The Life of Emi, Chapter 1, part 1

Chapter 1

   On this day in an American town, the sun shone with unusual warmth. Its gentle rays, peeking out from behind thick, soft clouds, embraced every tree and blade of grass. The warmth caused thin rivulets of water to trickle down from the roofs of small, snow-white houses, flowing across the asphalt roads before disappearing underground through iron grates. On the well-tended lawns, the first bright green blades of grass reached upward toward a clear sky, which was dappled with light, airy clouds; meanwhile, thrushes perched in the oak trees—insistently, yet ever so beautifully—roused the town’s residents from their sleep.

   Spring had arrived in the town. It was a long-awaited spring—a harbinger of the approaching summer break. Everyone knew this, and a sense of celebratory closure to another year of life seemed to emanate from every corner. The spacious, bright, two-story school in the town was situated near its edge, next to a small brick church that had been built back in the 19th century. For every resident of the town, the school was held in as much regard as the church; decades of triumphs and setbacks, of individual fates and life stories, clung to its very image—a reminder that, with each passing year, the small town grew stronger and larger, and its people moved forward in step with the times.
   During these spring months, classes for the older students proceeded with remarkable ease; neither teachers nor pupils felt the need to fret anxiously over every uncompleted homework assignment, instance of tardiness, or other such formalities. This, however, applied only to the older students. For the younger ones, spring was the most difficult time of all—for some inexplicable reason, the teachers kept a rigid watch over every move the children made, showing no tolerance even for the slightest bit of mischief.
   "Emi—Emi Meyer! Don't fall asleep in class! You’re in a classroom! These are your final days of school! Lift your head up!"
   Emi slowly stretched, casting her gaze around the sun-drenched, airy classroom, which was adorned with photographs of students and a collection of colorful drawings.
   “Yes, Miss Smith, I'm sorry,” Emi replied sleepily, her large, dark eyes blinking.
   “Tell me, Emi, why have you been sleeping in class lately?”
   The other children turned to look at Emi, their curiosity piqued. Silence fell over the room, broken only by a faint whisper from somewhere near the back. Dozens of pairs of eyes seemed to bore right through her.
   “Miss Smith, I can’t say… exactly. I just haven’t been getting enough sleep.”
   “Very well. In that case, I shall speak with your parents.”
   A low hum of chatter rippled through the classroom, much like the buzzing of flies. Miss Smith, a U.S. history teacher—a sturdy woman in her sixties—was known for her bluntness; she often disregarded the standard codes of conduct expected of an educator. Without a shred of hesitation, she would frequently bark at students, interrogate them in front of everyone, and occasionally even shame them. Yet, somehow, she always got away with it. No one dared to dismiss a veteran teacher who had been there since the school’s very founding. As is often the case with adults, her authority outweighed all her shortcomings. She raised a hand, her movements sharp and agitated, and called out to the class:
   “Children, quiet! Let us return to our lesson. In 1803, the United States purchased a territory from France known as Louisiana…”
   Barely managing to stay awake, Emi forced herself to sit through the remainder of the lesson. As soon as it ended, she left without delay and began the walk home. The cold air roused her, and she set off along the long street, heading east with quick, short steps. Her white sneakers were already soaked, but, paying no mind, she picked up her pace—leaping over puddles and racing against oak leaves as they drifted along a small stream. Nestled among the neighbors’ well-tended lawns stood the Meyers’ home: a two-story white house with a gabled roof and a wide, covered porch.
   Bounding onto the porch and heading inside, Emi dashed upstairs at full speed, forgetting to take off her wet sneakers. In her small room, she tossed the backpack onto the floor, sat down on a chair, and put on headphones. Locating a white iPod on the desk, she pulled up her favorite playlist and cranked the volume all the way up. From the ground floor, the dull thud of a door slamming shut echoed through the house. Emi squeezed her eyes shut and turned the music up even louder. The father arrived.
   “Martha… Martha, I’m home!” a tall man with deep lines under his eyes said, stumbling as he entered. “Martha—damn it all—where are you?”
   Reaching the kitchen, which lay just off the entryway, Smith Meyer stopped, staring in bewilderment at the empty table. He leaned against the doorframe and let out a piercing shout:
   “Martha!”
   “What do you want, Smith?” she asked in a low voice.   
   From the next room, a weary-looking woman in worn-out jeans and a gray T-shirt emerged slowly. Stopping in the doorway, she met her husband’s gaze with complete indifference.
   “What do you want, Smith?” she asked in a low voice.
   “What do I want? I’m home, aren’t I?” He threw up his hands and sat down at the table, resting his heavy arms upon it—the wood creaked under the weight.
   “How was work?”
   “The same as yesterday… Why ask when you already know the answer?” he muttered, his head bowed, his tone sharp with irritation.
   “So, what—can't I ask you anything?” Martha replied, her expression still devoid of interest.
   “I am the master of this house,” Smith said, enunciating every word slowly.
   “You haven’t been the master of this house for a long time.”
   “What?” Smith rasped, rising from the cracked chair. He stood to his full height, blocking Martha’s path. “What do you mean, not the master? Have you found someone else?!” he shouted.
   “No.”
   “You’re lying, you bitch! You’re lying! You’ve had someone else for a long time!” Having seemingly found the answer to a question that had long tormented his mind, Smith wagged a finger at her, spewing profanities as he loomed over Martha.
   “If he were here, I wouldn’t have stayed a minute longer.“   
   “You wretch,” Smith rasped, bracing his hands against the dusty table. “Serve my lunch.” 
   “There is no lunch.”
   “What do you mean, there's no lunch?” he demanded, turning back to her. “Where did my lunch go?!”
   “I didn’t cook anything. A sandwich is enough for me.”
   “You knew I was coming home!”
   “I don't have to cook.”
   “Don't have, you say?! You damned bitch!” Smith shouted, striking Martha across the face with all his might.
   Stunned, Martha collapsed to the floor; she tried to get up, but her strength failed her, and she swayed, hitting the cold floor once more. Turning away, Smith strode quickly toward the second floor. Emi felt the thud of his footsteps vibrating through the floorboards and squeezed her eyes shut.
   “Don’t approach my daughter!” a voice called out from downstairs.
   The door swung open, and the sharp, stinging reek of alcohol filled the room. An unshaven, haggard face appeared to Emi's right, his breath washing over her.
   “Emi, my dear, let’s get out of here. I’ll take you with me—we’ll find a place to live. Your mother has lost her mind. You’ll be mine.”
   Emi pulled her knees to her chest, shielding her face; she could barely make out her father’s words. Her entire world had been turned upside down. She tried to retreat deep into the recesses of her own mind—to escape the horror unfolding outside—but a violent jolt yanked her back to reality. Her headphones skittered across the table, and there stood her father, breathing heavily, staring intently at her face.
   “Get away from the child!” — Reaching the second floor, Martha shouted and stopped in the doorway.
   “Emi, why won’t you listen to me? I am your father,” Smith said, enunciating every word sternly.
   A tremor ran through Emi’s entire body, leaving her tongue paralyzed. A sharp, painful constriction tightened her throat, and tears welled up in her eyes, rolling down her soft, pale cheeks.
   “Why won’t you listen to me…” he repeated, even louder. “Answer me!” Smith shouted.
   “I don’t want to!” Emi wailed.
   Strong hands yanked her from the chair, lifting her into the air, followed by a powerful blow that sent her flying to the floor.
   Her world shattered into a dozen fragments, spinning in every direction; an unbearable pain gripped her throat, and something struck her chest with such force that breathing became nearly impossible—a blow that came not from the outside, but from deep within.
   “Get out!” her mother’s voice rang out, then vanished into a loud, resonant ringing in her ears.
   Through the indistinct din, another heavy thud echoed, followed by loud shouting and the sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs. The door on the ground floor slammed shut, and a ringing silence descended upon the house. Trembling, Emi summoned all her strength and propped herself up on one elbow. The shaking persisted, and her arm gave way. She saw her mother lying nearby. Struggling to her feet, she made her way toward the door, every movement a fresh jolt of pain. Martha slowly rose from the floor and reached out toward her daughter.
   “Emi, my dear, come to me!”
   But her words were cut short by the loud slam of the door. Emi locked it and leaned her back against, sliding down to the floor.
   “Emi, open the door!” Martha’s voice came from the other side.
   But Emi didn’t hear her. All she could hear were fragments of music still blaring in her ears, her father’s shout, and the blow to her cheek—the entire right side of her face still burning fire.
   “Emi, open the door!”
   “Go away!” Emi cried out, then threw herself onto the bed, sobbing as she wiped her face with the sleeves of her sweater.

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