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ESCAPE

Pember

Passport, birth certificate, cello. Passport, birth certificate, cello.

Those were the words Pember chanted to himself as he tried to slide the key into the back door.

He’d planned this moment for months, but now the time had finally come, his hands were shaking so uncontrollably they could barely keep hold of the damn key.

Use the back door to avoid the camera. Unplug the alarm the night before. Dress for work to avoid suspicion. And most importantly, change the collection time for the food shopping so Mum goes out an hour earlier.

Get in, get out, avoid confrontation.

Pathetic, really, the lengths he had to go to, and now his treacherous fingers just would not cooperate.

“Come on,” he whispered, gritting his teeth before finally pressing the back door open with a click. He swallowed as it creaked.

There was movement at knee height, followed by one sharp yap that ricocheted up his spine. A damp muzzle pressed into his belly.

“Bailey,” he whispered, driving a hand into his coat pocket to dig out the dog treat that was ready and waiting. The black Labrador licked his hands, and after a moment of coaxing she returned to her bed. She truly was a fickle thing.

Deafening silence fell over the rest of the house, like the halls of some long-abandoned church.

Number 36 Acacia Drive had been his home for the entire twenty-four years of his life, the place where he lived with his sister and parents.

Except now Imogen was dead, same as his dad, and the place he called home had become his prison.

When nothing changed, he stepped further into the kitchen, scanning the room for anything out of place.

Newspaper on the table. Teacup on the drying rack.

Car keys missing from the sideboard. He’d known the keys would be missing because the car wasn’t on the drive, but he sighed with relief all the same.

Normal. Everything looked nice and normal, and not at all like his mother knew he was leaving her.

Slipping off his shoes, he padded across the neatly kept kitchen and into the living room. Reading lamp, off. Crossword half-finished on the sofa. Coat absent from the hook by the front door.

His eyes drifted to the black urn sitting on the corner of the mantelpiece.

“I’m sorry, Immy,” he whispered, biting his lip. “I’m so sorry.”

Pushing a hand through his dark, unruly hair, Pember jerked his gaze away and headed towards the stairs. “Mum?” he called softly, voice cracking as he waited for a reply.

When none came, he swallowed back a grimace and snuck into her bedroom. Bed made. Curtains open. Slippers by the nightstand. Letting out a shaky breath, he carefully drew open the chest of drawers, wincing at how loudly they creaked and the wrongness of rifling through his mother’s private things.

Except, they were his things. His passport, his birth certificate.

Just two items of many she controlled. He’d been damn lucky she hadn’t noticed the missing documents when he snuck out to the lettings agency eight weeks ago.

And that she hadn’t seen him loitering by the door, ready to intercept the post each morning.

He’d slowly removed belongings from his bedroom, reorganising and rearranging things so she wouldn’t notice. She’d made a comment one day, but he’d chalked it up to nesting, and even that had made her nose wrinkle in disgust.

“We don’t do that in this house,” she’d said. And that’d been the end of that.

Paying for two months’ rent on a house he wasn’t living in, especially on his shitty apprentice salary, had been a necessary evil. But it’d still taken a massive chunk of what little savings he had.

Things with his mum had gotten progressively worse over the last year, and it had reached the point that it was now or never.

Finding the passport and birth certificate, he plucked them from the drawer and tiptoed to his bedroom. The house was empty, but the roiling anxiety in his stomach wouldn’t allow him to move with confidence.

Pushing open the door, he glanced around at the bare magnolia walls and plain furniture.

He stupidly checked behind the door, as though his mum might suddenly jump out like the bogeyman.

It was pathetic, really, and the room he’d called his own for a quarter of a century held no trace of him as a child, or a man.

He hated it, hated everything about it, except the massive black hard case that was nestled under his bed. “Time to go,” he whispered, running a hand over the faded leather and sliding it out. He glanced out the window one final time before slowly turning to leave.

“What are you doing?” a voice, sharp as a whip, snapped from the doorway.

Pember spun, almost falling over the instrument. “M-Mum,” he stuttered, taking a step back. She hung over the threshold, her dark, curly hair and green eyes a cold parody of his own. The sleeves of her pink cardigan were rolled up, which was something she never did.

“You were meant to be out,” he continued. “Collecting the shopping. I… I… I thought?—”

“You thought what, Pember? That you’d sneak in whilst my back was turned? That you’d steal from me?”

Pember sniffed. “I’m not stealing. These are mine.”

“They are not yours. Nothing in this house is yours.”

She stepped into his room, making him flinch, which was when her face suddenly softened. “Pembie, baby,” she cooed, reaching towards him. “Haven’t I always cared for you?”

Pember dropped his head, eyes downcast. “Yes, Mum,” he whispered.

“Haven’t I always provided for you?”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t I tried to find you a suitable mate?”

Pember bit his lip, hands balling into fists. When he didn’t answer, his mother snarled and lunged at him, driving a fingernail into his ear. “You ungrateful little bitch!”

“Ah!” he yelped, jolting away as his hands flew out of their own accord.

She let out a surprised cry when his palms made contact with her shoulder, shoving her over and onto his perfectly made bed.

His stomach dropped; it was the first time he’d ever laid hands on her, the first time he’d ever defended himself.

That alone was enough to trigger his flight response as adrenaline flooded his veins and forced his legs to move.

He was breathing hard, almost sprinting down the stairs with the heavy cello case bashing everything in sight.

“Pember!” his mum wailed, voice shrill like a banshee’s.

Bailey was waiting for him by the front door, tail between her legs and back end quivering. She always got like that when his mum turned nasty.

“Sorry, girl,” he said, ushering her out of the way and wrenching the handle.

Locked .

“Shit.”

He ran to the back door, smacking the hard case on the kitchen table and almost losing his grip on it. Putting on his shoes would have to wait, so he scooped them up and slung them under his arm.

“Pember!” his mother screamed again, thundering down the stairs behind him. “Pember, you get back here, right this second!”

He jostled the door handle, half expecting it to be locked too, but it was still open.

Letting out a heavy breath, he was gone.

Done . Had enough of all the hurt, the torment, the manipulation.

There was nothing she could say or do that would change his mind.

So, as he jogged around the side of the house, he pulled out a bunch of keys from his pocket.

His hands were shaking again as he tried to thread the key off the keychain, nearly dropping the bunch onto the gravel driveway.

Bailey was at his side again, pressing into his legs and licking his hands. She must have followed him out. “Go inside, Bee,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. If he’d been an alpha, he might have compelled her to go.

The front door flew open and his mother appeared on the doorstep. Bailey yapped, becoming skittish when Pember’s breath started shaking. He rested a hand on her head, gripping her collar in an attempt to coax her back towards the house. It was more for his sake than hers.

“You treacherous little bastard,” his mother sneered, lurching towards him.

Pember stilled his movements, placing the cello on the ground and letting his arms fall to his sides. Inhaling, he puffed out his chest and said, “Mum, I’m leaving. Please don’t try to stop me.”

She halted abruptly, shouting out a laugh at his words.

It was a sound that never failed to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Are you really?” she spat, taking a few slow steps towards him.

They met in the centre of the drive, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.

“And just where the fuck are you going?”

“I-I’m moving out. On my own.”

She threw her head back and laughed again. “Oh really? You’re an omega, Pember. Just where are you going to go? Who’s going to look after you?”

Pember tipped his chin up and set his jaw, just like Oliver had taught him. “I’m not… I don’t… That’s none of your business,” he said. “I can look after myself.” He surprised himself with the strength in his words, and it almost sounded like he believed them.

She went quiet, then very, very still. The breeze ruffled Pember’s hair, and he thought for one stupid moment that she was going to back down.

It’d been a silly hope, because the next second she roared, throwing herself forwards in a flurry of slaps and scratches.

She smacked his shoulders, arms, head, anything she could lay her hands on.

“M-Mum, don’t. Please don’t,” he stuttered, dropping his face into his shoulder to avoid her long nails. “Mum. Mum, please, I—ouch.”

She swiped his cheek, scratching the skin.

“You’re seriously doing this, Pember? You’re actually doing this to me ?” He ignored her words and began twisting the keyring again. “After everything? After everything ?”