Page 28

Rachel

It had taken over four hours, but I finally made it. It could have been sooner, but I spent the first two hours absolutely shitting myself that Dante would be following me instead of concentrating on where I was going. The second two hours were making up for the mistakes of the first.

It was further away than I thought, roughly three and a half hours away, but I made it.

I was outside the little slice of suburban heaven.

A modest detached house, with its cute white picket fence, sat atop a flimsy brick wall surrounding the entire property.

The grass was neatly cut by the gardener, who came twice a week.

The windows sparkled under the sun, clean as a whistle.

The car was parked on the road ahead of me, where it always was.

God forbid it went on the driveway and left tyre marks on the stones!

This place had been my own personal prison in hell. This house was an exact copy and paste replica of all the surrounding houses. You could be an individual on the inside, but the outside must be neat, and it must be uniform.

Except no-one was individual on the inside. You were either grey, or you were beige. There was a mild crushed velvet stage, but that disappeared as soon as it arrived.

I took in a deep breath to steady my nerves, and it dawned on me where I was. I knew where I had been headed, but since I had not been back here since it happened, it took a second for it to really register with me.

I was here. Back at the scene of the crime.

Back where everything changed forever. Back where I had left something much worse than tyre marks on the driveway.

I was at my mothers, the sad beige queen.

Her clothes were beige, her furniture was beige, she rocked the same sad, beige hairstyle for decades, and always had her nails painted the same beige. Unless it was a special occasion, then she went a shade darker to “spice things up a bit”.

She had even wrapped my books up as a teenager in some weird beige paper, so that the bookshelves looked more aesthetically pleasing. The colourful designs were an eyesore, she said. Didn’t match the décor.

There was nothing wrong with this life. My mother was a very, very happy woman.

And it genuinely pleased her to have such neatness and order in her home.

Or at least I used to. Nowadays, I think it was the comfort of familiarity that kept her going.

My mother was happy, so long as everyone else thought she was happy. She thrived in this world.

But it wasn’t me.

I wasn’t even allowed the sanctuary of my bedroom to reflect my personality, because, and I quote: “What if the window cleaner looks in and sees? What if he tells ? Don’t be selfish, Rachel.”

I sat on my stolen bike and exhaled heavily. “Don’t be selfish, Rachel,” was a phrase that had been uttered since I had learned to walk and talk.

Doing badly in school? You’re embarrassing us. Don’t be selfish, Rachel.

Struggling to make friends? You need to learn to play nicely. Don’t be selfish, Rachel.

Wanting to eat something that wasn’t on the set weekly menu? Food costs a lot of money, and she spent a lot of time and effort planning and cooking for me and my father. Don’t be selfish, Rachel.

I was always “selfish Rachel”, and things hadn’t changed. My mother had kicked me out and ordered me never to return over a decade ago, and yet here I was, ready to bring my problems into her world and destroy her perfect life.

Selfish Rachel.

No point putting it off any longer, I thought to myself and, with a sigh, climbed off the bike and pushed open the gate to the gardens, practicing my grin as I made my way down the path.

Smile at her. Be friendly. Don’t alert her. You’re not here to cause issues. You want to put the past to rest. You want to make amends. Do not let her think anything is wrong. Smile. Smile like you mean it. Smile like you used to before it all went wrong. Smile like she needs.

My cheeks were beginning to hurt I was smiling so much, and I caught a glance in the window and realised I looked more psychotic than friendly.

I dropped the smile and knocked on the door.

I knew I wouldn’t be waiting long. My mother wasn’t selfish Rebecca.

She didn’t keep visitors lingering at her door.

She answered in a timely manner, and either invited them in or sent them away with a friendly dismissal.

I saw a shadow through the glass in the door, and my breath caught in my throat as it moved closer, bringing forth more colour as it did so, until the shadow was no longer a shadow, and instead the blurred form of my mother.

I heard her unlock the door from the inside, and I almost threw up as she opened it wide – no fear here, not in suburban heaven – a big smile on her face.

“Can I help you—Rachel!” She gasped, stumbling backwards, her eyes as wide as saucers.

There was no turning back now.

“Hi, Mum. Can I come in?”