I daydream to escape the life that was handed to me. I dream of better so that I don't wake more broken than when I closed my eyes the night before. And I dream of him because, without him, I wouldn't have survived.
Noya is a seventeen year old girl living in the middle lane. She doesn't want to stand out. She doesn't want to be noticed because people who are seen fall prey to falling too fast, and when you have skeletons that she has in her closet, it's easier to hide them when nobody notices you scream.
I daydream to escape the life that was handed to me. I dream of better so that I don't wake more broken than when I closed my eyes the night before. And I dream of him because, without him, I wouldn't have survived.
Noya is a seventeen year old girl living in the middle lane. She doesn't want to stand out. She doesn't want to be noticed because people who are seen fall prey to falling too fast, and when you have skeletons that she has in her closet, it's easier to hide them when nobody notices you scream.
DO YOU EVER dream about being somewhere else, living a life of royalty? A princess within a castle, waiting for her true love to find her. Maybe even dreaming of slaying dragons, or being a mythical fairy, living their life within the Summer Court, tasting the finest riches.
Well, I did.
At a young age, Mum would video record me playing on my noble, stuffed stallion called Farin, and we would ride all over this magical world, fighting off the evil residing within it. It was humorous watching the old videos, laughing it off like it was nothing. But I envied that girl and her imagination. I envied that world I built.
Then, after my third therapy session, I found out that I was, indeed, escaping realism. Those daydreams were a safety net, shutting out everything bad that I experienced. Mrs Jones thought that perhaps the daydreams (maladaptive daydreams) would go away over time when I grew older.
She was wrong. Way wrong.
Those daydreams started to become… realistic. And. It. Hurt.
Instead of noble stead called Farin, I dreamed of a car that wouldn’t stall. Whenever I drove down the road, I imagined myself in any other car I drove past, listening to the radio that worked and pumping up the heat in winter storms.
Instead of imagining myself living in a castle, a prince as a husband, I imagined a home that wasn’t falling apart and a family that was functional. I dreamed of lying in bed with the fan brushing against my face, cooling my heated skin in the summer.
Instead of tasting the finest food available, I dreamed of anything that wasn’t an off-brand two-minute noodles, pasta out of the packet or butter sandwiches for dinner. I would stand in the aisle of my local supermarket. Within my grasp was a salivating pack of spareribs. My daydreaming would turn dark as I watched my imaginative self hide the packet of ribs within my bag and walk out unnoticed.
I wasn’t that girl anymore, pushing this fictional narrative.
No.
[1]I grew up and wanted something more of my life—No, I wanted better for myself, so I imagined realistic scenarios that I could grasp… taste. However, as I stare at the cracked ceiling, the fan not working in the middle of our hottest summers, sweat beading down my forehead, parents screaming at each other outside of my room, I dream of being anywhere else besides here.
I roll over, the sheets clinging to my back. The shadows underneath my door move at lightning speed. Mum screams, shouting and shouts at Dad while his words slur out of his mouth. I barely blink when I hear a bottle smash against, I guess, any surface closest to Dad. Whenever he is angry and drunk, he doesn’t care for the property.
Oh… that reminds me.
I reach over to my phone on charge on the bedside table. Unplugging the charger, I stuff the phone under my pillow, hiding it from view. Memories of over two months ago flash in my mind as I remember shuffling on the ground, patting every surface, hoping to find my sim card so that I didn’t have to go through the trouble of remembering a new phone number again.
‘Get the fuck away from me!’
I hear a thump and Mum’s wailing cry. The door then suddenly burst open, and Dad stumbles in. I sit up and reach for my blanket, tucking it over my chest.
I feel uneasy.
Dad reaches in his pocket, throws money at me, and slurs, ‘Go to the servo would yah and get me some more fucking beer.’
I eye him.
Have you ever looked at a blood relative and thought, I hate you?
Every time I look at Dad blurs of horror flash in my mind. Then the disgust and utter hatred right after.
I’ve never connected with him. Not once. I can’t remember a time where he wasn’t drunk on my birthday, ruining everyone’s time. I remember Mum cancelling my party early because Dad became rowdy, wanting to pick fights with the other parents. That was the last time I had a birthday party… and it was also the last time I brought friends over.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ Dad spat.
A monster, I thought.
I imagine my fan breaking—some faulty wire was the cause—and slamming down on Dad’s head so hard that blood spools out, and he dies. But that isn’t life, and I’m not that lucky.
‘What brand?’ I ask.
‘You know what kind of fucking beer I drink. Don’t be a fucking smart ass.’
He steps further into my room, but before he can come closer, I shuffle out of bed and pick up the coins he threw on the ground. Dad chuckles darkly while leaving my room.
I put on my favourite shirt that I’ve not washed in a couple of days. The name of my favourite band—Imagine Dragons—splayed over the front, and on the back was a list of their names. Then, I grab my phone, the earphones in the second drawer and slip on my thongs. Dad migrates to the living room when I leave my room. He slumps on his recliner, laughing at a comedy show. Mum stands in the kitchen, an ice pack to her cheek. When she notices me, she looks away, defeated and embarrassed.
It is dark outside. Close to midnight. The stars are out, and the cool night breeze relaxes me enough to listen to music. I scroll through my Spotify playlists until I find the song that I can listen to on repeat. ‘[2]Believer’ by Imagine Dragons.
I walk down the street. Cars drive past, their headlights glaring out, casting silver light upon the tall trees, gardens and driveways. The shadow of my figure grew, turning into a giant, growing taller and taller until the car passed me. Thus, the giant version of me plummets, vanishing, hiding within, lying dormant once more.
The local ‘servo’, as Dad calls it, is near my place. It is a convenient place for him to add to his addiction, as well as it has been my escape for some time. The twenty-four-seven service station lights up, a beaker in the night—a white Toyota Corolla car is parked out the front, shiny and a new model. I know because I’ve seen it in the school parking lot. I have imagined myself inside of it, fiddling around with the large touchscreen display it has and listening to the smooth, quiet hum as it rumbles to life. If it gets too much at home, I’ll curl up in the back seat—because obviously, it will be super comfortable—and sleep there for the night.
The automated doors open on sight.
The beer is at the back of the service station. I walk past the aisle, a person I recognise catches my sights. Conner gazes at the various flavours of chips. His hazel eyes are concentrating. It almost looks like his glare is hoping that any flavour of chips will pop out of the rack.
A sharp pain hit my arm, and I hiss while stepping away from the display of gummy lollies that rattled from the collision. Conner tears his sights away from the chips and flickers a look at me. I hold my arm that throbs while clutching the coins and a few notes within my grasp. Conner grabs a bag of chips—chicken—and walks towards me. I lower my sights and move away from the aisle, and head to the display of beers in the fridge. I wait there longer than usual, my music on mute as I listen to the cash register pop open and Conner murmurs ‘thank you’.
I reach into the fridge, grab the six-pack of beer and go over to James—the night worker. He doesn’t say anything when I place the six-pack on the counter. He knows Dad. Every worker here knows Dad. They also know what he can do, so they turn a blind eye when I come here with loose change. They sympathise with me or feel guilty if they witness another incident like the last time I went home without a six-pack of my dad’s favourite beer brand.
James places the six-pack in a flimsy plastic bag, slipping a snickers bar in there as well. I strain a smile before heading out. And that’s when my stomach drops, and my insides churn. Conner is outside the door of his car, cigarette between fingers. Beside him, the other car door closes, and two people come towards me dressed in black and blue. The buckle around their waists are holding guns, and they both have that look of suspicion.
I duck my head, hoping they don’t notice me and walk past when the younger policeman says, ‘Hey.’
I still, the chills shuddering. My maladaptive daydreaming appears as I imagine myself being agile enough to flee from two police officers. I dream of being the fastest runner in the world and escaping the confines of the police officers with a six-pack of beer I’m not supposed to have.
‘What’s in the bag?’ the police officer asks.
I’m stupid. The bag I hold is clear. He can see what I’m clutching, and he grows much more suspicious as he steps towards me.
‘It’s…’
I think of coming clean, telling them the situation with Dad comes to mind, but then will they believe me? Or will they drive me home, exposing the words that I said about Dad? Then, when they leave, the terror and horrors I have pushed in the back of my mind will free themselves. Then, as I crumble into the dirty carpet, will I see Mum in a corner crying again as she watches the bruises come to life over my body?
Somebody appears beside me.
‘It’s mine,’ Conner says as he takes the bag from me. ‘I couldn’t carry it, so I left it on the counter to come back for….’
I try to keep a passive expression and play into what he’s saying, but the surprise can’t help but leak out at how persuasive his words are—and for the fact that he came over to help me.
Conner goes into the plastic bag and hands me the snickers bar as he says, ‘Oh… this must be yours.’
‘Can I see some form of identification?’ the older police officer asks.
Conner goes into his pocket, takes out his phone, unfolds the front, and hands them his driver’s licence. The police officer looks at it briefly before handing it back to Conner.
‘Have a good night.’
That’s it? I was expecting them to take out their notepad and write our names and phone numbers down. Or for them to question me further, and if I’m being honest, I’ll probably crumble under pressure.
Conner drops the cigarette on the ground and squishes it with his shoe until the orange glow fades.
‘Why did you help me?’ I ask.
He shrugs, answering, ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
I bite the inside of my cheek. When I reach for the bag, Conner walks towards his car.
‘I’ll drive you home. You don’t want to get caught walking home with this. They will more than likely follow.’
The younger police officer watches us through the clear glass while the other officer is at the counter. I then nod a few times and follow Conner to his car. I slide in the passenger seat, confirming the comfort that I imagined within my mind. The car hums to life, and Conner slowly reverses out, making me know that he is a cautious driver. Even I don’t reverse this slowly… but then again, Dad’s car jolts, so it’s hard not to fly back when I add a little pressure when I accelerate.
‘Which way?’ he asks when he heads to the exit.
I tell him my street, and he knows immediately, turning right into the dead of night.
I don’t know Conner well. This is the first time we have ever spoken to one another. I have seen him in art. Year eleven and twelve students share electives. I only did art because Mrs Jones told me years ago that it would ease some of my daydreaming if I expressed what I thought. It helps somewhat, but not enough. However, I enjoy art. I have gotten three awards for the work I produce. Mr Rogers says I have a unique, imaginative touch. But, from afar, I would admire Conner’s realism when he drew or painted.
I remember Mr Rogers wanted us to go outside and find something to draw. Conner and I sat in silence as we sketched the same tree. Mine became twisted, darker, the thorns were sharper, and something out of a horror movie. Conner’s was realistic, drawing the leaves how he saw it, and it was the realism that I envied but also accepted. Everyone’s brains are wired differently, and I am more on the imaginative, fictional side.
Conner stops the car a few houses down from mine. I don’t want him to hear anything and hope this is far enough for the sounds to become muffled. And if he does, I can easily lie and tell him that my neighbours are loud, and he won’t know.
I grab my bag and go to open the door when Conner asks, ‘Why are you buying a six-pack? And why did the guy working let you buy it?’
‘Uh…’
My mouth goes dry.
It was silent up until now. If anything, I expect a ‘goodbye’ before I step out of the car. I didn’t think Conner would ask me anything. He is much more observant than I give him credit for, so I will sticky note that in the back of my mind for if we ever reencounter each other.
‘I have a fake I.D,’ I lie.
‘Really?’ he asks, bemused. ‘Why didn’t you just say that to the cops?’
‘Because it isn’t a very good one,’ I answer. ‘Besides, police officers scare me.’
Lowering my sights, I clutch the door handle.
‘Why?’
I feel him lean over, interested in the conversation.
I shake my head, take a deep breath and force a smile as I say, ‘Thanks for the ride, Conner.’
I push the door open.
‘Noya, wait.’
I still, turning to face him. His hazel eyes are dark, and his short light brown hair falls forward when he looks down at the cupholder. I do the same and notice the snickers bar. I take hold and step out.
Conner leans comfortably back in his seat and says, ‘I’ll see you in Creative Arts tomorrow.’
I go to close the door when I hear Dad shouting. I flinch, my eyes widen, and the colour drains from my face. Conner furrows his brows while looking ahead, a few houses down… to my house. I quickly close the door, step on the path, and wave, but Conner isn’t leaving. Instead, he winds down his window and leans across.
‘I’ll wait until you get up to your door.’ He darts a look over at my house again, back, then ‘Your street isn’t really that safe.’
My street is safe. It is my home that isn’t. However, I am still pushing the narrative that I live here, at my neighbours’ home. But I don’t live here. My elderly neighbour, who tends to her gardens mischievously, overlooks the drama from two doors down, judging my family and me quietly.
All the lights are off. I thank the elderly lady for sleeping way too early and being hard of hearing.
I walk up the clean pathway. On either side of me, her garden flourishes, one of the few well-taken gardens on the street. Conner still waits, but his sights are on the loud shouting coming two doors down. I go up the veranda steps, my stomach plummeting when the sensor lights blink on. A shaky breath escapes suddenly parch lips when I’m at the door. Then, as I ‘search’ for my keys, Conner does a U-turn, driving back the way he came. I exhale deeply, and I go down the steps when the door behind me opens.
‘Noya?’ she questions. ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the night?’
‘Uh… sorry, Mrs Crawford,’ I say. ‘I just needed somewhere to hang before heading home.’
Then, it is as if her hearing is more prominent as she leans further out, hearing the symphony of crying and shouting happening two doors down.
‘You can come in if you like, dear?’
‘No, it’s fine. I just need a breath of fresh air. Sorry to have woken you up.’
‘Okay… well… take care, dear.’
I quicken my pace down the wooden steps. I instinctively look right first, the way Conner went, before heading to my home and to the alarming sounds of—hopefully—Dad getting murdered.
[1] ‘Bedroom Ceiling’ by Citizen Soldier
[2] ‘Believer’ by Imagine Dragons
Trigger warnings for this book: highly dysfunctional family dynamics, sexual harassment, bullying, extreme violence, emotional abuse, physical abuse
Noya is a seventeen year old girl who often daydreams to escape her reality. She lives in a world where she is constantly in a fight or flight mode, and she never feels safe. Noya wants to be invisible, because if she is invisible she can slip through life without too much trouble. But when she catches the eye of a boy at her school, she quickly realizes she does not need to be invisible, after all.
This story is a easy read - I was drawn in right away, and could not wait to find out what was going to happen with Noya. I was rooting for her to receive the help and support she so desperately needed, and I was enthralled with the romance between her and Conner.
However, this book was marketed as a romance and I think it would be better suited as a coming of age story. Throughout the story, Noya is finding her way and learning who she is. She begins to stand up to her demons, and fights for the life she knew she always deserved. I found this aspect much more compelling than the love story (and it was actually much more believable than the romance -- the way they quickly fell in love and moved so fast did not feel realistic to me in the slightest).
This book could also use a huge edit. I found many grammar errors and mis-spellings throughout the book. I think having a few more eyes on this book before publication would have helped clean the grammar and maybe editing a few of the unrealistic parts would help.
Overall, I enjoyed this read and I would recommend it to readers who enjoy coming of age stories, books about mental health, and anyone who has used music as a coping skill.