Inescapable Escapism

I stared at the door to my mom’s room, anxiety thrumming within me. There was someone in her room. That was the only explanation. Noise had come from there, so there had to be someone in there. She could have left the window open, though. Maybe a bird had gotten in or something.

Or maybe it was my mom. Maybe she was in her room, and that was the noise I had heard. That would have made sense, but she wasn’t normally in her room at that time. She was usually downstairs in the lounge or kitchen. There was no reason for her not to be there, which meant it was probably someone else.

Maybe they’d been in my room, searching it, and then they heard me finishing in the shower. They panicked, knowing that I’d go into my room afterwards, so they ran for the nearest other room. They were probably hoping that it was an empty room, one that was barely used, and then they could hide in there until we fell asleep, and they’d be able to escape. Or attack.

But it wasn’t. My mom used that room. She slept in there. They wouldn’t be able to hide in there uninterrupted; she’d go in at some point in the evening. If she wasn’t already in there.

Panic shot through me. What if she was in there the whole time? What if my mom had been relaxing in her room, not paying attention to anything, and then someone rushed in and attacked her? I didn’t want that. She wasn’t the best mom in the world. I knew that, but I didn’t want her to get hurt.

It might be too late. That thought made me take a step towards the door before stopping again. I was being stupid, being foolish, and I was aware, but I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t still my racing and panic-filled mind. I needed to check on my mom. I had to know that she was okay.

But what if the person who broke into the house was in there with her? What if they had a weapon, and they were holding her hostage? Then what? They might have a gun. They weren’t legal in England, not easy to get a hold of, but Hannah had said it was possible. She’d told us about it in class. If someone knew where to look, if they knew the right people, they could source anything they wanted.

I tried to push that panicked thought aside. It probably wasn’t that. It was most likely just my mom, nothing more, but she might have heard something. She could have heard whoever had been in my room. Then, we could go downstairs together and check the cameras. That would be better. Staying together felt safer.

But if she didn’t hear anything, I’d need to convince her to believe me. That might be hard. She’d doubt me immediately; she always did, but she might still go along with it. She’d either mock me, accuse me of being stupid or something for losing my hairbrush, or she’d want to call the police. She’d enjoy the attention she’d get from it. The sympathy everyone would give her for having someone break into the house whilst she was there. She’d play it up, show everyone how strong she was being and endlessly talk about it.

That would work. If my mom refused to let me call the police, I could use that. I could try to subtly hint to my mom that everyone would be so worried about her when they heard about what happened, and that could make her want to call them.

But that was assuming that my mom was okay, and she might not be. If she had heard noises, if she’d heard someone searching my room, she would have come out. She would have assumed that it was me and wanted to know what I was doing or trying to hide, and that wouldn’t have gone well. They would have attacked her.

I started to pad towards my mom’s door again, keeping my steps as quiet as possible. The soft noise of my bare feet against the floor was drowned out by my heart pounding in my ears. I wished it would stop or be quieter. It was making it so much harder for me to hear anything else.

Holding my breath, I strained my ears to pick up anything, any hint or clue as to what was happening in my mom’s room. It felt wrong to be listening in, but I had to know. I had to know if it was just her or if someone else was in there with her. Or without her. There was nothing, though. I couldn’t hear anything.

My arm stretched out, reaching for the door handle before stopping. I knew that, if there was someone in there, the best thing to do would be to throw the door open. I’d have the element of surprise, and I could work out what was going on and attack before they could recover, but at the same time, if it was just my mom…

A shiver slipped through me. If my mom was in the room, and she hadn’t heard anything and wasn’t being held hostage, she would be furious at me. More than furious. It wasn’t that I was scared of her or anything. I knew she probably wasn’t going to hurt me or anything, but I didn’t like it when she was angry. It happened a lot, and I hated it. I wouldn’t be able to hide from it either. Normally, I did, but I wouldn’t be able to if I threw the door open.

That meant I needed to be smart about it. I had to knock, so I needed to be more prepared for what was going to happen. More prepared than anyone on the other side of the door would expect. I had to be ready for the fight.

It was a horrible plan, and I knew it. Part of me was hoping that my mom would be in there and that everything would be fine, but if it wasn’t, I knew I was most likely not going to do well. That was fine, though. It was better than the alternative of throwing the door open without warning and my mom being angry. Then, she’d never let me call the police. She wouldn’t believe me about my hairbrush or someone breaking in, and she’d probably make me do another drug test.

Glancing over my shoulder and scanning the hall to make sure no one was trying to sneak up on me, I took another deep breath before slipping my phone into my pocket. I hadn’t intentionally grabbed the single pair of leggings that I owned with pockets, but I was glad I was wearing them. It meant I could have both hands free, just in case.

Panic flared within me again. I might have to fight, I realised. I wasn’t a particularly good fighter, not in my usual world, at least. I assumed, anyway. I’d never been in a fight there, not since having a few karate lessons when I was younger. No one had ever tried to fight me properly, and there was no way I’d pick one with anyone.

But maybe my experience in the other worlds would help. In my other world, the spy world, I’d not had many lessons, but I’d done more hand-to-hand combat training. But it wasn’t just that world that I’d been taught in. There were others too. Like Mitch’s world. I vaguely remembered learning some stuff there. He’d walked me through some of the basics. So had Oscar. I wasn't sure when that had happened, but it had.

Hope shot through me, the feeling so strong that it drowned out my panic for just a moment. I was pretty sure it hadn’t happened when we were in Crete, which meant that it had happened since, and that had to mean that Mitch was okay. That he wasn’t dying, and we were just hiding out somewhere until the trouble blew over and the Sterlings stopped looking for them quite so much.

Unless it didn’t. Maybe those memories had come from another version of Mitch’s world. I’d been to another world with him before, after all. The first one I’d gone to briefly was different. He’d been older there. I’d been with him for longer. Maybe that’s what I was remembering. My experiences with him in that world.

Longing gripped me. I could go here. I could go to that other world with him where he was most likely alive, and I could see him again. That would be good. I wouldn’t need to think about the fact that I’d gotten him shot. I could just see him again.

My heart ached. I wanted to do that so badly that it physically hurt, but I knew I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the same. I knew that. That Mitch wasn’t my Mitch. Well, he was, but not really. One version of me knew him, but not me. The thought simultaneously made sense and confused me. It was him but not him, just like it was me but not really me.

Seeing that Mitch would just make me feel more guilty about what happened to mine, and I wouldn’t be able to cope. But then I knew there was a simple solution to it. I could just go back to my world with Mitch and see him again. Maybe that was where my memories were coming from, and he’d recovered completely and didn’t hate me at all.

Anxiety and dread settled like a rock in my stomach, making me nauseous. If I was wrong, if I went back there, and he wasn’t okay, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live with the knowledge that I’d killed one of the only people to actually care about me and want to spend time with me. Uncertainty was better. It had to be better.

I sucked in another deep breath, squeezed my hands into fists to stop them from shaking and to prepare myself, before knocking on the door with my left hand. I needed to keep my right hand free in case someone else pulled the door open and tried to attack me. It was the better hand. It could punch harder.

The noise was too loud and jarring in the otherwise silent house, but I listened carefully, waiting to hear if any movement came from the other side of the door. My body was tense, prepared for the inevitable attack, but none came.

“Come in,” my mom’s voice called after a few seconds.

It sounded normal. She didn’t sound scared or like she was being forced to call out to me. That had to be a good thing. It had to mean that she was alone in her room. Even so, my palms were sweaty as I reached for the door handle and opened the door.

My eyes scanned the room, still expecting to see my mom tied up or beaten, but I didn’t. She was sitting on her bed, leaning back against the headboard with a book in her hands. She didn’t even look up at me. Trying to be surreptitious, I looked around the room again, searching for signs that something was amiss.

I felt my eyebrows pull together as my gaze landed on the vanity, and confusion washed over me. There, sitting on the top next to my mom’s, was my hairbrush. It was easy to spot, the colour bright and eye-catching. No one had broken into the house and searched my room. It was just my mom.

Relief slammed into me so strongly that I slumped back against the door frame, my knees weak. I almost couldn’t believe it. All that panic, all that fear, and it had just been my mom the whole time. She was the one who took my hairbrush. That made sense. She was probably just looking for an excuse to search my room, not that she used one normally.

She’d questioned me in the car. She’d bombarded me with questions, and I’d thought that she was satisfied with my answers, but obviously, she wasn’t. She probably waited until I got into the pool and then ripped my room apart looking for…

I wasn’t sure exactly, but I knew that she couldn’t have found anything. I didn’t have anything to hide. Not in that world anyway, and she couldn't go to my other worlds, so I was safe.

“Yes?” Mom said finally, glancing up at me expectantly.

“I need my hairbrush,” I replied.

She looked down at her book again.

“It’s on the vanity.”

That was all she said. There was no apology, no explanation or anything. Not that I expected one. Not really. She never apologised to me for anything, but she should have. I knew that. It was wrong for her not to. If I borrowed anything of hers without asking or didn’t put it back afterwards, she’d expect an apology. Even with one, she’d still be annoyed.

For a moment, I wanted to argue. I longed to act just like my mom and demand an apology. To tell her not to borrow my things and that she was rude. I’d been so anxious, so scared, and Mom didn’t even care. She didn’t even bother to look at me. How could she be so thoughtless and ignorant?

Was it even ignorance? I wasn’t sure. I think she knew how I felt, how she made me feel. It was more that she didn’t care. If she did, she would have apologised or said something, anything. But she didn’t.

“Are you done with it?” I asked, my tone betraying how irritated I was and coming out blunt. “I need it.”

I saw her eyebrows shoot up. She was probably as surprised by my tone as I was. I normally hid my anger and irritation from her, scared of how she’d react, but I didn’t care as much anymore. In fact, I kind of wanted her to know.

“Yes. You can take it,” she said, turning the page of her book.

“Great,” I muttered as anger flared even hotter inside me.

I stalked across the room towards the vanity. I couldn’t work out why I was so annoyed by her behaviour. It wasn’t any different from how she normally treated me, but it was getting under my skin more than usual.

“You shouldn’t brush your hair when it’s wet,” my mom said, and I glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn't looking up at me, but there was a slight smile playing on the corner of her lips. “It’s already so fine and damaged. It’ll break easily, and then you’ll have even more flyaways.”

My hand closed around the plastic handle, and I let out a slow breath, trying to ignore the irritation. It wasn’t helping, though. It did nothing to get rid of the painfully strong urge that had gripped me. I longed to throw the hairbrush at her. I knew that violence was never the answer, but it was so tempting.

It probably wouldn't have hit her, I tried to tell myself. I didn’t have that good aim, and the room was big. It would most likely land on the bed or something, and then she’d be angry at me for trying to hit her. But if it did… that would be worse. I’d probably feel better, just for a moment, and then it would all get worse.

Dizziness, sharp and angry, nipped at me, and I let it take me. The room span slightly, settling quickly, as I stared down at the hairbrush in my hand. It wasn’t orange, not anymore. It was blue. I was in a different world. A different place where my mom still treated me horribly.

I could see her. I could see her reflection in the mirror. She wasn't just smiling slightly there; she was fully smirking. The smugness, the joy she was gaining from seeing how much she was infuriating me, made it so much worse, and I couldn’t take it. In one fluid motion, I lifted the brush, whirled around and hurled it into the air.

My mom didn’t even have the chance to react. She didn’t have time to move out of the way or lift her hands to protect her face before the solid plastic slammed into her forehead. The thud seemed to echo around the room.

I froze. Coldness washed over me as blood drained from my face. What did I just do? I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. I didn’t feel anything. There was no satisfaction or joy. Just numb nothingness as I looked at my mom. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t reacted at all. She just stared at me, her expression shocked, as the red mark on her face started to form.

I pulled myself out of that world so quickly that I stumbled, pulling the door shut behind me harder than I intended. My heart was racing, and I lifted one hand to my chest, feeling the beat even through my skin. I stared down at the other hand, my eyes fixed on the orange hairbrush that I was clutching so hard it hurt.

I didn’t throw it. Not in that world, at least. I’d just thought about it. The realisation filled me with such relief that I felt nauseous. I was so unbelievably glad. If I had, if I’d actually done that in real life, not just a fantasy, I wasn’t sure what would happen. It felt like everything would change, though.

My mom would treat me differently. She would be even more suspicious of me, even more demanding. She’d guilt me constantly too. Even more than she already did. Phantom pain flared within me, the touch of a hand on my face. That would happen too. She barely hit me in real life, but it might start if I did it first.

A shudder slipped down my back. It was fine, I tried to reassure myself. It was just a fantasy. It wasn’t real, and it didn’t happen. I was okay. I didn’t need to ever go back into that world. I could just stay away from it, like so many of the other worlds I never wanted to return to. That would be fine.

I closed my bedroom door behind me and crossed the room quickly, falling onto my bed. I was shaking. I hadn’t noticed it before, but a tremble was going through me. And I was freezing. My hair was wet against my back, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t bring myself to move or do anything about it.

All I could do was lie there, cold and shivering, silently whispering reassurances to myself. Nothing had happened. I hadn’t thrown anything at my mom. The house hadn’t been broken into. No one was watching me or following me, and I was fine. Everything was fine. I was just a normal person. An ordinary girl that hardly anyone knew or thought about too much, and that was a good thing.

I needed that. I needed to be normal in one of my worlds, in my reality at least. That was the safest way. I could go to the other places, be anything I wanted there and do anything before returning to reality where I was no one and no one cared about me.

It was a strangely soothing thought. More reassuring than it should have been. It made it easier to ignore my paranoia because I could almost convince myself that I was just being silly. I was. It was nothing. Probably just leftover anxiety from the other worlds where I was actually worth watching and following. That made sense. It wasn’t real. I had nothing to fear in reality.

My eyes started to flutter shut, and I let them. The last of the adrenaline was draining out of me, leaving me exhausted and in need of sleep. I hadn’t had dinner yet, wasn’t even in my pyjamas or under my duvet, but I didn’t care. The allure of sleep was too strong.