freedom taste like you

Chapter 12

“What happened?” Emma asked immediately, her voice soft but urgent.

We both sat down on the edge of my bed. I wiped my tears quickly, trying to pull myself together, but my hands were shaking. My throat burned from crying too much.

“I don’t think I can cope, Emma,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I really don’t.”

The memories of Timothy’s words were still sharp, cutting through my chest like tiny blades. Every time I blinked, I could see his eyes — the way they looked at me like I was some kind of criminal.

“Is it Timothy?” she asked, and I felt her hand on my arm. I looked at her briefly, then back down at the wrinkled bedsheet beneath me. My eyes were threatening to betray me again.

“It’s not his fault,” I murmured quickly. “I get him, I—”

“What did he say to you?” she interrupted, her tone firmer now, worried and protective all at once.

I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek. “It doesn’t matter,” I lied softly, forcing a small smile as I brushed the tears from my cheeks.

Emma didn’t smile back. She just stared at me, unimpressed, her arms folded across her chest. “Your smile is so fake,” she said simply.

Her words stunned me. I froze, my fake smile fading away immediately. How could she tell? My father never knew — or maybe he did and just didn’t care. I’d worn that same smile for years like a mask, a shield, and somehow this woman had seen right through it.

“H-how d-did you—” I stuttered, my words fumbling before I gave up completely. My chest felt tight.

“Amber,” she said quietly.

I looked up, meeting her eyes for a second before looking away again.

“Are your parents really dead?”

Her question hit me like a slap. My heart stopped, and I stared at her, wide-eyed. “Y-yes,” I stammered, panic rising. “W-why would you a-ask that?”

“I was only confirming,” she said quickly, her tone softer now. “I’m sorry for asking that.”

Then, without warning, she reached out and pulled me into another hug. I froze at first, but the warmth of her arms slowly melted my tension. I hugged her back, exhaling shakily. Her touch felt safe. Familiar, even.

“It’s okay, Amber,” she murmured into my hair. “I’ll talk to my son. I’ll make sure—”

“No!” I blurted, too fast, too loud. My heart leapt into my throat. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

She pulled back, frowning. “Why not?”

I looked at her helplessly, searching for the right words. I couldn’t tell her the truth — that her son had warned me to stay away from her, that he’d looked at me like I was poison. If she knew that, she’d confront him, and he’d hate me even more. Maybe he’d make her send me away.

So I said nothing. I just sat there, staring, trying to think of something believable.

“Listen, Amber,” Emma said after a pause, her tone steady. “I’m going to have to talk to him, whether you like it or not. He can’t treat you this way. That’s not kind, and it’s not fair.”

“Please—” I started, but she had already stood up.

“Don’t worry,” she said, adjusting her blouse like she was preparing for battle. “He’ll be nice next time. After I get some sense into that thick skull of his.”

She mumbled the last part under her breath and headed for the door.

I watched her leave, my stomach twisting in knots. “Please don’t,” I whispered, but it was too late.

The door clicked shut behind her, and I was alone again.

I fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My heart wouldn’t slow down. Every thought was tangled, messy. I knew what was coming — an argument, tension, more anger. That’s how it always went in my old house. If someone tried to defend me, my father would just get worse.

What if Timothy was the same? What if Emma made things worse by trying to help?

I turned to my side and looked out the window, my reflection faint in the glass. My eyes were red, my cheeks blotchy, and I barely recognized the girl staring back.

“Ugh, this is so frustrating,” I muttered under my breath, burying my face in the pillow.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. My throat was tired from crying, and I didn’t want to cause a scene. So I just lay there, breathing slowly, trying to calm the storm in my chest.

The room smelled faintly of lavender — Emma must’ve sprayed something earlier. It was comforting, in a way. Calmer than the smell of alcohol and cigarettes that used to cling to my father’s clothes.

I turned my head toward the window again. The afternoon light was fading, painting the sky in soft golds and pinks. The world outside looked peaceful, free — everything I wasn’t.

A memory flickered. Me, younger, staring through a different window, praying for someone to come and take me away. Funny how I finally got out, but the fear still followed.

Downstairs, I could hear voices. Emma’s and Timothy’s. Her tone was calm but firm. His was sharper, defensive. I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t need to. I knew what they were about.

My chest tightened. She’s really doing it.

I got up and quietly tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against it.

“—not fair, Timothy,” Emma’s voice carried faintly up the stairs. “She’s been through enough already.”

“I don’t trust her,” Timothy shot back, his voice low but heavy. “You don’t know her, Mum. You just let her walk in here like she’s family.”

“She’s a child, Timothy!” Emma said sharply. “A child who needed help.”

Silence followed for a few seconds, and then his voice came again, softer this time. “You don’t understand.”

I stepped back, heart aching. His words stung. He was right — they didn’t understand me. No one ever did. Not really.

I sat back on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest. “It’s better to be here than with that psycho,” I whispered to myself. The thought should have comforted me, but it didn’t. It just made the emptiness louder.

I rested my head on my knees and tried to breathe. I wanted peace — just one day without fear, without pretending.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled at me. My eyelids grew heavy. I lay down and pulled the blanket over myself, letting the rhythm of their muffled voices fade into the background.

Maybe tomorrow would be different. Maybe Emma’s kindness would somehow fix the cracks in this house — in me.

But deep down, a small, frightened voice whispered:

Kindness never lasts.

I yawned softly and let my eyes close, the last of the light slipping through the curtains. The air was cool, the bed soft — and for the first time in forever, I didn’t fall asleep terrified of footsteps coming down the hall.

Still, even in sleep, my heart didn’t fully rest.

Because I knew that when morning came, something would change.

And change never came easy for me.