Chapter 9

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Linkin Park – "Numb"

The morning greeted Sky with an unnatural, almost ringing silence when she returned home after her night shift at the record store. Her old shoes trod heavily on the immaculately clean paths in the conservative part of The Heights, where every house seemed to have been built from a single, socially approved blueprint.

Her own home was no exception. Neat, with a perfectly manicured lawn and well-tended flowerbeds, it looked "perfect," like a picture from a catalog. Every object inside, from the impeccably arranged figurines on the mantelpiece to the perfectly made beds, was in its place. There was no room for chaos or rebellion here, not a hint of scattered cables, worn-out amplifiers, or graffiti on the walls. It was a kingdom of order, where any dissonance seemed forbidden.

But the atmosphere within was heavy, thick, filled with an unspoken tension that Sky felt from the moment she walked in. It hung in the air like an invisible cloud, making it hard to breathe. The air in the house was saturated with the cloying smell of cleanliness and lavender, which she hated. This sickly sweet, suffocating aroma made her feel like she was choking, as if someone were trying to gag her. It was the complete opposite of the acrid smell of cigarettes and sweat from "The Noise Box," which, though harsh, gave her a sense of freedom.

Her throat tightened, and she felt a familiar nausea. Her chest constricted, as if invisible bands were squeezing her lungs. Here, it seemed, you couldn't breathe deeply, couldn't be yourself. Every rustle, every creak of the old floorboards seemed to be a harbinger of something unpleasant. She felt like a foreign element in this sterile space, and it filled her with a deep sense of aversion.

She had lived within these walls for twenty years. For twenty years, this perfect facade, this impeccable order, had tried to drown out her own voice, to erase the real her, to lock her within someone else's framework. This house, this false "ideal," was just another layer of the "barbed wire" she had to break through every time she wanted to be herself. And every time, it was just as painful.

Sky had barely thrown her leather jacket onto a chair in the hallway when Caroline's voice came from the living room. The voice was perfectly even, devoid of any emotional nuance, but Sky knew that steel was hidden beneath that flawlessness. It was a voice that could wound more deeply than any scream, steeped in a passive aggression that was impossible to defend against. Sky took a deep breath. The fatigue from her night shift clung to her, fogging her mind, but it made every nerve cell vibrate.

She entered the living room. Caroline sat in an armchair with a straight back, her flawless hairstyle not a millimeter out of place. She wore a neat, nude-colored suit that fit perfectly with the "ideal facade" of the house. Her gaze, directed at Sky, was cold but expressed no direct aggression. It held only a polite disapproval that was far worse than open anger. It was a look Sky had known for all her twenty years.

— Ah, Sky, you're home? — Caroline's voice was soft, almost affectionate, but it held not a drop of genuine care, only a subtle hint that Sky had violated some unspoken schedule.

— Yeah, — Sky shrugged, trying to make her voice sound as indifferent as possible.

Caroline sighed. It was a quiet, barely audible sigh, but it carried such a trail of disappointment that Sky felt goosebumps run down her skin.

— I worry about you, Sky, — her mother began, and Sky felt the familiar wave of irritation rise within her. — Your job at that… music store. It's not serious, dear. And your hobby… punk rock. You understand, this isn't what we wanted for you.

— I'm happy, Mom. It's my life, and I'm doing what I want, — Sky's voice grew a little sharper.

Caroline just tilted her head slightly.

— Happy, you say? You don't look happy at all, dear. Always tired, always in those… ripped jeans. When are you going to find a normal job, Sky? One that will allow you to be someone in this world? With prospects. You're so talented. You could have been anything. An engineer, a lawyer. We invested so much in you… — the last phrase, spoken with an almost tender intonation, felt like the crack of a whip to Sky.

Sky felt the anger rise in her throat.

— My life? Or is this something you're doing to spite us? — a subtle note of reproach entered her voice.

— I'm not doing it to spite you, Mom. I'm doing it for myself.

— For yourself? And this 'for yourself' has led you to hauling records for pennies at night and screaming in a basement while all the normal girls are building their lives? — Caroline didn't raise her voice. She just pressed her lips into a thin line, and her eyes, like two pieces of ice, bored into Sky. — You're so talented. You could have been anyone. But you choose this.

She gestured with her hand at the unseen space, as if talking about something dirty and unacceptable that had stained their perfect home. Sky felt her rebellion, her defense, intensify. Fury slowly simmered inside her, but she knew that screaming was useless. Caroline always won these "soft" battles. The struggle for self-identity was a constant, exhausting battle for Sky, and every conversation like this with her mother only deepened her trauma. She desperately needed someone who would understand her, who would accept her as she was, without trying to change her, who wouldn't demand she be "normal."

Caroline continued, her even, passively-aggressive voice coiling around Sky like a snake.

— You're so talented. You could have been anyone. But you choose this, — then, as if on purpose, she said: — Your father is also upset by your behavior. He wanted so much for you to…

The mention of her father, Thomas, was the trigger for Sky. The world around her went dark. The flawless living room dissolved into a fog, and Sky found herself somewhere in another time. It was a short, sharp flashback, like an acute spasm.

Instead of the quiet, suffocating walls, she was surrounded by an oppressive silence. Then came a sound. Not a scream. It was her father's rising voice, low, deep, but filled with such fury that the walls themselves seemed to vibrate. It was followed by another sound—a dull thud that made her body instinctively tense, anticipating pain.

It was the feeling of fear, pure, primal fear, that she had felt as a child when she awaited punishment for her "otherness." She tasted the metallic tang of adrenaline in her mouth.

Her body froze. She was there again, a little girl curled into a ball, trying to become invisible. She felt a viscous, paralyzing fear seize her, making it impossible to breathe. This memory explained her fierce independence, her unwillingness to submit. Cynicism, sarcasm, irony—it was all a shield she had forged from the fragments of her soul to protect herself. They were her "barbed wire," behind which she hid her vulnerability.

The flashback ended as abruptly as it had begun. Sky was back in the living room. Caroline was still sitting opposite her, her gaze full of expectation.

— I'll ask your father to speak with you as soon as he gets home from work, — Caroline's voice was soft, but it held an unshakeable resolve that, for Sky, was worse than any shout. It wasn't a suggestion; it was the announcement of a sentence.

These memories were painful, but they explained her character, her motives, her deeply buried fear. They were the indelible ink of her past, forever imprinted on her soul. And now, looking at her mother, Sky felt a new wave of determination ignite within her—she would not let them break her.

The pain from the flashback still throbbed in her temples. Caroline continued to talk about a "proper" future, her voice enveloping her, trying to suffocate. In response to this pressure, Sky felt a wave of familiar, furious resistance rise up inside her. She defiantly adjusted the sleeve of her gray sweatshirt. The fabric slid down, revealing her right wrist. There, standing out clearly on her pale skin, was the tattoo—a stylized broken piano surrounded by tongues of flame.

For a moment, the world vanished again. She was transported to a stuffy, smoke-filled tattoo parlor. The pain of the needle piercing her skin was sharp but welcome, because it drowned out another, much deeper pain.

— Exactly like this? — the tattoo artist's hoarse voice sounded nearby.

— Exactly, — a young, even thinner Sky replied, her eyes burning with determination. On the sketch she had brought was that very same broken piano in flames, which she had drawn herself. She remembered how her hand had trembled as she drew those lines.

— This is to spite her, right? — the tattoo artist smirked.

— It's mine, — Sky whispered. It wasn't just a drawing; it was her scream, her manifesto. The pain of the needle was nothing compared to the pain from her father's beatings and her mother's pressure. This tattoo was meant to be her reminder that she was different.

The flashback ended.

— It's mine, — she snapped curtly at Caroline, her voice as hard as steel. There was no shouting in her words, only unshakeable resolve.

The tattoo symbolized not only her pain and her rejection of expectations, but also her deep connection to music, which had also once been broken. The broken piano—her lost harmony; the flames—her fury and her rebellion. It was the indelible ink of her past, her present, and her eternal protest.

Caroline just narrowed her eyes slightly, her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing. Sky saw that her words and the tattoo, this open challenge, had hit their mark. Her rebellion, her independence, her unwillingness to submit—it was all etched onto her skin. It was her internal struggle brought to the surface, and it gave her a strange sense of power. She was not a "normal" daughter, and she never would be. And in that moment, Sky felt stronger than ever.

The conversation with her mother ended in nothing. Sky didn't linger for a second. The walls of this "perfect" house suddenly began to press in on her with triple the force. The air, saturated with the hated scent of lavender, felt suffocating.

She burst out the door, nearly running into the perfectly trimmed bushes, and almost ran, trying to get away from this place, from this oppressive silence, from this endless judgment. The need to escape was acute, almost physical.

She raced down the street, her heavy boots beating out a rhythm of desperate flight. All around were the same "perfect" houses, the same neat lawns. Fury at her own helplessness flared up inside.

Her fingers, trembling with nervous tension, grabbed her phone from the pocket of her leather jacket. Thoughts of Ethan—his devastation, his silent presence, his eyes in which she saw something kindred—intertwined with her own irritation. Her rebelliousness was not just a protest, but a desperate search. A search for someone who would see the real her, behind all the "barbed wire," who wouldn't try to "normalize" her.

The tears that Sky had so carefully held back suddenly streamed down, burning her cheeks. She hated her weakness but couldn't do anything about it. Her breath caught, and she felt her usual cynicism, her shield, crack at the seams. She needed someone. Someone who wouldn't judge.

With trembling fingers, she dialed Chloe's number. One ring, a second.

— Chloe, — Sky's voice broke into a sob. — I… I can't be here anymore. She… she won't let go. Can… can I stay with you for a while? Please…

— Sky? What happened? Are you crying? — Chloe's soft, calm voice came from the other end. There was no surprise in it, no judgment, only pure, genuine empathy. — Of course, you can stay. Forever, if you want. I'm on my way. Where are you?

— I… I left the house. I'm just walking somewhere. I don't know where. I… I just have to get out of here, — Sky's words were jumbled.

— Don't go anywhere, Sky, — Chloe's voice became more resolute, and Sky felt that resolve, like an anchor, steady her a little. — Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you now. Where are you? Tell me the nearest intersection.

— Central Avenue, intersection with Paterson, I think… I'm somewhere around here, — Sky said.

— Central and Paterson? Got it, — Chloe's voice sounded casual, but there was a firmness in it. — Five minutes, Sky. You know my old Camaro won't let you down. Just don't be surprised if we pick up someone from a bus stop on the way—gas is expensive these days, and that car's a guzzler.

A light, kind irony, understood only by the two of them, was in her words.

The dial tone. Chloe had hung up. Sky lowered her phone, her shoulders still shaking, but now not just from pain, but from a strange sense of relief. She wasn't alone. She knew that Chloe, the only one who saw right through her, would understand and accept her as she was—broken, but searching. She waited for Chloe, who promised not just an escape, but the beginning of a new, albeit unpredictable, path.

The cool morning wind chilled Sky to the bone as she stood at the intersection, trying to stop shivering. After a few minutes, the familiar, low rumble of an engine broke the silence. Chloe's old Chevrolet Camaro, faded, with a couple of new scratches on a dented fender, pulled up to the curb. The passenger-side door swung open with a characteristic creak.

— Hop in, Sky, — Chloe's voice was even, without a hint of panic, but her eyes were full of a quiet, understanding empathy.

Without a word, Sky collapsed onto the sagging seat. The interior smelled of a mix of stale smoke, dust, and something elusively metallic. The door slammed shut with a dull thud. Chloe, asking no questions, immediately pulled away, and the old Camaro, after a sputter, shot forward, leaving the conservative part of The Heights behind.

— So, talk, — Chloe said, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. — Or just breathe. Your call.

Sky took a deep breath. Chloe's presence, her calmness, this familiar support, began to work.

— She… she started again. About a 'normal job,' about me being 'not serious,' — Sky's voice trembled. — And about Dad… she said he wants to talk to me.

The last words were a struggle, and the metallic taste of fear returned to her mouth.

— I figured as much, — Chloe nodded. Her tone was devoid of judgment, only a bitter understanding. — That 'perfect facade' is always ready to crack. You should have gotten out of there sooner. Or at least pretended you were going to be an accountant.

A light, familiar irony was in her voice. Sky sniffled, but then a faint warmth started to grow in her chest.

— Very funny, Chlo. I don't have the money for a proper act. And what for, anyway?

— Exactly, — Chloe shot her a quick glance. — What for? You weren't born to pretend.

She turned on the radio, and a raspy but familiar punk rock song poured from the old speakers. The music that had always been their sanctuary.

— She said Dad is upset, — Sky started crying again. — And that he wants to talk to me. You know, Chlo. You know what that means.

Chloe gripped the steering wheel sharply, her knuckles turning white.

— I know, Sky. I know, — her voice was quiet but full of a hidden fury. — That bastard… I thought he'd at least partially left you alone. Why is he starting again?

— I don't know. She was pushing. About how I look, about the band. Said I was embarrassing them, — Sky buried her face in her hands. — I hate it, Chlo. I hate that house, that smell of lavender, their 'best wishes.'

Chloe reached out a free hand and placed it on Sky's shoulder, squeezing gently.

— Shh, easy, Sky. You're not embarrassing anyone. You are you. And you're the most real person I know. And them… they're just afraid of anything they can't control. Especially you, — deep empathy was in her voice. — You're strong, Sky. You always get through it.

— But I'm tired, Chlo. I'm so tired of fighting, — Sky whispered. — I just want to be left alone. Or… for someone to just understand me. Without all the 'shoulds' and 'why nots.'

— I understand, Sky, — the grip on her shoulder tightened. — I understand.

They drove through the waking morning streets of Jersey City. Sky gradually calmed down, the tension receding. They talked about the band, about future gigs, about how Liam must be "pissed off again," but these conversations were just a background to the main thing—the silent understanding that connected them.

Finally, the old Camaro stopped in front of Chloe's worn-out apartment building. Inside, it smelled of old books, dust, and something sharp, like paint or solvent—the smells of freedom, unlike the lavender suffocation of her parents' house. Chloe pointed Sky to a small sofa in the corner of the living room.

— Here's your fortress. Not a palace, of course, but no one will bother you here. Want some hot tea? Or… something stronger? — she smiled slightly.

— Just… sleep, — Sky shook her head.

— Sleep. I'm here, — Chloe patted her on the shoulder, and the touch was firm and reassuring. She brought Sky an old, soft pillow and a warm blanket.

Sky collapsed onto the sofa. The soft blanket enveloped her, and she felt her eyelids grow heavy. The last thing she remembered was the faint smell of cigarettes and dust, mixed with the smell of Chloe's old car, and a barely perceptible sense of security she hadn't felt in so long. A single tear slowly rolled down her cheek, which was already burned by salty tears. But this time, it was not a tear of pain or despair. It was a tear of exhaustion, of relief, and… a thin, faint smile touched her lips.