Fighting My Demons

Chapter 1 The Big Fight I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and willing sleep to come, when the booming voices of my parents shattered the silence. The argument was coming from the parlour downstairs. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, pressing myself against the wall to eavesdrop. "Michael, why are you doing this? When will you stop? You've become so addicted." My mother's voice was a razor-edged mix of anger and heartbreak. "I'm sorry. I said I'm sorry!" My father's apology thundered through the house as my mother's footsteps hammered up the stairs toward their bedroom. She reached the master bedroom doorway, turned to give him one withering stare, the kind that could silence a room or end a war, then disappeared inside without another word. A moment later, my father switched off the parlour light, climbed the stairs, and went to bed. I crept back to my room, more confused than ever. The next morning, my alarm clock shrieked like a train horn, tearing me out of sleep. I dragged myself up, said my prayers, swept my room, bathed, and was ready for school in record time. I flew down the stairs, school bag bouncing on my shoulder. "Dad, I'm ready! Just waiting for you." My father appeared at the bottom of the staircase, suitcase in hand. He looked at me with something haunted in his eyes, something close to regret. "I'm sorry, Boma. Your mum will drop you today." I laughed. Classic Dad, always joking around in the mornings. I headed to the dining table to grab his car keys myself, since he was clearly playing games. But the keys weren't there. "Dad, where are your car keys?" He just stared at me. What is wrong with this man? I shook my head and went outside, half-expecting to find the engine already running. But the driveway was empty. The car was gone. "Dad, what happened to the car? We were supposed to use it today." "I'm sorry, Boma. Your mum will drop you today," he repeated, his voice flat and final. He picked up his suitcase. "But at least tell me what happened to it!" My frustration was starting to c***k through. I was going to be late for the first time in months. "It's in the workshop. Needs repair." And with that, he walked out of the house. I stood in the empty hallway, trying to stitch last night's argument together with this morning's mystery. Nothing connected. I only ended up more confused, and certain, with a quiet sinking feeling, that my father was lying. I found my mother in the kitchen, moving with slow deliberate precision, wiping down counters, stacking dishes, straightening things that were already straight. Her face was impenetrable. I said nothing. I simply leaned against the doorframe and watched her. My mother was never a lazy woman. But I had learned over the years that when she moved like this, carefully and quietly, like every action was a decision, she was making up her mind about something. I prayed it wasn't something that involved me eating at home, because my appetite had completely abandoned me. As if God Himself heard me, she packed my lunch into my box without a word, picked up her car keys, and we left. When she pulled into the school parking lot, I waited. Surely she would say something, a word of warning, a hint of what was churning beneath that still surface. Nothing. "I love you, Mom," I offered softly. She didn't even blink. I grabbed my lunch box and stepped out. Her car reversed and disappeared before I had taken three steps. "Hey." I turned. David. "Hey," I replied, managing half a smile, my eyes still trailing the direction my mother had gone. David is my childhood best friend, sharp-eyed, warm-hearted, and almost irritatingly perceptive. "What happened? Your mum dropped you today?" "Nothing. We're fine." "Yeah," he said slowly, studying me. "I can really see how fine you are." "What's that supposed to mean?" He tilted his head. "It's rare for your mum to drop you off. And whenever she does, she always gets out of the car and hugs you before she drives away." He took a small step back and looked at me pointedly. "She did neither of those things today." I blinked. "How did you know that?" He pointed upward, to the third floor of our school building. "I always stand up there. I'm always watching." I stared at him for a moment. "You know what, David? The last thing I need right now is someone watching me like a hawk. I'll see you after school." I didn't attend a single class that day. Instead, I found a quiet corner in the library and sat there from morning until the dismissal bell rang, turning the events of the last twelve hours over and over in my mind like a puzzle missing its most important pieces. The more I tried to make sense of things, the further sense seemed to drift. When the bell finally cut through the silence, I slung my mini bag over my shoulder, grabbed my lunch box, and stood up. I made it exactly three steps out of the library before nearly leaping out of my skin. "AARGH! David! What is wrong with you?!" He materialized from around the corner, completely unbothered, wearing that familiar grin. David is one of the most razor-sharp minds in our class, talented, perceptive, and absolutely insufferably nosy. If you need a mystery solved in senior secondary school, you go to David. The boy is a walking, breathing junior detective, and he has been my best friend since we were children. He is also, I am convinced, going to give me a heart attack before graduation. I pressed my hand against my chest, willing my heartbeat back to a normal rhythm. "Boma." His voice dropped. "You're in serious trouble. The principal came to class today and took attendance himself." He stressed the last word like it was a death sentence. "Himself?" My stomach dropped. "Did you cover for me?" "I tried. But too many students had seen you arrive this morning. I told him you were in the sick bay, but he was going to find out eventually." He looked genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry, Boma." I understood. Our principal was a man who had no tolerance for nonsense, and even less for being lied to. "It's okay," I said quickly. "Besides, I was in school. I was in the library doing research. He'll understand." I arched both eyebrows in a failed attempt to look confident. David stared at me. "He called your mum." The blood drained from my face. "Oh no. That's not just a bomb. That's a bomb inside a volcano." "Yeah." He was smirking now. "Weren't you just boasting about being a model student, Bii?" "David." I grabbed his arm. "Why do you always save the worst news for last? Why?!" "Your mum is in the principal's office right now." "David!" "To be fair—" "Let's go. Now." We sprinted the whole way to the administrative block. I forced myself to stop short just in time; I nearly crashed straight into my mother. She looked at me. I looked at her. "Good afternoon, Mom. You're here." I stretched my mouth into the most unconvincing smile of my life. "Thank you, David," my mother said warmly, turning to him with a smile that could light up a room. "Goodbye." Then she turned back to me. If eyes could kill, I would have been a chalk outline on that marble floor. "Come on, Boma. Let's go home." Her voice alone made my knees weak. I stood there fiddling with my fingers, shrinking by the second. David gets a warm smile and a thank-you. And I get the death stare. Fantastic. My mother took my hand without another word and led me toward the car. Her high-heeled stilettos clicked against the marble floor like a metronome of judgment, sharp, rhythmic, unforgiving. Each click sent a fresh wave of goosebumps crawling up my arms. We reached the car. Still nothing. The silence was unbearable. "Mum," I said carefully, "aren't you going to say something?" She turned and looked at me for a long moment. "How are you?" she asked. "Let's go home." How are you? That's all I got. I couldn't tell if I was forgiven or simply being stored away for later punishment. She started the engine, her sleek sports car roaring to life, and we pulled out of the parking lot. My mother and cars share a love language I have never fully understood. She drives the way she does everything else: with absolute confidence and zero wasted movement. When we arrived home, she moved with unusual urgency, heading straight for her room. Something about it made the back of my neck prickle. I followed her. She crossed directly to the file cabinet beside her bedside, the one that held the family's most important documents and valuables, and began pulling things out. "Don't just stand there, Boma. Get me the suitcase next to the bed." My mother's bedroom is a masterclass in order. Every item in its place, every surface deliberate. Clothes folded and stacked with military precision. Documents filed. Shoes perfectly aligned on their rack. If a single bobby pin went missing, she would know. I retrieved the suitcase and held it out. She began packing; jewellery, documents, more jewellery. She left one item behind, though I couldn't tell whether it was intentional or forgotten. "I'll be back soon, Boma. Stay in the house. Do not go anywhere. Do you hear me?" It wasn't a question. I searched her face for something, worry, anger, sadness, anything, but her expression was a perfect blank. A closed door. I nodded. She left. I wandered back to my own room, freshened up, and reheated my lunch in the microwave. I had barely settled at the dining table when the front door opened and my mother walked back in. "Mum! Welcome back!" I was up instantly, throwing my arms around her the way I always do, the way I've done since I was small, and apparently still haven't outgrown. Even ten minutes without her feels too long. We have always been close like that, more like best friends than mother and daughter. She has always been the first person I tell everything to. But she didn't return the hug this time. She stood still in my arms, and I felt the distance between us more sharply than if she had simply stepped back. I pulled away and looked at her. "Mum. What is going on? Please. I don't understand any of this." Her face remained exactly as it had been, impenetrable, closed, giving nothing away. "It's nothing," she said quietly. "Everything will be fine. Just be a good girl and don't give me anything extra to worry about, okay?" She still wouldn't tell me. "Yes, ma'am," I answered. I was too tired to push any further. The day had wrung me out completely. I carried what little energy I had left back to my room, and let the questions that had no answers wait, at least for tonight.