Struggle to Forever: a friends to lovers duet

by Lilliana Anderson

  An alarm we didn’t have 24 hours ago.

  Do they really want me gone that much? My blood goes cold with disbelief as I hitch my bag on my shoulder and get the hell out of there. Soon after, a car from the security company is driving up our street, so I keep walking and keep my head down. I don’t want to risk being arrested right now. I’m pretty sure my parents wouldn’t bother coming to get me if I was.

  For the rest of the day, I walk. There’s nowhere else to go. I can’t visit a friend because they’re all at school, there are no relatives close by—no one who’d give me the time of day, anyway. So, I end up sitting in a park, rocking back and forth on a swing.

  It’s when it finally hits me.

  I’m homeless.

  Four

  Six months earlier

  “What do you mean you can’t trust me?” My mother’s raised voice floats through to the family room. “Haven’t I proven myself enough for you?”

  They’re fighting again. I stiffen in my seat, hugging a couch cushion to my chest as though it will somehow act as a shield.

  “You ruined that trust years ago, Susan!” Dad bellows back.

  Shallowing my breath, I try to keep very quiet. If I try to go upstairs and hide, they’ll see me, and I’ll get dragged into this fight too. I don’t know why she does it. But when she’s angry at Dad, she’s angry at me too.

  Adam and Sophie meet my eyes. “I don’t think they can see you,” my brother whispers. They know it happens, but they don’t try to save me. They don’t try to stop her. No one does. And I can’t really blame them. They’re probably scared of going against her and becoming a target like me. If I was in their situation, I’d probably keep my mouth shut too.

  Trying to ignore the racing of my heart as their yells grow louder, I focus on the television. I can see the characters moving. However, I can’t hear anything besides noise in our home and my short quick breaths.

  When the door bursts open, I stop breathing completely. Adam and Sophie keep their focus on the television, not daring to look my way.

  “You’re an arsehole, Oliver. I'm sick and tired of this,” my mother yells before coming to a stop beside me. I think she actually came looking for me this time. Dad mustn’t be fighting hard enough. “And you,” she says, pointing her finger in my face, her lip curled in a snarl. “You’re no better.”

  “I haven’t done anything. I’ve just been sitting here. I wasn’t even listening,” I ramble, trying to get her to realise how unreasonable she’s being before this gets out of hand. When my mother gets into these moods, her tirades can go on for hours. It doesn’t matter how hard I cry, or plead, or beg for her to stop. She yells until she’s run out of steam, or until she’s satisfied I’m sorry enough. But she’s never really satisfied. It’s like living with a ticking time bomb. Please don’t do this, I beg her internally. Not again.

  Her hand draws back, and my brother and sister take it as their cue to leave the room. Then her hand connects with my face, a loud slap filling the room.

  Tears sting my eyes as heat radiates off my face, but I refuse to cry. For a while, I actually fight back, trying to convince her that I haven’t done anything. That she doesn’t need to keep yelling at me.

  But she doesn’t listen, and I run out of fight.

  Eventually, I have nothing left to do but cry and listen as she tells me every single thing she finds wrong or insulting about me. It’s an endless list because I’m an ungrateful child who can’t stop getting in the way.

  As I look at her twisted, angry face, I can only imagine she hates me. I don’t know why. Although I wish I did. I could fix it if I knew. I could be a better daughter. A better person. I keep trying. But it’s never enough….

  Hours later, her voice grows hoarse. She’s repeated herself at least ten times, I’ve apologised at least a hundred. Her shoulders slump and she touches her head. “You’re grounded,” she says. Then she walks away, and all I feel is cold.

  Five

  “Where were you at school today?” Maddison asks over the phone. “Your note said you were going home to get ready. What happened?”

  I’m sitting on the front step of my house, waiting to see if a member of my family is going to come home. They must be here somewhere. The window I broke earlier is already fixed, so they can’t be far.

  I figure that if I can just make them talk to me, they’ll have to let me back in. I don’t care if they ignore me. I just want somewhere to live until I’m old enough to go to university. I know that if they let me, then I can stay out of their way. I can make it work.

  The thought of having to survive on my own scares the living shit out of me. I don’t want to be a homeless teen. I don’t know how to be a homeless teen.

  “I wasn’t feeling well,” I lie as I keep my eyes focused on the street and watch for some sign of their return.

  She tries to move on with the conversation by telling me about how one of our friends was trying to get the attention of a boy two years ahead of us. I’m only half listening. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

  “Listen, Mads?” I interrupt. “Do you think your mum would let me stay over again tonight?”

  “Um… I doubt it. We were lucky she said yes last night. But I can ask. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing really. I’m just locked out again.”

  “Pay. Something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice.”

  My phone signals a low battery. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll be back soon,” I say, and end the call.

  Diligently, I wait until the sky grows dark over my head, and the street lights turn on. I decide to make another phone call, this time to Ramona. I use the same story I used last night—I forgot my keys, can I stay over since my parents won’t be home until late; Yes, they know I’m here; No, it won’t happen again.

  I use this as the excuse until I run out of friends. Then I go back to the beginning and make up a new one. Each night, I’m afraid they won’t believe me. I don’t know how long I can do this before they start comparing stories. Or worse, saying ‘no’.

  Six

  As time moves on, I spend a lot of it reflecting on my life so far. Looking back, I can’t really think of a time when both of my parents seemed happy to have me around.

  Mum did for a time. But it all stopped when I was old enough to go to school. Since then, I've lived on tenterhooks, a constant source of annoyance. Things my siblings were allowed to do compared to me became a vast divide, a glaring beacon of injustice, a giant sign on the wall that said, "Nobody likes you." Sometimes I wonder if the memories of my mother hugging me are actually a fabrication of my desperate and lonely mind. They feel real but I wonder if I created them after witnessing her care for my siblings and wishing it was me they treated like that.

  My father was no better. Our interactions were practically non-existent. I stayed out of his way because if he complained to my mother about me, I’d be subjected to one of her tirades in his honour. When he did speak to me, it was only when absolutely necessary, and then it was mainly grunts and barked orders. Where is my dry cleaning? Why isn’t the car clean? Why are you here if you aren’t pulling your weight?

  Adam and Sophie didn’t have to pull their weight. They were also sent to fancy city private schools while I was in the public system. I was the only child who seemed a heavy burden on the Larsen family.

  When I questioned the difference in treatment during one of my bolder moments, I was told it was because I didn’t do as well at school or sports. But I’ve never been allowed to do a sport, and I had so many chores it was hard to study. How was I ever going to fix that? They set their standards for me impossibly high.

  No matter what I did, I could never fit in. I mean, I don’t even look like them. I used to think that perhaps I was adopted. I hoped I was living in some real life Cinderella situation. But that was just wishful thinking, I’ve seen photos from when my mum gave birth to me. She and dad were both looking down at a t
iny baby with masses of dark hair.

  They were smiling in that photo too. So they must have loved me once.

  Maybe it’s my personality they don’t like?

  Maybe it’s the way I look? My entire family are fair haired, blue eyed, and fair skinned. My looks are more Mediterranean. I have olive skin, hazel eyes and dark curly hair. Mum reckons my colouring comes from her great-grandfather. So I’m some weird genetic throwback everyone wishes didn’t exist.

  Perhaps that’s why it all started. Perhaps they treated me differently because I don’t look like them. I suppose it was embarrassing when people actually questioned my parentage. My insanely curly hair was always a source of interest.

  With the obvious divide in our house, it was easy for my brother and sister to use me as their scapegoat. They would point their fingers and claim that I was the one who broke the vase, or dropped the mobile phone in the sink full of water. It didn’t matter how much I protested, I was always in the wrong.

  Since I was forever grounded, I’d often get home from school to find the house empty because hey’d all gone to some dinner or family event without me. While it upset me, I eventually got used to it. I learned to revel in the quiet freedom their absence gave me.

  I did try to fit in. I did everything I could to be a part of the family. Once, I even had my hair bleached to try to fit in more. But all that did was earn me a month’s grounding, another trip to the hair dresser and a very short haircut that caused my already curly hair to look like a frizzy ball of darkness surrounding my head.

  I followed the rules, worked as hard as I could at school. I went above and beyond, hoping that somehow, my parents would notice me. That somehow, I could make them love me. A hope that crumpled the day I placed first in my art class.

  I remember feeling worthy. For this fleeting moment, I thought I was finally good enough. On the day I was to receive my award at school, I actually thought my parents would attend the special assembly put on to honour the best students in my grade. When I looked out into the sea of delighted smiling faces, no one was there smiling for me. No one cared enough to be proud along with me.

  After that, I stopped trying. I stopped caring. It didn’t matter if I came first or last. I wasn’t going to get a smile. I wasn’t going to get a kind word. I got what I always got—nothing.

  Seven

  Three months after the note

  In that first two weeks, I tried to maintain a façade of normalcy. I went to school, I stayed with friends, and I sat on the doorstep of my family home, hoping to catch them on their way to or from work and school. I wanted to have them look me in the eye and realise this was just a terrible mistake. Some ridiculous joke gone awry. But it was never a joke. They were never there, and on the last day I visited, a ‘For Sale’ sign had been erected.

  I smashed every window on the ground floor, watching my last shreds of hope shattering before my eyes. Then I ran as fast and as far as I could, needing to escape my pain as much as I needed to run from those sirens. What kind of family kicks their fifteen year old daughter to the street then leaves town?

  It took about a month before the school called me into the office.

  “It’s come to our attention that you might be having some trouble at home,” the principal said, her expression soft and empathetic. I raced through my recent conversations with friends and interactions with their parents. Someone turned me in. “I want you to know that we’re here for you if you need to talk. We can help.”

  I sat with my arms folded across my chest, not trusting myself to speak. I’d either cry, or blab about everything. And then I’d be in shit. The way I saw it, if my parents had gone to that much effort to get rid of me, having me returned to them by social services would just make my life with them even worse. And I didn’t think I could trust myself to fall in line anymore. I was too hurt. Too furious and angry at everyone and everything around me. Someone turned me in. Even my friends couldn’t be trusted.

  “I’ve been trying to contact your parents, Paige. I heard a rumour they moved and you aren’t living with them anymore. Is that true?”

  Angry tears burned like fire behind my eyes.

  “I’m staying with my aunt,” I forced out.

  “OK. I was worried you didn’t have anywhere because you’ve been having a lot of sleepovers.”

  “My aunt lets me.”

  “That’s great.” She smiled. “I just need her number so we can get some details from her. Do you know it?”

  “Not by heart,” I said, my chest getting tight because I knew she wasn’t buying it. “But I can bring it to you tomorrow.”

  She gave me a nod. “I’d really appreciate that. Especially if you can get her to contact me. I’ll be in the office until five.”

  “OK.” I sat forward in my chair. “Can I go?”

  “Yes. But if you need to talk, Paige—about anything—we’re here to help, OK?”

  “Sure.” I forced a smile. Then I walked out of her office and never went back to the school again. In fact, I left the area entirely. There was nothing left for me there.

  The first night I slept outside, was the worst night of my life. Winter was just around the corner and while Sydney isn’t the coldest place in the world, night time without a blanket is fucking freezing. I ended up sleeping in the tunnel section of children's play equipment in a park in Jamisontown.

  Every sound I heard sent my heart racing. I felt that any moment, the wrong kind of person would come along, and do unspeakable things to me. I cursed myself for heading out west. Everyone knew Western Sydney was a dangerous place. But I had travelled there, hoping to, somehow, make my own way—something I wasn’t able to do in the Sutherland Shire.

  When I woke from what little sleep I had managed to get, I thanked my lucky stars. But I was hungry. A feeling that was becoming all too familiar to me. The two hundred dollars my family left me, was practically gone. All I could afford were instant noodles, and maybe a can of baked beans. I visited shopping centres and used their parents rooms for hot water and microwave facilities. I even took a nap in their breastfeeding areas occasionally. But then my money ran out and security started moving me along. I needed another plan.

  With no money in my pocket, I resorted to taking what I needed. Although sometimes, I could order food during a busy period and claim I’d lost my wallet. If I became visibly upset, sometimes someone would either pay for me, or the clerk would tell me not to worry.

  I bathed in cold water from sinks in public bathrooms, and I reduced my clothing to what would fit into a small backpack, so I didn’t look quite so conspicuous walking around with a large sports bag.

  I was getting by. I was surviving. I stole an old sleeping bag from an overflowing charity bin and used it to keep warm at night, my favourite spot that tunnel in the park. There I slept, undisturbed, until one night a group turned up, noisy and possibly intoxicated.

  At first, I was petrified. I held my breath as I listened to them talking and laughing. They sounded like any group of teens hanging out, but with no idea how they’d react to finding a homeless girl, I prayed they wouldn’t find me.

  “Come in the tunnel with me,” a guy said to a giggling girl.

  No. No. No. The sound of a shoe hitting the metal step nearest me set off my alarm bells. I yelped.

  “What the hell?” I could hear the shifting of his feet as he crouched down to peer inside my tunnel.

  “Is someone in there?” the giggling girl asked.

  “I think so. It’s dark though. Chuck us your phone.”

  The phone made a slapping sound as it landed in his hands, and I scrunched my body up tighter, squeezing my eyes shut, wishing it would make me disappear.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  “What if it’s an axe murderer?” the girl asked in a hushed tone.

  “Why would an axe murderer be hiding in a playground? It might be a lost kid or something,” another voice responded.

  I felt trapped and star
ted to make my way out the other side, hoping I could make a run for it. The only way I could go was towards an area that was a makeshift lookout point with one of those pretend telescopes and metal steering wheels. It led to a yellow plastic side, which would be my sole route of escape.

  Moving as quietly as I could, I crab walked toward the slide and placed my hands on the safety bars beside it. Feeling slightly panicked, I leapt off the side with the plan to run until my legs gave out.

  My plans were short lived however because my first step led into the chest of another person. Arms grabbed hold of me. I screamed, thrashing my body to try to make them let me go.

  A hand clamped over my mouth, my eyes opened wide, suddenly terrified that all my worst nightmares were about to come true.

  “Calm down. We’re not going to hurt you,” he told me. It was too dark to properly make out his features, but his voice was calm and kind. I relaxed… slightly.

  As my eyes darted from side to side, the others gathered around to see what was going on.

  “Were you sleeping in there?” the girl asked.

  My eyes moved from her to the guy covering my mouth, and I nodded. “Are you going to scream if I take my hand away?”

  I shook my head ‘no’. I was starting to calm down. They all seemed to be around the same age as me, and I didn’t feel as though I was in danger anymore.

  Slowly, he took his hand away. “No one’s going to hurt you,” he repeated. “We were just here to hang out for a bit.”

  Nodding, I scanned the faces of the group huddled around me. One guy took a drag from what smelled like a joint, and passed it to the person next to him. As he blew out the smoke, he asked, “Did you take a bad trip or something?”

  “No. I just don’t have anywhere else to go.”