Hidden Behind Navy Shutters

• Short story
• Fiction

								
I’ve been watching her for a while now. I’ve seen the lunches she packs with her own hands; the same worn-out jeans and pale pink sweater she wears nearly every day; the dark circles that orbit her eyes. These deep, enthralling green eyes that somehow hold this vibrant yet grave history. I observe her again today as she walks into the classroom, her straight, butterscotch brown hair cascading down her back. She glances at the teacher and the freckles that dust her nose and cheeks scrunch together as her mouth spreads into a shy grin. Ms. Frazer smiles back, but there's a hint of concern splayed across her features. The same concern that emerges every time she looks at this girl. But of course, she never actually brings voice to her worries due to fear of being wrong. It’s funny how that happens. How people could always be there for you in the simple times, but right when you truly need help, they’re too cowardly to do anything of real value.
As the morning bell sounds, the children scurry to their desks, awaiting the start of the school day. Within a few minutes, Ms. Frazer begins her first period and the lessons start their daily cycle. After Science comes Math, then Social Studies, followed by lunch and ELA. Sometime during Ms. Frazer’s lecture, the girl raises her hand. 
“Yes, Emery?”
“May I use the bathroom?” the girl asks.
“Yes, but be quick,” Ms. Frazer says, returning to her lesson. I walk with the girl as she leaves. We stroll past the rows of metallic lockers and halt when we arrive at an ashen gray door with a female figurine on the front. She hesitates before using her forearm to shove it open, her shoulders relaxing slightly when she sees the bathroom vacant. She swiftly shuts the door behind her and pushes the stopper under the crack, securing the door from the inside and preventing anyone from entering. I follow her to the mirror and observe as she takes a small tube of ointment out of her slightly bulging pocket and lifts her sweater to her breasts, revealing scratches and purple-green bruises along her back and ribs. She expertly applies the cream all over her injuries, studying her own reflection while she waits for it to absorb. When it does, she drops her sweater and returns the tube to her pocket. 
We walk back to class just as the bell rings, signaling the end of the school day. We exit the building through the whirl of chattering students, catching only bits and pieces of their conversations as we go.
“–he did it by text!”
“–can’t, I’m babysitting my sister.”
“No, stupid, I don’t think–”
Her bike is positioned in the bike stand in front of the school. Since the school isn’t far from her house, just a bit over a mile, it doesn’t take longer than ten minutes to bike by herself. Her pedals click softly as they turn and her wheels swish as they twirl around and around. She closes her eyes and listens as she makes the familiar left turn onto Cautela Road, her lungs expanding with brisk fall air. The girl loves riding her bike; the feeling of freedom and the confidence that comes with controlling it gives her more joy than anything else. Then a yelp and a spew of curse words slice through the calm. The girl’s eyes jerk open and she swerves her bike out of the way so violently that it slides out from under her, resulting in her crashing into rough sidewalk. The owner of that long strand of profanity, who had unfortunately been the victim of almost crashing into the girl as he got his mail, rushes over to her, concern quickly replacing his anger. The child is breathing very heavily, with her eyes wide and her fingers trembling slightly, as she fumbles to get back on her bike. She races off without a second glance. In normal circumstances, she is a very polite girl, but in that instance, the last thing on her mind was manners. She pulls over behind a parked car and stumbles off her bike. She pushes her palms hard against her eyes and attempts to take deep breaths, which only results in what sounds like wheezing. I wish I could comfort her then, pat her on the back and talk to her like a friend. But I can't let humans encounter me. Not until it’s their time to come themselves. 
After several minutes, her breathing finally begins to slow and she shakily continues on her way.  I wish I could say these panic attacks were a rare occurrence, but unfortunately they are fairly common. A door clicking closed is Him slamming the door when He comes home; someone cursing is His raging voice; a metal water bottle falling from a desk is the plates being thrown at the wall. All too soon, she is pulling into her driveway. From the outside, the house is beautiful; its navy blue shutters compliment the creamy yellow exterior, and the multicolored garden and stone porch give the house a sense of modest elegance. But it's the way the girl’s body tenses as she approaches the door that ruins everything. She can sense it. Even from the outside, she can sense the fear He inflicts. It may not be in full swing at the moment, but like an animal with a storm, she can feel the tension radiating off of the house. Even when He isn’t home, she can feel it coming.
She hurries to her room, careful to make as little noise as possible. She drops her bag by the bed and climbs on top of its aqua covers. Sitting criss-cross applesauce, she opens a notebook and folder and begins her homework. A while later, a woman’s voice calls for her attention downstairs. Her mom looks like her: same button nose, same thin lips, same tense frame; even their scars are similar. They have to wait to start dinner until He’s home, so in the meantime, they discuss their day. Like always, the conversation is strained at first, nothing like your average mother-daughter dialogue, but soon they begin to relax. 
Maybe the girl was wrong, maybe today will be different. Maybe He won’t come home so angry. Maybe they will be safe. How naive to even hope.
Before we continue, I would like to say a few words on behalf of the girl’s mother. It can be easy to blame her for these very unfortunate conditions that this little girl grew up in; why didn’t she leave with her daughter? Why didn’t she try to stop Him? Why not go to the police? Why, why, why? Well, that’s the thing with manipulative and abusive relationships. It's so easy to stay trapped in their tangled webs because, while there are bad times, there are also good times. He’ll yell and smash dishes some nights, but others he will bring home flowers for His wife and help His daughter with her homework. Some days, He grabs and pains His family if they so much as look at Him, then the next He insists on going to get ice cream after dinner. So don’t blame her too harshly, because while she is wrong to keep herself and her daughter in that situation, it can be hard to see the bad in people when you also see the best.
By the time He returns home, the conversation has dribbled back to awkward silence and the sky has gone dark. The girl’s mother immediately rushes to greet him at the foyer, but He shoves her out of the way, hard. Dangerous anger radiates off of him in all directions, but the girl rushes towards her mother anyway. He blocks her path.

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