I was six years old when the bruises began to fade—at least the ones we could see. The ones inside, the ones that made my chest feel heavy every time a door slammed or someone raised their voice, stayed.
Mama and I had moved again. Another town. Another set of keys. Another front door to memorize the creaks of. We left without goodbyes, just the hush of escape clinging to our clothes. Mama didn't say much, but I saw it in her eyes—the terror she was trying to smother.
Our new apartment was cramped and smelled like mildew. The kitchen tiles were chipped and the light in the hallway flickered every few seconds like it couldn't make up its mind. But it was ours. And more importantly, it wasn't his. Not yet.
There were no knocks in the night. No shouting from across the street. No red car idling with the engine running too long. There was no glass shattering, no muffled screams through thin walls. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was stillness. Not peace—but quiet. And that was enough.
I clung to that silence like it was air.
My teddy bear, Lala, still missing one ear from the night we fled, became my anchor. She sat beside me on the mattress every night, tucked into the crook of my arm. When Mama couldn't hold me because her bones ached or her eyes couldn't stop blinking back the fear, Lala did.
I started school again. New uniforms, new faces, a new teacher who didn't ask why I flinched when she raised her voice. I tried to be invisible. I kept my head down, colored inside the lines, raised my hand only when I was sure.
Sometimes I'd hear Lisa's voice on the phone. Her laugh reminded me that there was a world outside my fear. She told me about the school play, how her baby brother smeared peanut butter on the dog, how she missed me. I missed her too, but the words never made it past my lips.
Mama worked long shifts at a clinic nearby. She cleaned offices and changed bed sheets and folded scrubs. She came home with swollen feet and red eyes, but she kissed my forehead every night. "We're safe now," she'd whisper. "It's over."
But I knew better. Monsters don't die when you run. They get hungry.
Then came the first note.
Taped to our door. Just two words: *"Found you."*
No name. No handwriting we could trace. Just that.
I didn't show Mama at first. I folded it and shoved it beneath my mattress. But the next day, there was another. This time, slipped inside my backpack at school. *"You can't hide."*
That night, Mama checked the locks over and over again. She moved furniture in front of the door, held a kitchen knife in her hand as she sat up while I pretended to sleep.
I wasn't pretending.
We'd found silence.
But we never found safety.
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