Bound - The Primori Academy

The kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and something sour that Elowen couldn't identify. She kept her eyes down as she moved through the narrow space, her footsteps careful and quiet on the peeling linoleum. The trick was to be invisible. The trick was to take up no space at all. "You're up early." Elowen's hand froze halfway to the cabinet. She hadn't heard Linda come in. That was dangerous. Linda moved like a cat when she wanted to—silent, predatory, always watching for mistakes. "I have school," Elowen said quietly. Neutral. No emotion that could be twisted into attitude or disrespect. "School." Linda's voice was flat. She stood in the doorway in her bathrobe, arms crossed, her face already set in the expression Elowen knew too well. Disappointment mixed with contempt. "Right. School." Elowen reached for the bread, moving slowly. No sudden movements. Nothing that could be interpreted as aggressive or entitled. She was allowed one piece of toast in the morning. Two if Linda was in a good mood, which she never was. At five foot four, Elowen had learned to make herself smaller than she already was. Her slight build was deceptive—years of taking care of herself with nobody helping had left her stronger than she looked, the kind of wiry strength that came from carrying your own weight when no one else would. But strength didn't matter here. Here, she needed to be nothing. "You know what your problem is?" Linda didn't wait for an answer. She never did. "You think you're special. Walking around here like you deserve something. Like we owe you." Linda’s voice carried massive jealousy. "I don't think that." Elowen's voice was barely above a whisper. She slid the bread into the toaster, her hands steady even though her stomach was knotting itself into something tight and painful. "Don't talk back to me." Elowen said nothing. That was talking back too, somehow. Everything was talking back when Linda was in this mood. Silence was disrespect. Speaking was disrespect. Existing was disrespect. The toaster hummed. Linda didn't move from the doorway. "You left a light on last night," Linda said. "In the bathroom." Elowen's chest tightened. She hadn't. She was always careful about the lights. Obsessively careful. But it didn't matter. The accusation had been made. "I'm sorry," she said. "You're sorry." Linda's laugh was sharp and humorless. "You know what electricity costs? You know how much extra we pay because you can't be bothered to flip a switch?" "I'll be more careful." "You'll be more careful," Linda repeated, her voice mocking. "You're seventeen years old, Elowen. When are you going to start acting like it? When are you going to stop being such a burden?" The toast popped. Elowen pulled it out, the heat stinging her fingers. She didn't reach for butter. Butter was extra. Butter was for people who contributed. "I do my chores," Elowen said quietly. "I stay out of the way. I—" "You exist," Linda cut her off. "That's the problem. You exist and you cost money and you take up space in my house." *Your house.* Not *our house.* Never *our house.* Elowen had lived here for three years and it had never been anything but *Linda's house.* A place where Elowen was tolerated because the state paid Linda to tolerate her. "I'm grateful," Elowen said. The words tasted like ash. "For everything you do." Linda stared at her for a long moment, her eyes cold and assessing. Then she turned and walked away, her slippers shuffling against the floor. "Don't be late," she called over her shoulder. "I'm not driving you if you miss the bus." Elowen stood alone in the kitchen, her toast growing cold in her hand. She didn't eat it. Her stomach was too tight now, too knotted with the familiar anxiety that lived in her bones. Instead, she wrapped it in a paper towel and slipped it into her backpack. Lunch, maybe. If she got hungry enough. She moved through the rest of her morning routine like a ghost. Shower—three minutes, no more, because water cost money. Dressed in clothes that were clean but worn, jeans with a hole in the knee that she'd tried to sew shut, a sweater that had been donated to the foster system three families ago. In the bathroom mirror, she pulled her long blonde hair back with practiced efficiency. It was thick, naturally that shade—the kind of blonde that had lighter pieces running through it that people always assumed were highlights and weren't. She twisted it into two small buns, tight at the base of her skull. Always like this. It was armor as much as a hairstyle. Loose, it drew too much attention, and attention had never been safe for her. Her reflection stared back at her with vivid blue eyes—the kind of blue that was almost unsettling, that sat in her face like it was making a statement whether she wanted it to or not. Her sun-kissed golden skin looked warm and even, lit from within in a way that seemed wrong for how she felt inside. Full lips, high cheekbones, a jaw defined enough to give her face angles that kept it from being soft. The kind of face that did not do quiet or unremarkable no matter how hard she tried to make it both. She looked away. That face had never done her any favors. The house was quiet as she made her way to the front door. Linda's bedroom door was closed. Frank—Linda's husband, a man who barely acknowledged Elowen's existence—was already at work. The silence should have been peaceful. Instead, it felt oppressive, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Outside, the New Orleans morning was already humid, the air thick and heavy even this early. The sky was overcast, threatening rain. The bus stop was three blocks away through a neighborhood that had seen better days—houses with peeling paint and sagging porches, chain-link fences and overgrown yards. Elowen started walking, her backpack light on her shoulders because she owned almost nothing. Her mind was already somewhere else, already counting down the hours until she could come back to this house and make herself invisible again. One more year. One more year until she aged out of the system and could disappear into whatever life waited for her on the other side. It wouldn't be much of a life. She had no illusions about that. But it would be hers. The bus arrived, its brakes hissing as it pulled to a stop. Elowen climbed on, found a seat in the back, and pressed her forehead against the window. Outside, the city rolled past—shotgun houses and corner stores, palm trees and power lines, everything painted in shades of gray under the overcast sky. She thought about running. Just getting off at the next stop and disappearing into the city, becoming one of the invisible people who lived in the cracks and shadows. She'd thought about it before. She'd even planned it once. But she'd never done it. Because as bad as Linda's house was, the streets were worse. And because some small, stubborn part of her still believed that things could get better. That somewhere, somehow, there was a place where she belonged. She just had to survive long enough to find it.