My name is Martha Markov. I’m eighteen. I’m standing behind the bleachers. I’m at Blue Ridge High School. My name is Martha Markov. I’m eighteen.
Reiterating facts doesn’t help me.
I take another drag on my cigarette. I hold it for a moment before exhaling slowly. Everyone has their nervous habits to help them cope. Some people bite their fingernails, some play with their hair. Smoking is my tic—a habit that I picked up when I was ten. It seemed to help my mother after violent disagreements with her boyfriends, and now it seems to ‘help’ me.
I was never anxious about the endless string of men that passed through our doors. Most nights, they never made it out of the bar with my mother—and when they did—they never stayed for long. I was anxious about whether the police would come and take me away. I was anxious that my father would never come home. I was anxious that my brother’s tolerance would finally reach its capacity, and he would leave. I was right to be anxious about those things. After all, they came to fruition.
But those instances are nothing compared to the reason why I continue to smoke.
I flick my cigarette to the ground and put it out with the toe of my white chucks, tilting my head back as I blow out a plume of smoke. I close my eyes for a moment, allowing the sunlight to caress my face. Already, students are moving about the parking lot—a sign that the bell will ring at any moment.
Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn to see a familiar face. Beeler Moor stands in front of me, with his wavy chestnut hair and a freckled face that glows with happiness. His joy even touches his crystal blue eyes. I suppose it’s only fitting that his face tells you exactly what he is feeling, since he is unable to speak.
“I thought I would find you here,” he signs. “I could smell you from the gym.”
I allow him a small smile. Beeler Moor has been my only friend since preschool. I was an outcast because I smelled bad and had ratty hair. He was an outcast because the other kids couldn’t understand that he was mute, not mentally challenged. B—as I call him—eventually went from being my best friend to being my legally adopted brother.
My stomach sinks as the electronic bell assaults the intercom speakers, but B’s grin widens. For him, the end of the day means getting to go home. For me, it means returning to the place that haunts me. Once I found it to be a haven—a home that protected me from the choices of my biological parents.
Now, it is a house of horrors.
