Inescapable Escapism

Panic flared to life in my heart. The cruelty in my mom’s voice was too familiar. It was the tone she usually used when she spoke to me or about me. I should have been used to it, expected it even, but I wasn’t. She’d been so kind to me before; thoughtful and protective. It had taken me by surprise, and I should have known that brief moment of kindness and humanity was just a short-lived fluke, but I didn’t want to.

Part of me didn’t, at least. There was a tiny spark of hope in my chest, a burning flare that wondered if it was real and the way she’d just spoken was nothing more than an act. Maybe she was trying to cover for me again, to give me an excuse to stay upstairs and not have to be around my grandmother.

I knew that wasn’t the case, though. It broke my heart, but I was far too aware of it. My mom wouldn’t change so drastically and so quickly. If it ever did happen, if she was capable of changing, it wouldn’t happen like that. It would be slow, gradual. But I wasn’t sure if it was even possible. She’d always acted pretty much the same way. There were a few moments where she’d been nicer, more lenient towards me and less malicious, but it never lasted for long.

My eyes found the piles of clothing on my floor, and my breathing caught in my throat. I’d told Mom I’d finished packing earlier. When she offered me the excuse of needing to pack, I said I was already done. She knew I wasn’t. She’d seen the state of my room before we went out for lunch and to get the flowers, so she must have known it was a lie. Mom hadn’t said anything at the time, but that didn’t mean anything.

If she thought I’d just been sitting upstairs on my phone or something the entire time I was meant to be packing, she’d be furious. Would she believe that I’d just spent the whole time on social media or one of the language apps, or would she suspect something else?

She’d search my phone. My heart pounded as I slipped off my bed and dropped onto the floor next to my suitcase, staring down at my phone. The messages from Phoebe were bad. She’d called my mom an asshole, and I hadn’t defended her. If anything, it looked kind of like I’d agreed with her, and the texts from Duncan…

I paused, glancing at the door and straining my ears to try and work out how far away Mom was, before looking back at the messages. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to delete them, but I had to.

If she knew what was going on, if she knew we’d been flirting or that I’d complained about her to Phoebe, it would be bad. No messages would look bad too, I knew that, but I could lie and say I’ve mostly been messaging Phoebe using a different app. We did use other ones sometimes, so that was fine.

Sadness squeezed my heart as I swiped across on the messages and deleted them before tucking my phone into my pocket. It was fine. They still happened. Duncan and I had still been flirting, and we were still planning to meet up. Just because the texts weren’t there anymore didn’t mean it never happened.

I tried to reassure myself of that, to tell myself that it was fine, but it didn’t make things any easier. That didn’t matter, though. I had more pressing things to worry about. My suitcase was still pretty much empty, and that had to change. Fast.

Grabbing items at random, I began folding them as quickly as I could. It was frustrating, but if my bag was too messy, it would be obvious that I’d done it in a rush, and that would be suspicious. But I had practice. I’d packed quickly before. Many times, actually. That was what happened most of the time. I was always in a rush and left things to the last minute too often. It was a terrible habit, but it came in handy.

I’d managed to stuff a surprisingly large amount into the suitcase before I heard my mom reach the top of the stairs, her steps slow and deliberate. Was it intentional? Was she moving slowly to elongate the length of time that she was away from my grandmother, or was I just putting too much thought into it? I wasn’t sure, but I forced myself to push the question from my mind as I reached for the next item.

My fingers brushed against a hoodie, and I stared at it blankly as a realisation washed over me. I was being so stupid. I’d just been grabbing whatever item was on the top of the pile, but that was the wrong way to do it. I needed to make it look like I’d made a lot more progress than I had, and I should have been focusing on the bigger items. They took up the most space.

I still had some time, though. Moving as quickly as I could, I folded the hoodie and pressed it into the bag before reaching for a cardigan and then a dress. The footsteps were drawing ever closer to my room, but I forced myself to ignore them and keep moving.

It was working. It actually seemed to be working. The mammoth pile of clothing around me was shrinking, and I’d already filled almost half of my suitcase. Maybe I’d be able to avoid Mom’s wrath. Perhaps she wouldn’t even search my phone, and I deleted the text for nothing.

Well, not for nothing. She’d want to go through my messages at some point. I was just prepared, and that had to be a good thing. It would mean I wasn’t caught off-guard. That I was ready.

The footsteps neared my room, and I forced myself to slow down. It had to look normal. I needed to appear as though I was just packing, moving slowly and taking my time. My heart pounded, and my body screamed at me to keep racing, to grab handfuls of t-shirts and leggings and shove them into my other bag before my mom had a chance to throw the door open. It was hard, but I managed to avoid that urge.

Watching out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door handle begin to turn and took a deep breath. But nothing happened. It didn’t open or move any further. I paused, staring at it in confusion as I tried to work out what she was doing. It twisted the other way, and I barely had a chance to react before a loud knock sounded.

My mouth fell open slightly. She never usually knocked on my door. I could probably count the number of times it had happened on one hand. Normally, she just threw the door open, hoping to catch me in the middle of doing something I shouldn’t have been doing, like smoking or doing drugs. She always seemed a little disappointed when I wasn’t.

I wasn’t sure how to react. I needed to say something, to tell her she could enter. If I took too long, she’d get annoyed, and that would be bad. Quickly, I glanced down at the jumper I was holding, starting to fold it again as I called out to her.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and I glanced up at my mom. Concern started to pull at me as I fought the urge to stare. She looked different. Barely any time had passed since I’d seen her last, probably less than an hour, but somehow, she seemed as though she’d aged a decade. She looked exhausted, so weary, and guilt began to build in my stomach.

What had happened? Was it just the result of being downstairs with her mom that had made her look so drained? I understood that. Sometimes, when my mom was being particularly bad, I felt exhausted after spending time around her, but I didn’t think I ever looked quite so…

A weak smile appeared on my mom’s face, and her gaze focused on me for a moment before scanning the room, taking in the piles of clothing and half-filled suitcase. She didn’t look annoyed, I realised as her eyes landed on me again. She should have been irritated or angry or something, but she was still smiling.

It felt wrong. Something was wrong. The hairs on my arms began to stand on end as suspicion filled my mind. What if the reason Mom looked different was because she was? Maybe it was a different person, a different Mom? Was I in the right world? It was similar, so similar to my regular world. The bedroom was the same, I was pretty sure we were both wearing the same outfits we’d been wearing earlier, and I hadn’t noticed any real differences, but it would explain some things.

That could be why Mom looked so old all of a sudden. Maybe it wasn’t her parents who’d caused it. Perhaps she was just older. Or maybe she struggled with insomnia in that world. Her parents could have spent our entire time in Scotland in the house with us, too stubborn to be driven out by the daughter they never wanted. That would explain it.

I hadn’t even considered I might be in the wrong world before then. I’d just assumed that I’d been pulled back to my regular reality, but I needed to check. That was the only way I’d know for sure, but I’d never really done that before. I didn’t know how to make sure it was mine.

Placing the now-folded jumper in my suitcase, I sent my mom a polite smile before reaching towards another piece of clothing and letting my attention fade away. Dizziness immediately tugged at me, trying to drag me back into the world where I walked across a field with Rodgers, but I couldn’t let it. That wasn’t what I was looking for, and although I really wanted to see the rest of the Academy, I couldn’t. It would have to wait.

There were so many dizzinesses in my mind. Some were familiar; they called out to me, trying to tempt me into their spinning embraces, but I moved past them, ignoring their invitation. It was like I was wading through deep mud, surrounded by swirling whirlpools of a million other worlds. Each wanted to pull me in, to drag me down into their depths. The strength varied, as did the feel.

I’d never really considered that before. Every world had a different sensation, an ever so slightly different type of dizziness. Some were sharp. They made my head spin and feel as though it was being crushed, but others were… lower. My stomach dropped as I passed a world before being catapulted into my throat as my vision blurred. The sensation was similar to a roller coaster—one filled with sharp turns and unexpected drops.

A few were familiar, though. I recognised them. Mitch’s world, the one with the Academy, and another that crackled with electricity, reminding me of how it felt to pilot a flying ship through a storm cloud. I’d only been in it briefly, just long enough to realise that I was the captain of a floating ship and working to bring down a ring of traffickers before becoming terrified of how mature and scary things were in that world. I hadn’t thought of it since I’d been pulled from the sky, but somehow, I was certain that I’d identified it correctly.

I moved further, my searching becoming slightly more frantic as the churning waters became more spread out. The place I was looking for wasn’t there. I’d know my home when I felt it; I knew that, but I couldn’t find it. None of the worlds were solid enough. They didn’t have the same reassuring weight that my reality did, and that could only mean one thing. I was already there.

“How’s packing going?” my mom asked, pulling me back out of my mind.

Almost overwhelming guilt crashed into me, filling me with shame as I glanced up at her, fighting to keep the grimace off my face. If it were real, if she were real, that meant she actually looked that. I should have been down there with her. She’d said I should go upstairs; she’d given me the excuse, but I shouldn’t have taken it. It was wrong of me. Weak.

I knew how bad it was for her, how cruel her parents could be. I should have stayed down there and helped take some of the burden. When I was there, her mom alternated between insulting her and insulting me. It made it easier for her to deal with, I was pretty sure, and that just made me feel worse.

“It’s okay,” I replied, forcing myself to sound a lot more upbeat than I felt. “Slowly, but I’m just trying to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

There was no real need for me to add that; I just felt like I had to. I needed to explain why I had barely done anything, and the need to fill the silence was too strong.

Mom’s lip curled, but the expression appeared lacklustre. It seemed more of a deliberate but empty reaction rather than because she was feeling any kind of emotion or irritation. An act that she was forcing herself to play.

“At this speed, you won’t be finished in time for us to leave in the morning,” she remarked, but it had none of her usual bite.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. Normally, when she insulted me or made a snide comment, I either ignored it or apologised, but I wasn’t sure which she’d appreciate or expect more.

“I’ll speed up,” I guessed, hesitating before adding, “How’s downstairs been?”

“Fine,” she replied, a hint of sharpness entering her tone.

Indecision and guilt tore at me, making it impossible to remain silent.

“I might come downstairs for a bit.”

Mom just stared at me blankly, and I pressed my lips together as the urge to say something else, to explain myself, rose within me. It wouldn’t help. There was no way I could tell her I wanted to go with her so she wouldn’t be forced to deal with her parents alone. Well, not her parents. Just her mom. I could hear the blaring television from my room, so I assumed my grandfather was probably in the lounge.

“Why would you do that?” Mom demanded. “You still have so much to do up here, and I’m not packing for you again.”

It was so tempting to point out that I couldn’t remember the last time my mom had packed for me when we were leaving my grandparents’ house. She made it sound like it was a regular occurrence, something that happened every year, but it wasn’t. It never really did.

Still, there was a nagging sense of obligation that forced me not to back down. I had to help out; I needed to protect her. She was an adult, and I knew that, but it didn’t feel right to let her shoulder her mom’s apathy and dislike alone. I could deal with it. I was used to it.

“Oh, I just need a drink,” I lied.

Mom’s eyes narrowed, and I knew she’d seen through my words. I wasn’t surprised. It didn’t feel like a particularly convincing lie, and that had been a mistake.

“You should stay up here,” she said, her tone becoming colder as she drew herself up. “I’m not sure why you’d feel the need to come downstairs, but I’m perfectly fine in the kitchen by myself.”

That was also a lie, and I knew it, but there was no way I could point it out. My mom was so defensive whenever it came to her parents, and I felt immediately on edge. I had to be careful, to choose my words well. If I didn’t, it would make her even more angry.

But I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to insist on joining her, to claim that I’d left something in the pool room or double down and maintain that I was parched and needed a drink. The only other option I could think of was to back down and let my mom go back down to her mother alone. She’d be needled and picked at constantly until she became even more exhausted and worn down.

I knew what I was going to do. There was no real debate for me, and that made my guilt so much more intense. My stomach ached, the gnawing pain so sharp that my hand twitched towards it before I could stop myself. Luckily, I managed to avoid actually touching my stomach. I caught myself just in time, pretending to just be smoothing out my dress.

Mom’s eyes followed the moment, and I silently begged anyone who’d listen to let her forget about it. I didn’t want to do another pregnancy test. It was embarrassing enough the first time.

“I know,” I said, looking down at the dress in my hands. “Sorry.”

There was a pause, and I felt my mind racing. Would she accept that, or was she going to keep pushing and start a fight? I needed to apologise again and do better that time. I could be more sincere. That would help.

“It’s fine,” my mom sneered. “I know you’re more… sensitive than I am. Mom and Dad’s remarks can be difficult for you to hear, but they’re only saying it because they love you and want you to be better. They’re from a different generation. That’s how they show their love.”

I wasn’t sure if she was explaining that for my benefit or because she was trying to make herself believe it. Either way, it didn’t matter. I thought it was ridiculous. That wasn’t how people should show that they love someone. No one should have to be insulted and belittled by someone who loved them. They should be supported and encouraged, shouldn’t they?

That was how Dad treated me. He was never mean or cruel to me. He was only ever nice, and he actually told me he loved me. That was how it was meant to be, wasn’t it? It made me feel more loved than any of my grandparents’ actions ever did. I wasn’t sure that they loved me, actually. I hadn’t really done anything to earn it.

Maybe that was why they did it. Perhaps Mom was right; they just wanted me to be better, but I didn’t know how. I wasn’t good enough. I was certain of that. I was lazy and unmotivated and never did any better than average in school. There were so many areas I needed to improve in, but it felt impossible. I wasn’t even sure where to start, and their comments didn’t help. They were never anything I could actually act on, or that would have a long-lasting impact on me. It was always… petty.

“I know,” I repeated, knowing how foolish it would be to say that to my mom.

“Good. You should appreciate that they care enough to want you to be better,” she said firmly.

“I do.”

There was a slight pause, and I could feel my mom’s eyes burning into my face as I continued to pack, pretending not to have noticed her glare.

“Lots of people probably wish they had grandparents like yours to look out for them,” she continued with just as much conviction. “All of my classmates used to say they wished they were as lucky as I am.”

I couldn’t help but glance up at her. It seemed like she actually believed that, but I knew it had to be a lie. There was no way people actually said that to her. If they did, they must have never met my grandparents, much less heard the way they spoke to Mom. Mom’s face gave no indication that she was lying, though. She appeared to earnestly believe her words, and I wracked my brain for a way to respond.

“I’m not surprised.”

My mom continued to watch me, seemingly trying to work out if she needed to continue explaining how wonderful her parents were, before nodding slightly. I let out a silent sigh of relief.

“Okay,” she said. “Mom and Dad want to take us out for dinner tonight. We’re going out in about an hour, so you should start getting ready soon.”

“Oh, where are we going?”

“Just the hotel,” she told me with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Make sure you do something with your hair and put some makeup on, for God’s sake. The bags under your eyes are not healthy. You need to stop eating so much rubbish and staying up so late on your phone!”

I longed to roll my eyes at her. Sleep never really helped the bruises under my eyes, and I generally ate pretty well, I thought. Plus, I’d fallen asleep early the night before, and that had done nothing to make the bags less noticeable, I realised as I glanced across at the mirror.

My eyebrows furrowed. I was already wearing makeup. I vaguely remembered patting concealer under my eyes, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Had it only been that morning, or had the days just blurred into one? So much had happened since then; I’d done so much, and that made time feel more murky.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll wash my face and start getting ready in a minute.”