Thistlewood

This story is by Tilda Wolf and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Disobedience doesn’t come naturally, but it wouldn’t, the way I was raised. With moments to decide whether to stay or jump out of the window, I choose the window. Shove in my headphones, close my eyes, and await the impact, crushing the hedge below. It springs back when I roll out, the twigs scraping my flesh. Toppling the garden gnome, it stares at me as I claw the earth to force myself onto my feet. Every drum beat and guitar riff drives me forward.

 

Bolting to the opposite side of Foxglove Close, down the alley, I jump the fence and peer through a missing knot. The volumes turned up to drown out my worries, creating a bubble that only the lyrics can penetrate. Holding my breath, I’m startled by a warmth pressing against my leg. The local tabby bounces back when I flinch; it hisses, giving a warning swipe. Its nudge springs me back onto the street—after the pickup speeds by—searching for a new hiding spot, far from Rosethorn.

 

Headlights send me fleeing into the Forest Road’s foliage, plunging through the undergrowth and grasping at roots. Digging in my heels tumbles me into the decomposing base. The autumnal shedding swallows and suffocates. The insects nibble at my ankles, sitting me to my freedom, kicking off my shoes and throwing my socks.

 

Shaking them off, I tie my laces tight and journey up the bank. The ash canopy dapples moonlight across the asphalt. Sticking to the roadside, I race in time with the bass. Inhaling the petrichor, I wipe away sweat and lose control of my breath when I catch my first glimpse—the Welcome to Thistlewood sign. 

 

I’d never been so pleased to see that piece of metal. I slide down the bank, scrambling towards the promise of shelter. A fallen oak lies sandwiched between a circle of trees. Slouching over it, I press my fingers under my ribs to squash the stitch. The clouds burst, and I taste the rain. No matter how hard it washes over me, the old marks remain. I can’t help but laugh, contemplating my next move. Either way, I will suffer the consequences; why not prolong my freedom? 

 

Wandering the streets of Thistlewood with no place of belonging—after toing and froing—the final outro fell by Moorbridge house. It is forbidden, but its living room is aglow, pulling me close. Tugging my headphones out, I shove them in my bra. It’s better to face rejection than leave not knowing. I use our secret knock, planting on an awkward smile, for the answer. The wooden slot opens and closes, and nothing. My face falls flat. Turning away, the door creaks, “Abby?” 

 

Mum beckons me to rush inside, bolting it behind us. I leave a trail of muddy footprints and droplets on the hardwood floor. Unrepulsed, she squeezes me tight, “Did he hurt you? Abby, you must tell me.” She rubs her hands through my hair and turns my face. “Your top’s torn; what did he do?”

 

I shake my head. “It was a bush. He didn’t, I promise. Mum, can I stay?” Her chest flushes as she squeezes her locket, turning her knuckles white, “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

 

She scoops her curls to one side, “Abby, don’t go. I’ll try, but if he finds you here.” My little sister, Liv, squeals out my nickname (Bee) in delight. Waddling with an oversized cookie jar, Mum attempts to take it. Liv refuses but allows Mum to lift the lid. Wafts of chocolate fudge brownie flood my mouth. Her face lights up after I take my first polite bite. I could wolf it down but drop it when a vehicle door slams outside. Liv picks it up, and I squat to her level; I whisper, “Hide, don’t come out.” She nods, drops the cookie, and runs upstairs.

 

Three thumps rattle the letterbox, sending me into a silent shuffle toward the corner (hiding from view). Chunky, worn fingers shove between the cast iron bars of the viewing slot, preventing Mum from closing it. He draws out his words, sending a chill down my spine. “Emily, I know she’s there… If you don’t open up, I’m breaking it down.”

 

She holds onto the handle, frantically pushing her palm against his fingertips, attempting to shut him out. “Henry, I’ll call the Police.”

 

“Fine,” he spits through gritted teeth. He removes his fingers, scuffing away through the gravel.

 

Mum exhales, but I get a nauseous stirring. When he wants something, he’ll go to any length to get it or destroy it. She carries the cookie jar and places a guiding hand on my shoulder. “I can’t.”

 

“Abby, what’s the matter?” 

 

“This isn’t right.” Shrugging her hand off, I stride towards the door and press my ear against it, “Listen.” Mum puts the jar on the table and comes back. “What is that?” I say. Mum shakes her head and opens the viewing slot. 

 

He drags a sledgehammer through the gravel behind him. Mum shouts, “Abby, get back.”

 

Eyeing us through the bars, he says, “Found you. You know the rules; time to come out.” He smiles menacingly. “See, I’m playing nice; I have another game?”

 

“I’m not playing.” Hide and Seek is his favourite game, but it never ends happily. 

 

Twisting the handle, he presses his face against the bars. “You broke the rules. You don’t want to upset me, do you?”

 

Mum protectively holds me back, “Henry, stop it.” 

 

“Have you heard of three swings, and you’re out?” He swings the hammer into the door, splinting the wood. “Come out, otherwise by the third swing… Well, you know what happens.” Wide eyes dart between us, “Let’s have fun; I know I will.” The second blow, heavier than the last punches in a hole. 

 

Mum’s eyes fill, “Henry, that’s enough.” 

 

Before he can strike the final blow, I shout, “Wait… Please don’t hurt her. I’m coming.” I peel out of Mum’s arms as she pleads for me to stay. I know the rules and must obey. “I love you, Mum… I’m sorry.” I hesitate and she tells me to wait. Pushing me back out of the way, he rams into the door as she turns the handle and collapses when the panel slams against her face. His fingernails dig into my waist as I fight to see if she’s okay. Lifting me off my feet, I scream, “Dad, no.” 

 

Squirming, he loses his grip, dropping me. He pounces and drags me to the truck, tossing me into the passenger seat. Heat rushes up my body. His keys ignite the engine, and the radio plays an orchestral crescendo. My heart pounds in my chest as I tune into the symphony. My ears ring, and my vision blurs. A draining feeling causes my head to go heavy, fighting the faint. It was all worth the slog to know you care. No matter what happens, I will never stop as long as I breathe. One day, I’ll come back to you, back to Thistlewood.