It was a day similar to the usual, but unfamiliar enough for the difference to be noticeable. It should've followed the pattern, the monotony that kept me grounded in each passing day, the guideline of normality for my wandering feet to follow. The routine that I'd dare say was the criteria for me to feel like I had achieved something that day, that I was like any other person.

But, like all effective deceptions, the abnormal wove itself into the ordinary I had come to expect, and such was the case, that morning. I followed each of the compulsory tasks that made up the beginning of my day, blissfully ignorant of the lies my eyes found with each fleeting glance.

On that day I wore more clothes than needed, to satiate the shiver that persisted, to smother the plume of cold that exhaled down my back each time the wind swept past. I washed my hands thrice more than necessary, to subdue the layer of sweat that coaxed my palms each time they would clamp shut.

My regular dose of various capsules curbed the panic I should have felt about the symptoms, but they did not dare touch the spout of eerie paranoia that plagued me that morning. Which led me to believe it was not something my brain had concocted to berate me, but rather something much more real. It was not anxiety, really. It was suspicion laced with paranoia, a combination so far out of left field for me, that I could not process what the amalgamation of shapes allowed me to feel.

And so minutes bled through to hours whilst I sat in that classroom, as something in my head continued to writhe in distress, long until my thoughts were submerged under the scepticism I had been told to ignore. I didn't listen.

Instead, I attended each minute the school ordained to be sufficient and walked home with the same brisk pace my calves had long grown accustomed to. My mother welcomed me home when my hands found the door, and proceeded to prepare the dinner just as she always had done before.

Even the melodramatic aroma that hung in the air seemed to pester the portion of my brain that demanded I pay attention to the paranoia, but with each inhale, the feeling would dissipate into nothingness. In hindsight, the word 'premonition' can only come to mind, and disgust at myself for not noticing the signs sooner would follow. If only I had listened to the buzzing in my ears, the whispering of my worries. Perhaps it'd be different.

I shouldn't call myself stupid, nor berate myself for something out of my control, but that is all that is left reverberating through my brain as I contemplate the night. The only option left. I can think of every wrong detail, every wrinkle my eyes found, even now. These meandering thoughts only lead through to the hate I offer myself now, knowing that I let rationalism trample the rational, paranoia, I felt as soon as I breached those doors. The simple fact that I paid the voices no heed.

And yet, all my suffocating insight at the time told me that something, somewhere, was wrong. Never where. Mum's face, as sweet as I had ever known it, held more depth than I'd ever care to see, and more worry than I'd ever known before. Even from that one glance into her frigid eyes, I knew she was hiding something from me, even then. But she'd divert the conversation when I had asked about it or about how she was. I should've known then.

'Was it about dad?' I can vaguely recall thinking at the time, trying to find some semblance of an answer, a reason for her face to look the way it did. I favoured the theory, at least without anything to support otherwise.

It wouldn't have surprised me if that was the case, thus explaining the suddenness to jump to that conclusion. From the very night of my inception, the man has tormented his ex-girlfriend, my mother, as often as he could. If it weren't for the restraining order, for the law compelling the man to remain at a hundred feet, he'd have already thrown us in cages just so we couldn't ever leave.

Years of our lives were held hostage by the memories of the man, of the things he had done, and the things he hadn't. He was as quaint as a tumour, ever-growing in our lives, deemed to return when we least expected it.

But I was defective in this scenario, you see. Where I should loathe the man, a small part of me craves his attention, regardless of how it came. Mum, on the other hand, would never silence her hatred for the man. The pure difference in opinion made me feel guilty about not feeling entirely the same. Mum just didn't want to be his possession, not any longer, and I understand that and she understood where I was coming from.

That was the type of person he was. Possessive, dangerously so. I don't know how my Mum had missed the signs, but I suppose she wasn't looking for them. But I guess that he had smothered the inclinations well enough to overlook earlier on.

Regardless of my thoughts, that was the conclusion I reached, but even then, the sheer depth of the fright on her face stumped me. It seemed as though she wasn't present in the room, despite standing just beside me.

Up until we sat down to partake in the food she had prepared, I would trace every move she made, every indication, as a means to explain the expressions she held secret on her face.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I don't know whether it was the paranoia I had already felt that day, but the desperation to find the answer consumed me. It was like being one piece away from solving a captivating puzzle, like it would suddenly make sense of everything I had felt. She held the key to my worries, I thought.

"How was school today?" She asked me tenderly, as she sat herself adjacent to me on the creakiest chair in the house. It shouldn't have spooked me, but at that moment, it felt like the door behind me had loosened some manner of monster inches behind my skull. I hid the jump well, at the very least.

"Mm," I hummed impolitely as I tore into another well-buttered slice of toast, trying to recover my wits. I felt her deadpan lock onto me midway through my bite and begrudgingly continued at her silent insistence, regardless of my heart's jittering, "Alright, still struggling with division."

My stomach unwound as her face softened, and my heart steadied as she scoffed. I chuckled along with her mere moments later, knowing we were both hopeless at the intricacies of mathematics. She had tried to help me once, some time ago, but I lost more marks after the 'help' she gave. Since then, she had routinely insisted I required extra help from my teachers, long until the questions on each of my papers became easier, and the help, more helpful.

But even with the additional support, my skills in that particular area had never improved, not even by a fraction. It was almost as if a higher power had commanded my brain to disillusion at the mere sight of any question prudent enough to contain the forbidden symbol. I had expressed that, literally, to my teachers but even still, they would persist with their supplementary lessons. And their nagging.

I suppose I should be thankful for their help, in hindsight. I was sure the academics didn't need to spend as much time as they did helping me. But what they weren't aware of, however, was that it was blatantly genetical that I'd fail at it. It had been ingrained in my very being. The thought that Mum had the same condition brought me more relief than I'd admit aloud.

Regardless of our disabilities, after the complacent laughter about the subject dwindled from the warm dining room, I found my chance to force her hand. It didn't feel right, at the time, but I needed to know what was happening. My careless hands clamped atop her awaiting hand on the table, as swiftly as I could, and I loosened the question once more.

"Mum, is everything okay?" I asked her pointedly, directly to her whitening facade as her warm hazel pooled into my dull blue. I could almost see her pondering every excuse she could give, if only for a second. At that moment, she was contemplating if I was able to know, old enough to understand. She didn't need to say that, I just knew.

A long sigh left her lips shortly after the stare, while the wayward fingers on her free hand found her temples, "I don't know." As her explanation stopped, and her voice succumbed to a distinctive croak, I scrambled over to her side and rested my head on her shoulder, my meagre arms holding her close. I didn't know how else to help. And so I resorted to what she'd do for me, what she had always done for me.

Her hand found mine, and her digits squeezed my own caringly. And after another stretch of silence, she admitted, "Something just feels, weird. I have like, butterflies -" She alluded to her stomach with her other hand, "In my stomach. And I don't know why. It feels like something is happening."

She slouched further into my body, and I felt the burden of her weight fall onto me, "You wouldn't know the feeling, but before the bombing, there was electricity in the air, like time felt slower for a minute."

I couldn't hope to prevent my eyes from widening, nor my heart that began to pound incessantly in my ribcage, thumping like how a hammer would clobber steel. I whispered back, the horror I felt slithering into the stutter that left my hoarse mouth, "A terror attack?"

As the foreign words left me, my knees trembled and my back itched with bitter sweat. It was a topic I never thought I'd need to mention, or think about, but the sudden acknowledgement of the slight chance that it could happen horrified me. It felt as though it was inevitable, and I was powerless to stop it.

"Lord I hope not," She pulled me closer, seeing the raw fright visible on my pale countenance. Only once a minute had passed in her arms did she reassure me, with a voice far steadier than it should have been, "I'm sure it'll be fine. It's probably just me being silly."

With a sufficiently quick turn of my neck, I looked at her face after she spoke, searching for the support I had long come to expect. The sweet smile I found gave me everything I needed to feel okay, somehow.

It was the same expression she gave each time Dad had kicked down the patchwork doors and after the police had dragged him back to whatever burrow he'd emerged from.

It was the same smile she gave when she swore she was okay, after he'd found his way back into our home once again, and lay waste to everything he had sworn to his God to protect.

The smile had always meant we could relax, that we could feel safe in that moment, that she was confident of that fact. Through everything, every moment we'd dare never to speak of, that smile stood tall in my memory for knowing when something was over. It was my guideline to safety, my alarm for knowing when it was alright to live without fear, for a time.

Just like now, with her wrinkled lips pulled into the same reassuring smile that my brain could only hope to imitate in memory, my body relaxed enough for the worries to stifle. Every ounce of what made me, myself, believed in that conviction. In her smile.

But, this time, she lied.

It wasn't safe, it wasn't okay. But she wouldn't have known that, not a single person in that plane of existence could've ever known, or understood what was to happen that evening. Even I still doubt the fact.

But that memory of that smile still lingers in my forethought, battering every conceivable iota of trust I had for her. It hurt, more so than anything else, more than anything that followed. But I wouldn't ever get to tell her.

How her lie had made me feel.

Because I was gone.