSTED OF HIS EXCUSES.
She never responded though because what was left to say?
She shut her bedroom door behind her and locked it. The room was dark, but she didn’t turn on the light. She just stood there, gripping the straps of her backpack, until her knuckles hurt. Her jaw clenched, her throat burning. The tears came without permission.
She sank to the floor, legs folding awkwardly beneath her. And then, finally, she cried.
Not the kind of cries you make at a loved one’s funeral, where people pass tissues and whisper soft condolences. Not the kind of cry you let anyone hear.
This one was ugly. Silent. The kind of cry that could make your whole body shake even when you didn’t make a sound.
She buried her face in the sleeve of her hoodie and let It bleed out. The tears were hot against her eyes.
The exhaustion, the pressure, the stupid notice on the door.
Everything.
High school was already hell. But doing it with no money, no mom, a drunk dead-beat dad, two underpaying jobs, and no one to talk to? It was a deeper hell.
People thought high school was hard because of math, or heartbreak, or friend group drama.
Avery’s version was making it to class on two hours of sleep and pretending her stomach wasn’t eating itself during fifth period. Her version was watching everyone laugh like life was light and easy while she kept busy keeping her from falling apart.
No one at school knew her predicament, but the signs were there. Her tattered clothes, her overworn shoes, the quiet way she walked like she was apologizing for simply taking up space, the dark circles under her eyes that no concealer could hide.
But no one asked.
And honestly she didn’t even blame them. She was invisible. The girl teachers forgot to mark present. The girl who sat in the back, turned in every assignment, and left before anyone remembered her name. She blended into the shadows. Into the silence, the only way she knew how to survive because for her it was better to die than to speak.
Avery wiped her face roughly with the sleeve of her hoodie and pulled herself up. Her legs felt like iron bars. Her spine ached. Her chest still hurt, but her tears had dried. She had no one to talk to, no one to hold her, no one to pick her up, no one to say “keep pushing Avery this journey is worth it. “
So, she got ready for tomorrow in silence.
Because there was school.
Because there was homework due.
Because there was NO other choice.
Avery had long since learned that no one was coming to save her.
She was her own rescue plan.
- Writer
