Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

11 | False Alarm

DOMINGO
9:35 AM

Dahlia Gray

I snuck back to my house at seven am.

No, that was a lie—Claudia caught me sneaking out of the house at seven am. She was sleeping on the floor—she offered me her bed—and when I was trying to maneuver off the mattress and leave the room without making a creak, the door revealed my location.

Claudia woke up after that.

She had asked me what I was doing, I told her I was going home. She tried to convince me to stay for breakfast, but I declined the moment she finished. She told me she would drive me home—I told her I could walk.

It ended with her giving me the one thing she refused to budge on: her phone number.

It was really simple.

She told me sternly that she felt safer knowing I had a contact I could call immediately, and she felt better knowing I was returning home with it. Though she knew she couldn't change my mind, the only thing she could do was write her number on the palm of my hand.

I walked home after that.

I didn't see Harlow on the way out, and I wasn't sure how I was going to react to seeing him at school tomorrow. I've always seen Harlow as a common enemy—someone who reminded me too much of my father, someone who stole my spot and smoked cigarettes for fun, and someone who swore too much for his own good.

But Harlow brought me here.

I don't know whether to be thankful or afraid.

Now, I'm back in my room. I snuck through the front door with our hidden key, disabled the alarm system, and quietly crawled up the stairs. Everyone was asleep when I came in, and my father's light snoring could be heard from the first floor.

It's been a whole two hours, and I've been wide awake with anxiety building in my chest with each passing moment. I feel a lot better than last night—and I know it's from being able to talk about my situation—but there's a fear lingering in my stomach that's hard to ignore.

Claudia, Presley and Harlow know what happens at home.

They know my situation.

They can tell anyone.

I've always kept quiet about my problems—not even my friends know about it—and I always try to live my life day-by-day. It hurts, holding everything in, and with each secret it weighs me down like an anchor. The moment I told Claudia, I felt like I could float.

But I wasn't thinking with my head.

I was thinking with my heart, and all the emotions that were dwelling in my chest made my thought process fuzzy and indistinguishable. I wasn't thinking about the future, I was just thinking of how I was feeling.

I'm not supposed to do that.

I'm panicking in my bedroom, scared for what's going to happen next. I'm afraid the police would show up and apprehend my father, or they don't—and I'd have a hell of a price to pay. I'm afraid of the backlash I could receive, from my father, from my neighbors, even from my friends.

I'm so scared that my life might flip upside down, and I'm waiting for it like a ticking bomb.

A knock on the door snaps me back to the ground, and I turn my head just to see the lock jingling. A few seconds pass before the knob turns, revealing my father behind the wood.

I had locked it.

He holds a small cupcake box in his hands, his eyes scanning my bedroom with a quick glance before he finds me in the middle of the room, pacing, and greets me with a smile.