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I stared at the wall in front of me.
At fifteen, I've already been waiting four years to turn eighteen.
At this point I'm half convinced it will never come. I almost believe that one sliver of autonomy is the stuff of legends, because no one seems to ever actually do anything with it.
I've seen the cycles that happen. The world is basically a zeotrope at this point, that all actual change for most people is an illusion at most and a fabricated feeling by higher forces we'll never truly understand at worst.
But this key… There's something different about it. Something that feels almost safe… Which is a feeling I don't feel that often in my childhood house.
It's that feeling that makes me want to grab on and never move, because maybe if I stay there, in that story book, I won't have to deal with futures, or parents, or self preformed therapy, or food, or grades, or… Anything else.
This key was heavy in my hand. The weight just sat there, matching the pit in my stomach.
I can practically hear a chorus of gunshots in my head from the war I'm having with myself over this.
I was thinking of going into a kid's book, Matilda.
I've read this book probably a million times since second grade, but it never stopped making me feel that strange and unusual way. A way I originally had a hard time placing: Safe.
Matilda didn't have any bit of her life easy. Her parents were different from mine sure, but they still had all the same behaviors:
The obsession with what they needed and felt. The expectation that Matilda was not only supposed to be self officiant, but also responsible for their emotions, which were unstable at best. The aggression towards anyone who didn't agree with them, and only listening to those who did agree. The assumption that they were better and smarter and more capable than their child just because they were their parents, and more.
The only difference I could spot in second grade was Matilda’s ability to get help, and help herself.
See, Matilda had something I definitely didn't: Miss. Honey. An adult who listened and didn't put you on a minefield for not being the angel of a kid they expected kids needing help to be.
In the real world to get help, you have to be a perfect victim. You can't be too old, or get defensive, or show any emotion but cry. You can't get help for mental abuse, or anything that doesn't leave bruises. You can't go to anyone that won't call your parents themselves to ask if it really happened, because, well, literally everyone does.
You have to have a heartstrings story. Like it or not, pity was the only weapon I had, and I didn't know how to use it when I was young enough, and timid enough, and cried enough.
But she also had something else unattainable: Powers.
And now… I might have powers of my own.
I don't know who I'll be playing, maybe Miss Honey? I've only entered once, for maybe a total of ten seconds, and the paper cut off before the example of the key in front of me.
But I don't really care at this point…
I'm just… I'm so done with these same suffocating walls, and blood curdling screams, and no way out!
And I'm so done with worrying about when my mom will explode next, or my dad will sit and watch, or I'll be told to enjoy my youth and not be so focused on grades.
Grades are the only way I get out of this damn family! And if there was another option- Some twist, a savior, a way out- I would take it in a heart beat- No questions asked.
But there's not.
So I could have either cried myself to sleep tonight, or I could have gone into Matilda. And… I'd always choose a good book over any reality…
I think of all of that, as I watch the girl in front of me circle like a predator.
“What, were you a vulture in another life?” I ask. The girl just laughs, “No, silly! I just- Who's key do you have?”
“I don't know….Oh gosh, is it stolen? I am so sorry- I- How do I return it? Is there an address I can mail it to- Side note, can you cover shipping?”
The girl only laughed more, “I like you. What's your name?”
“Akira Rosen.” I replied, not thinking about how this girl was still very much a stranger.
“Well, before you ask, I'm Anansi. I'm from a group called the Ex Libris, we're a bit low on members, and I wanted to talk to you about joining.”
“Okay…”
-
And now you know why I'm here. I'm gonna live with the Ex Libris, a powerful organization with powerful tools. Like, for example, guaranteed food and excellent higher education, even job prospects.
The best part: My parents? I don't ever have to talk to them again. I'm safe… For real.
It's no story book, but now? I have plenty of those anyway.
See you for my report back in three years.
-Akira Libris, June 4th, 20XX