The Life of Emi, Chapter 1, part 2

   The sun rose over the small town, illuminating the rooftops and warming the windows that had grown frigid overnight. Birds began to sing, tucked away in the treetops to escape the drizzling rain. The fight had died down, but the echoes of its thunder still rang in Emi’s mind.
   “Careful! Ouch…” she hissed as her mother ran a finger over a bruise, dabbing foundation onto the dark mark on her cheekbone.
   “Now this is the last time! I’m not doing this for you anymore—you whine about the pain every single time! From now on, you’ll have to do it yourself,” Marta snorted, placing a hand mirror in front of Emi’s face. “Can you see it?”
   “No,” Emi replied, touching a tear as it rolled down her cheek.
   She gazed into her own sorrow-filled eyes and at the large, pale mark on her cheekbone—the one that would soon blend into the foundation covering her entire face.
   “Stop crying. Emotions won’t help you,” Marta said, taking the mirror away and moving to the stove, leaving Emi to finish applying her makeup. The kitchen filled with the scent of an omelet sizzling in a pan, alongside some frying sausages.
   “Just act normal at school. Everything is fine here.”
   Emi’s head sank heavily onto her hand; her reflection flickered across the surface of an empty plate nearby. No. This couldn’t go on forever. An end had to come—and it was drawing near. How many more times would she have to cover up the wounds on her tender cheeks? "No," Emi decided. "This hell will end."
   Her school supplies scattered across the desk, drawing the attention of a few sleepy students. Miss Smith had not yet arrived, and a low hum of conversation filled the classroom. Emi’s hands covered her sleepy face, but she pulled them away when a sharp pain stung her cheek—she had completely forgotten about it.
   Suddenly, she sensed someone beside her. She froze, well aware that the close proximity of another person could mean nothing but danger. Keeping her gaze fixed forward without blinking, she caught a glimpse of a girl in a bright pink sweater. The girl sat upright, staring straight ahead, not once glancing toward Emi. "What does she want?" Emi wondered. "She’s probably going to torment me—scribble something in my notebook or slip me an insulting note." But, contrary to all her fears, the girl did nothing; she simply sat there in silence, never turning around or uttering a single word.
   Miss Smith descended upon the classroom like a thunderclap, rapping her ruler against the wooden desk a few times—as was her habit—to bring the students to order. The lesson was dull and tedious, unfolding as if it had already been repeated a hundred times over. Yet, what set this particular lesson apart from all of Miss Smith’s others was that Emi could not bring herself to relax. A girl in a pink sweater remained constantly in the corner of her left eye, leaving Emi feeling deeply uncomfortable. As soon as the bell rang, she darted out of the classroom and raced down the stairs.
   Entering the cafeteria—still decorated with colorful posters from a recent school event—Emi grabbed a serving of mashed potatoes and a cutlet, then sat down at a red table, letting out a heavy sigh. Now that the stranger was left behind, the danger had passed. She glanced around, confirming once more that the girl had not followed her. As she began to eat, Emi’s thoughts drifted to yesterday—or perhaps the day before; she couldn’t be sure. Every day was just like the one before it, and every day to come would be just like today.
   She had no memory of a happy childhood. She sensed, however, that one must have existed; deep within her soul, a bright little spark flickered—it had always been there, she knew. But she could not recall when it had become shrouded in a dark, heavy fog of despair and disappointment. One of the few vivid memories she did hold onto was the time her parents gave her a voice recorder—a tiny, gray device that she carried with her everywhere until, eventually, it broke. Having been in love with music since childhood, she would record every song she heard—whether in shopping malls, drifting from cars stuck in traffic, or blaring from the large boomboxes carried by Black men with distinctive styles, dressed in caps, long, low-slung shorts, and chains. She would memorize the lyrics from these snippets, and she has remembered them to this day.
   But what else brought her joy? She recalled a birthday gift: a white iPod—the very one she carried with her everywhere she went. It had been a present from her mother’s friend, Miss Elaine, who was very dear to the Meyer family. That was not long ago—just a couple of years back.
   In all likelihood, the fog that shrouded her heart had begun to form long before that—around 1998, when she was six years old. It was a year she came to loathe: the year her father lost his office job. Everything that had come before 1998 remained only as a vague, indistinct blur in her memory—a blur that, at least, held no unpleasant associations. Perhaps she had been happy back then. But everything that followed 1998, she remembered all too clearly—not the specific events, but the pervasive, crushing sense of oppression and hopelessness.
   At first, Emi’s father was deeply despondent and rarely left the house. This went on for about a year. Eventually, he found another job—one that paid less, leaving Martha to shoulder the burden of supporting the entire family. But he didn’t last long there, either; he was let go. During his time at that job, however, he had fallen in with dubious people, and he began frequenting unsavory places with them. Another year passed this way.
   Then, the following year, something happened that finally broke Smith completely: his "friends" vanished, taking a large sum of his money with them. Emi didn’t recall the exact details, but she remembered that, from that point on, her father began disappearing from home more and more often. As her mother said, he had found another woman. By the fourth year, the situation had spiraled further, and by the fifth, Smith was barely recognizable—gaunt, disheveled, and consumed by alcohol, which made him irritable and aggressive. He began beating Emi’s mother over the slightest inconvinience, and soon, he turned his violence toward Emi as well. He spared neither of them, remaining deaf to Martha’s desperate, tearful pleas to show mercy to their daughter. With nowhere else to go, they found themselves trapped in an endless, hellish cycle with no end in sight.
   Emi scraped at the empty bottom of her plate, leaving streaks of mashed potatoes behind. Suddenly, she realized something—she wasn’t alone at the table. Looking up, she saw the girl in the pink sweater sitting across from her. The girl was eating a similar meal in silence, not even glancing at Emi. Jumping up abruptly—her tray still in her hands—Emi hurried toward the drop-off point for dirty dishes, completely forgetting the apple juice she’d left on the table, and dashed out of the cafeteria as fast as her legs could carry her.
   Reaching the lockers, Emi tossed her notebook inside and dashed home through the rain-soaked streets, oblivious to the thick, looming clouds and the relentless, curtain-like drizzle.

|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Please, leave comments! I need feedback a lot!