x
The fallout from her mother discovering her truancy was a jumbled mess in Summer's head, like a film with crucial scenes missing, leaving her feeling disconnected and strangely numb. Her thoughts were muffled, her emotions at arm's length, as if observing herself from a distant balcony. She'd retreated to her bedroom, the low hum of her computer fans a fragile shield against the tension simmering through the house. You could almost taste it – a metallic, bitter tang in the air, emanating from the frustrated whispers and clipped silences that drifted up from the kitchen.
Headphones clamped tight, blasting an aggressive electronic beat that pulsed with defiance, Summer dove deep into the world of coding. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, transforming strings of digital code into complex 3D designs for her portfolio. This was her sanctuary, a space where she wielded power. Where she could bend HTML, CSS, and Javascript to her will. This tangible control was strangely soothing, almost meditative – a welcome contrast to the unpredictability of her life, especially within the confines of her slightly-off-kilter home. The clean logic of code, its predictable rules, allowed her to finally breathe.
Honestly, a nuclear bomb could have detonated in the backyard, and Summer, completely submerged in her digital creation, probably wouldn't have even flinched. Her focus was laser-sharp, her attention completely absorbed by the intricate dance of algorithms and digital sculpting. Lost in her meticulously crafted world, she'd occasionally surface when her brain started to feel like overcooked spaghetti, turning to her cinematic comfort food: "Coraline." Her dad had thoughtfully transferred the movie onto an old flash drive when she was nine, and it had become a familiar companion. She remembered the initial unease, the creeping fear of a story about a girl who discovers a hidden world behind a secret door. But over time, it had morphed into a source of immense solace, a portal to a place where imagination reigned supreme. The visuals, the slightly unsettling yet captivating characters, were like a warm, familiar blanket.
Sometimes, Summer saw herself in Coraline, the neglected little girl whose parents were too absorbed in their own lives. She imagined finding that hidden door, escaping into a fantastical realm, even if it came with its own strange quirks and creepy alternate parents. She sometimes wished, maybe even half-believed, that she'd be okay with the sewn-on button eyes if it meant being part of a family, even a bizarre one, that actually noticed her, that showed that they cared. Though, maybe, she could skip the whole "ending up like the other ghost kids" part. That would be ideal.
"Coraline," it turned out, had subtly seeped into Summer's world, painting everything in its deep, melancholic blues. It started with the movie itself, but its influence had slowly saturated her entire being. It was as if the film's aesthetic had become the lens through which she viewed the world. She'd even dyed her hair a vibrant, almost electric blue – a rebellious act that was as much a statement of individuality as anything else. The color was a defiant shout into the universe, a desperate attempt to feel seen. Unsurprisingly, it hadn't gone down well at her ultra-strict, conservative school. She'd spent a miserable afternoon scrubbing at her scalp, trying to remove the semi-permanent dye, her hands raw and stained despite the effort. The sheer hypocrisy of it all wasn't lost on her. Other girls paraded around with neon-pink hair or hair the color of toxic waste, and no one batted an eye, but it was her carefully chosen blue that earned a side-eye from one particularly judgmental history teacher. The same teacher, who, ironically, had fawned over a vapid, giggling cheerleader's shockingly bright yellow hair, a shade that made her look like a walking highlighter.
Ugh, teachers. Seriously. Summer couldn't stand them. They were all perched high atop their ivory towers, acting as if they were dispensing divine wisdom. There was no room for debate, no space for independent thought; their words were absolute law. The whole bureaucratic mess of school was just a pointless, agonizing slog. It was all about knowing the right people, navigating a ridiculous jungle of social hierarchies. It felt like she wasn't learning anything of real value, as if the curriculum was designed to slowly suck the life force out of her. Every day was a battle against overwhelming boredom, her brain constantly screaming for stimulation, a mental escape, anything to avoid the soul-crushing monotony of the classroom.
Summer took a long gulp from her energy drink, the sugary, artificial sweetness offering a much-needed jolt, like a digital shot of adrenaline. Back to the luminous screen, she imported her latest design into Blender, smoothing out the jagged edges, adding depth to shadows, meticulously crafting her virtual world with all the patience and attention she seemed to lack in the real one. In this little digital universe, she wasn't defined by the latest argument she'd had with her mom or by the ever-present unspoken tension thrumming beneath the surface of her household. Here, she could create, she could express herself. Here, she could just be herself, free from the suffocating expectations of others. And that, for now, was everything. It was a temporary escape, a fragile comfort, but it was enough. For now, it was all she had.
The internet, they said, was a dangerous place. School assemblies, those droning pronouncements of doom, hammered home the message: Don't talk to strangers online. It was almost comical, Summer thought. After all, didn't the teachers, the very people warning them, get their jobs by applying online? The irony wasn't lost on her, but beyond the hypocrisy, Summer understood the real dangers lurking in the digital world.
Luckily, she had Lily Chen. Lily wasn't just a friend; she was a digital guardian angel, a coding prodigy who navigated the complexities of the internet with the ease of a seasoned sailor. Summer had learned a lot from Lily – the crucial art of online self-preservation. Lily had shown her which VPNs to trust, which browsers prioritized privacy, and how to wield the power of Tor for extra security. Summer was no longer a naive novice adrift in the digital sea, thanks to Lily.
Just then, a familiar ping from Discord broke the quiet of Summer's room. It was Lily, her avatar a pixelated cat wearing oversized glasses.
"Summer! Ugh, I missed you," the message read, followed by a flurry of excitable emojis. "School was such a bore! How are you anyway? Wanna see my new simple... project?"
Lily's latest project was a "simple" Python game, she claimed, one that featured encryption algorithms. Summer chuckled, shaking her head. Simple, she thought, with affection for her friend's knack for understatement.
"Fine, as always. Bored," Summer typed back, leaning forward slightly. "Just working on my project, that's about it."
Lily replied almost instantly. "Do you ever go out? Seriously, sometimes you're such a homebody."
"Matter of fact, I do go out, okay?" Summer typed back with a playful edge in her message. "And if anything, you're the homebody. You're practically married to your programming setup and avoid social situations unless there's a keyboard involved."
"Okay, good point," Lily admitted, "But anyway check out my--"
Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness. The screen went black, the reassuring hum of the computer silenced. A power outage. What the heck? Summer pushed herself away from her desk, the sudden silence amplifying the now-absent light. With a quick fumble, she searched her drawers and found a flashlight, the beam cutting through the sudden darkness and illuminating the quiet panic starting to build around her. The whole neighborhood was dark. The digital world, so vibrant and present moments ago, had just vanished.
A frustrated growl rumbled in Summer's chest, a sound more akin to a cornered animal than a teenage girl. The power surge had been swift and brutal, taking with it hours, no, weeks of painstaking work. Her project, a digital masterpiece that had been her sole focus, was gone. Vanished. The screen had gone black, a mockery of the darkness that had enveloped the entire house. "Just great," she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she trudged down the stairs. Each step felt heavy, weighted by disappointment and a growing sense of isolation.
The house was eerily silent and dim, the lack of electricity amplifying the feeling of emptiness. It was a far cry from the chaotic energy she usually felt within her. At the bottom, her parents sat in the living room, mere silhouettes against the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the window. Layla, her older sister, was perched on the arm of the sofa, an unsettling calm radiating from her. There was even the faintest hint of smugness, as if a sudden blackout was the most mundane thing in the world. It was infuriating. Didn't anyone understand how much this project meant to her?
Then, just as suddenly as it had died, the lights flickered back on, bathing the room in a harsh, artificial glow. Her father, a beer bottle clutched loosely in his hand, finally acknowledged her presence. "Just a minor power outage, you can go back to your room," he slurred, his words thick and dismissive, as if her world hadn't just been erased. His eyes were bloodshot, his face slack with a weary drunkenness that had become his default setting. He hadn't registered her frustration, or the countless hours sacrificed to the digital gods. A familiar ache settled heavily in Summer's chest, a dull throb that she knew all too well.
Her mother didn't even bother to turn her head. She was already back in the kitchen, resuming her dinner preparations with a mechanical precision. Her white apron remained immaculate, not a single speck of flour daring to mar its pristine surface. Summer felt a pang of resentment; how could her parents be so detached, so oblivious to her reality? It was as if they existed in their own separate world, completely disconnected from her struggles and triumphs.
"Summer! Wanna hang out? Like we did when you were just this high?" Layla chirped, her voice imbued with a playful, almost nostalgic warmth. She held her hand low to the ground, mimicking how small Summer used to be. The unexpected invitation caused something to loosen inside Summer. She shifted her weight, the urge to retreat to the safe confines of her room still strong, but Layla's gentle teasing was reaching a part of her she had kept locked away. "Oh, I don't know. I'm quite tired," she replied, her voice flat, an attempt to temper any rising hope. She took a step back, subtly creating distance, but Layla was quick, her hand reaching out to gently grasp Summer's wrist. "Oh, c'mon. It'll be fun. Let's go," she insisted, a genuine warmth infusing her voice, as she tugged Summer towards the front door. Before Summer could fully protest, Layla was already helping her into a coat and wrapping a bright red scarf around her neck, the pop of colour surprisingly comforting. A flicker of something foreign, akin to hope, ignited in Summer's chest, mingling with the familiar ache of her family's detachment. When was the last time anyone had actually cared enough to pull her away from the familiar gloom?
Finally, they stepped outside, the cool night air a refreshing change from the stifling atmosphere of their house. Layla hadn't released Summer's hand, her touch surprisingly light and reassuring. She giggled, her laughter echoing in the quiet street, and practically skipped down the pavement, pulling Summer along with her. Summer couldn't help but smile, a small, genuine smile that was quickly replaced with the thought of the complaining neighbours, probably trying to sleep at this hour. "Come this way," Layla said, turning the corner and leading her towards the park of their childhood. Summer's mind drifted momentarily remembering when she had gotten scraped knees after a boy had pushed her off the swing. Layla, being the eldest, had instantly beaten the boy up for her and bought summer an ice-cream to stop her from crying.
The chill of January in England seeped into Layla's bones as she settled onto the worn swing. The metal was ice-cold beneath her thin gloves, and even the thick scarf wrapped around her neck offered little comfort against the relentless bite of the wind. The bare branches of the ancient oak tree above seemed to mirror the starkness of the winter air, their skeletal fingers reaching towards a grey sky that threatened more snow.
Summer, joined her on the adjacent swing, the metal groaning a familiar protest. The swing set, a relic from their childhood, was a constant, a sturdy frame against the shifting sands of their lives. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic squeak of the chains as they gently rocked back and forth, a lullaby of sorts in the otherwise silent park. It was a sound that had accompanied countless whispered secrets, hushed arguments, and shared moments of fleeting happiness.
"I don't even remember the last time we actually spent any real time together," Layla said, her voice a soft sigh carried on the breeze. It wasn't an accusation, more a lament, a recognition of the invisible wall that had grown between them, brick by brick, over the past few years. Life, with its relentless demands, had pulled them in different directions, leaving them strangers in their own shared space.
Summer's swing continued its gentle arc. A small smile played on her lips, tinged with a mock hurt that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, it's not my fault you don't want to hang out with your loser sister at school." She wasn't buying into the bitterness; it was their usual playful jab, a familiar script they'd been following for years. It was an awkward dance they did, a way of acknowledging the distance without fully confronting it.
Layla rolled her eyes, a familiar affection softening her features. "You know that's not true. We just have completely different schedules. Our lunch break is an hour before the year eights." She explained the frustrating reality as if it was a well-rehearsed argument, a point of contention that had been debated many times before. The school, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to keep the different year groups strictly separated, especially since the new headmaster, a man with a penchant for order and an aversion to youthful chaos, had arrived. It made things a bit isolating, for both of them. They were now ships passing in the night, their paths crossing only in the hallways, a brief acknowledgment, a hurried smile, and then the currents of the school day would pull them apart once more. Even at home, in the evening, once homework and dinner were both taken care of, they'd find themselves in their own separate pockets of the house.
The cold was particularly biting this year, even by English January standards. Snow had fallen more frequently than in the run-up to Christmas, a strange anomaly, a cruel trick of nature. But that's how things often felt in this corner of the world; strange, unnatural, cruel. It was a hard place to grow up, in many ways. They rarely saw much sun in the winter, and the summer was usually too short. The people here were much the same; stoic, and more often than not, cold too.
A moment of silence fell over them, the rhythmic sound of the swings filling the gap, a steady beat against the backdrop of a troubled home. Then, Layla blurted out, the words tumbling out like a broken dam, "I heard Mom and Dad talking about getting a divorce." Her words shattered the calmness like the cracking of ice underfoot, the fragile peace they'd managed to achieve on the swing set, now splintered and gone.
Summer's swing slowed to a halt, her smile fading like a sun setting behind a bank of clouds. "They've been saying that for ages," she said, her voice strangely devoid of emotion. "I don't think they actually will. They need each other, which is almost funny, seeing as how much they hate each other." Her voice trailed off, a note of weary resignation in her tone. She'd heard these arguments before, the same phrases bandied about, the same recriminations hurled at each other like stones. It had become background noise, a cacophony of discontent that she'd learned to tune out.
"Well, I don't care," Summer admitted with an edge, her words tinged with a youthful rebelliousness that Layla was quick to see right through. It was a mask she wore, a flimsy defense against the hurt she felt. "I just can't wait to turn eighteen and get out of here." Her eyes, usually so bright and full of mischief, seemed to dim for just a moment, as thoughts of escape flickered across her face.
A flicker of concern passed over Layla's face; a reaction that Summer failed to notice. "You have a long way to go, kid. I'm sixteen, so I'm closer to that goal," she paused, the harshness of the moment softened by the unspoken connection between them. Then her eyes met Summer's, a soft, caring smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "But don't worry. Once I'm eighteen, you're coming to live with me. I'll take care of you like I always have." Layla's voice was soft, firm in the unspoken promise it held, a promise that she'd made to herself a long time ago, when she'd first realised that she'd have to be the responsible one in the family. She'd take care of Summer, no matter what.
Summer remembers the dull, throbbing ache of a broken leg, a pain that's faded with time. But what remains vivid, etched into her memory, is the unnerving coldness in her mother's eyes that day. There was no gasp of concern, no gentle hand to soothe the throbbing. Instead, her mother sighed, a puff of exasperation escaping her lips, and uttered, "Honestly, you're so clumsy!" The words were like a slap, dismissive and heartless. It was as if Summer's pain was an inconvenience, a flaw marring the image of a perfectly behaved child. She can still vividly recall the tightening of her father's face, the way his brow would furrow into a mask of annoyance at the sound of her sobs. It wasn't a look of concern, not a signal that he was trying to understand her distress. Instead, his reaction was a stark message – her sadness was an unbearable disruption to his own peace. The vulnerability of her tears seemed to ignite something harsh within him.
His response wasn't quiet withdrawal. Instead, it was a calculated escalation of the very thing she struggled with. Sharp words, designed to cut deeper than any physical blow, were often the first volley. Dismissive gestures followed, invalidating her feelings as quickly as they arose. And then, there were the hits. Never small, he knew where to hit- where nobody would tend to look; punches to the back, light slaps to arms, or feet, sometimes a sharp pull of the hair. These weren't about discipline, or even about teaching her a lesson. They were about silencing her, about snuffing out the sound of her pain.
The slam of the front door echoed through the house, a familiar sound like the closing of a tomb. Summer perpetually tired, kicked off her worn-out sneakers and trudged into the kitchen. Layla, a whirlwind of boundless energy, was already at the table, her mess of brown curls bouncing as she impatiently tapped a spoon against her empty plate.
The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of overcooked vegetables and something vaguely burnt. Their mother, her silhouette framed against the dim kitchen light, placed a casserole dish in the center of the table. It was some kind of meat-and-potato concoction, Summer guessed, although the way the gravy seemed to coagulate before it even hit the plates suggested otherwise.
They sat, an island of three in a sea of muted colors and even quieter words. The fork scraped against the ceramic. Summer picked at the food, her nose wrinkled in a grimace. Layla, used to the monotony, mechanically chewed. It was too salty, a harsh, bitter tang that clung to the back of her throat. But it didn't taste like salt; not truly. It tasted like the strained silence, like the unspoken resentments that seasoned every family meal.
Family dinners never felt like home. They were just another routine in the long, dull cycle of their lives: sit down, eat, and off to your room. Nobody ever spoke much unless it was a shouting match, a sudden eruption of frustration that quickly subsided, leaving behind a thicker, more suffocating quiet than before. The only sounds were the clinking of silverware and the occasional sigh from their mother, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world.
After the strained meal, Summer retreated to her room, a small sanctuary carved out from the chaos. She shut the door with almost desperate finality and, after a sigh, collapsed onto her bed. The only light in the room came from a string of fairy lights that she'd carefully attached to the wall, their soft glow casting dancing shadows on the white ceiling.
She lay there, staring up, the question swirling in her mind. Layla's voice echoed in her head, "I'll take care of you, like always." The quiet in her room was different from the quiet downstairs. This was a chosen quiet, a haven. But the silence downstairs, at the dinner table, felt like a heavy blanket, suffocating and isolating.
The scent of antiseptic and the cartoonish image of Hello Kitty always seemed to be interwoven into Summer's earliest memories. They weren't remnants of her own childhood, but rather badges of honor from the countless times Layla had patched her up. Scraped knees, a fever, a bad dream - Layla was always there. She was more than just an older sister; she was the constant, the unwavering anchor in a sea of chaos. Their mother, a shadowy figure often adrift in her own world, seemed to exist on the periphery of their childhoods, leaving Layla to shoulder the responsibilities, big and small.
Layla was the one who navigated the confusing corridors of doctors' offices, her young hand firmly gripping Summer's, a silent promise of protection in her eyes. She was the one who magically produced ice cream after a bad day, a simple act of kindness that held the power to chase away the shadows. Even as a child, Summer knew, on some level, that Layla's presence wasn't just sibling affection; it was something much deeper, something parental.
As Summer grew, snippets of understanding, like shards of broken glass, began to pierce her teenage bubble. She started to see the lines of exhaustion etched around Layla's eyes, the way her shoulders seemed to carry a weight far heavier than they should. She saw the way Layla's dreams, once vibrant and full of promise, seemed to get tucked away, folded neatly into a box marked "Later," a "Later" that never seemed to arrive.
The guilt, a constant companion, stirred within Summer's heart. How could she have been so oblivious to the sacrifices Layla made? How could she have simply accepted the constant care, the unwavering support as her due? She hadn't asked for it, but Layla had given it freely, pouring her own childhood into the cracks of a family that had so desperately needed mending.
"Did Layla ever feel lonely?" Summer wondered one night, staring at her sister across their dimly lit bedroom. The thought was a pang in her chest, a question born of years of silent observation. Summer, at that moment, had a glimpse of the invisible burden that Layla had carried for so long. Who took care of Layla? Who had the power to soothe her wounds and offer her the same unwavering support that she so readily offered to Summer?
The realization created a chasm of understanding between the sisters. Layla had sacrificed her own growth to ensure her little sister had a semblance of a normal childhood. She had to grow up too fast, sacrificing her own dreams and aspirations, to be the adult her family desperately needed. Summer thought back to the numerous times she'd spent planning her future, while Layla was simply planning for their survival.
9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT4Cvkw8aZS
