Page 116 of Eternal

AZRA

“Exit Music” by Radiohead

Past

“ H appy Valentine’s Day .”

That’s all I heard, all day long.

Valentine’s Day. The girls were all pretty, in pink or red.

They were smiling, hugging their friends or boyfriends.

It wasn’t just Valentine’s Day, it was also my little brother’s birthday today.

I wish I could visit and see what his grave looks like.

But instead, I’m here for Valentine’s Day.

With happy and beautiful people around.

I wish I was like that.

I felt ugly.

My hair was dry and crunchy, frizzed out and breaking from the wrong shampoo.

My curls needed care. But nobody cared.

When I was little, she used to twist them up with oil and call me beautiful. That stopped when she started drinking in the mornings. After that, it was just knots.

Now they hang on my head like dead wires around my face. My scalp hurts. The comb they give us in the house doesn’t even go through half an inch before it snaps.

So, I keep doing these braids hoping it will help.

I’m hungry too.

I hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. There wasn’t much. Christian said I was taking more than my share again. “A girl like you should be shrinking, not eating.”

Guess I’m doing a good job, then.

My jeans barely stay on. My hoodie is big enough to cover my wrists, the bruises, the pain. I wrap my arms tight around my body and try not to move.

Movement makes the hunger louder.

I’d taken half a pill from the bathroom cabinet once again.

Sometimes I feel like he and her both know I take them. It might be a sick new game for them. Not like they’d be mad when they force me to take them to abuse my body while I’m out of here.

I don’t know what it was to be honest. I didn't care. The silence it gave me was enough.

The cold and quiet part of the school, near the dumpsters, that’s where I sit now.

No one goes there. No classmates to avoid, no teachers pretending not to notice.

And in my pocket, I had my old MP3 player. Silver, scuffed, and barely hanging on. One side of the earbuds cuts in and out.

If I move too fast, the music stutters or freezes.

I stole it from a thrift store two towns over.

I could’ve bought it with the money I stole from a woman’s purse on the train. But I was putting that money aside. Plus, she never even looked back.

I keep the cash I take hidden inside an old tampon box under my bed.

Christian and his stupid wife never check those.

I’m saving it. Bit by bit. For a bike.

Not a new one, just one that works.

I’ve wanted one since I was a kid seeing Vik’s dad and Alexei take theirs. When I thought Mama would get me one. Before I understood that wanting things never made them real.

The files on it are old and half-corrupted, but they play. They were already loaded when I took it. Radiohead . Mostly older stuff.

I listen to it on repeat. Over and over.

I used to tell people my mom loved them. Like it made my taste more legitimate.

But she loved a lot of things.

Booze. Needles. Men who left her when she was having her crises. Things that eat you alive.

So maybe loving anything too hard is just a slow way to die.

I’m tracing a crack in the sidewalk with my eyes when someone walks up and I tense. Ready to lie or run.

“You always sit here?”

I look up. And it’s a boy from math class.

I forgot his name. I remember his hands more than his face. He drops his pencil a lot in front of me.

He has soft eyes. Green, and kind.

Alexei had green eyes too. His stopped being kind when he left.

He took Eren and disappeared when my mom started killing herself slowly.

Left me with her, like I was supposed to be the one to fix her. I was a baby taking care of an adult.

Already learning how to hide the pills, cover the bruises, pour water into empty bottles so she wouldn’t notice.

He only came back when she was sober enough to look like a normal person again.

I never forgave him for leaving me behind to raise the woman who was supposed to raise me. I missed him a lot, still do. I wanted him to be there, to see me grow, to be proud of me.

But I understood pretty quickly… he didn’t want that as much as I did.

And yeah, I never forgave him.

Still… I remember his eyes. They were warm, like Vik’s, like the eyes that are fixed on me right now.

In another life, maybe I could’ve had a crush on this boy with soft green eyes.

Maybe I would’ve been a normal girl, not broken, not afraid, just a girl who smiled because someone was kind to her.

In another life.

He’s got paint stains on his backpack and black music notes scribbled on his jeans.

He nods at my pocket. “I’ve seen you with that busted MP3 player before.”

My heart skips from fear. I don’t know but I say fast, “It’s not mine.”

“I thought I heard Radiohead once. They’re good. Some of the sad stuff… hits harder than it should.”

I say nothing for a few seconds. “My mom liked them,” I finally replied.

He smiles a little. “Then she had good taste.”

I almost say thank you. But I don’t.

No, she didn’t.

She loved things that ruined her. Loving anything too hard gets you dead.

I look away, trying to scare him so he can leave. It’s safer like that. No one leaves if there’s no one around to begin with.

He sits next to me anyway, pulls something out of his backpack. A scratched MP3 player, wrapped in a folded paper towel, my name’s there, scrawled in pen across the front.

Azra . On the back: From Leo

“I recorded a few tracks. Stuff I made. Thought you might like it.” He shrugs, trying not to look nervous. “You look like someone who really hears music. Not just listens to it.”

Something tightens in my chest.

I want to cry, I want to thank him, I want to throw it in the trash before hope finds a way in and eats me alive. “Don’t give me things,” I say.

“Why not?”

“They get taken away.”

I get up. Fast .

He says nothing, he simply watches me leave.

But later that night, I found it in my bag anyway.

Back at the house, in the kitchen, pretending I’m not shaking. Christian’s on the couch, drinking already.

I pull my notebook out. The old MP3 player hits the ground, wrapped in a paper scrap, my name on it, and a little heart.

Panic explodes in my chest. I snatch it and shove it into my hoodie pocket, but he’s already standing.

“What the hell was that?”

“ Nothing .”

He’s in front of me before I can breathe, rips it from my hand, reads the name, sees the heart…

He’s going to kill me...

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s just some kid. I didn’t ask for it?—”

He scrolls through the songs on the player, stops, and presses play.

A soft guitar starts up, then a boy’s voice

He stops it. Cold .

“Are you trying to be some kind of tease?” he screams. “You dressing like that? Letting boys write you fucking love songs?”

“ No ! I didn’t… I didn’t say yes to anything…”

“You didn’t say no either, did you?” The slap comes fast. “You think you’re special?” he hissed. “You think some boy wants you, you dirty little thing? You’ve got bones sticking out of your skin. There’s not even enough of you to fuck.”

I said no to you but it never stopped you…

“I’m not— I didn’t ?—”

I promise I didn’t.

He grabs my hair and yanks me down. “Don’t cry now,” he spits. “You wanna open your legs for boys at school? I’ll show you what that gets you.”

“ Please . Please not again.”

But it’s too late. The fists land, the floor comes fast. And she… she is watching from the stairs like it isn’t new. I’m the only child left here. I was the only one who stayed since my arrival. Some came, stayed for a few days before getting back somewhere else. But I stayed.

“You’re ugly anyway,” he hisses. “Ain’t even enough meat to hold onto. Those eyes freak me out.”

Another hit. My stomach. My ribs.

I just curl in, small.

He walks away eventually. Says I make him sick.

I make me sick too…

I don’t move, the player lies cracked in the corner. I'm staying here, for hours, maybe.

The bruises swell, the ache sets in. I stayed home for weeks after that, maybe longer, time turns to mush.

There’s no music, no sunlight, no stars. Never stars.

No Radiohead.

Only the sound of my own voice, when I cry into my sweatshirt so he doesn’t hear. So, she doesn’t scream.

No more kindness. No more dreaming of a bike.

Maybe he’s right, maybe I am like my mom, and maybe that means I deserve it.

I never see the boy again.

Never heard what was on that player, never even asked.

Because hope is bad, and music is hope.

So, I bury it .

I bury me .