Best Australian Yarn: Loved by Abigail Smith

The awkward scraping sounds of cutlery on cheap plastic plates filled the air. I could feel my stepfather Adrian’s rage-filled glare bore into me, but I refused to look; arranging my long hair over my shoulder to obscure his face as I pushed the unappetizing microwave meal around my plate. My mother’s stiff attempts at creating small talk had ceased, replaced by relentless silence and repulsive chewing noises from Adrian. I stifled the urge to reach for the sanitizer, to pump the nozzle until the feeling of unworthiness was washed away. My mother’s gaze dared me to grasp the bottle, dared me to trigger Adrian again. My eyes flicked to the purplish bruise blooming on her gaunt cheek. I wouldn’t, for her sake. Suddenly, Adrian wrenched his chair back and stood up aggressively. I flinched unconsciously.

“Kitchen. Now.” He growled, cracking his knuckles. I didn’t even have to look up to know he was speaking to me. I rose to my feet unsteadily and winced as his cigarette-stained fingernails dug into the soft flesh at the nape of my neck. He dragged me into the kitchen and slammed the door shut. I flinched at the jarring sound. I desperately opened my mouth to say something, anything to cushion what would be coming.

“Adrian, I- “

My pathetic mewling was abruptly cut off as Adrian backhanded me across my face. Silent hot tears cascaded down my hollow cheeks as I glared stubbornly at the chipped kitchen tiles. I retreated to the muted place in my mind, away from the pain and humiliation at hand. Time seemed to slow, taking on a sluggish feel. My senses dulled as I withdrew further into my mind. I barely registered when he stopped taking his anger out on me and left the kitchen. When I came back to my senses I was slumped on the floor, face bruised and bleeding. I didn’t recall how many times he hit me, only that it hurt like crazy. I lurched into the bathroom and groggily inspected the wound in the mirror. The skin had torn, revealing ragged edges and blood. So much blood. A sudden wave of nausea crashed into me, and I retched into the sink. Wiping vomit from my lip, I staggered into my bedroom and weakly shut the door. I collapsed onto my bed, trembling. The ceiling swam in and out of view before me, the tiny glow-in-the-dark stars my mum had painstakingly pasted up there were shining feebly. I reached for the tiny picture frame on my bedside table and stared longingly into the smiling eyes of my father. My real father. The only figure in my life who hadn’t been around long enough to have a bad influence. I hugged the picture to my chest and closed my eyes. With my fathers face fresh in my mind; I let sleep claim me.

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I was flying. My father had me clasped in his arms and was whirling me around and around and around. The tall grass beneath his feet swayed in the warm spring breeze.

“Higher, Daddy! Higher!” I squealed, eyes sparkling with joy.

“Careful, buttercup!” My father chuckled, holding my hands, and spinning me around. The daisy crown perched on my head fell off, borne aloft by the wind. I squirmed, vainly trying to reach it. My father lowered me to the ground, and I scampered off into the grass, following the ring of flowers as it flew above my reach. Once I had it clasped tightly in my chubby fingers, I toddled back to my father, eager to resume the fun. I could see him there; arms open wide and crouched on one knee. I raced towards him, but he just seemed to get further away from me every step I took. I started to cry, fat tears rolling down my face. At this point, my father was so far away I couldn’t make out the expression on his face. I stumbled and fell, tripping over a large item. I looked down with my eyes still full of tears and picked up the object. It was an off white and had a peculiar, curved shape. My four-year-old brain made the connections too slowly. It was a bone. I looked up, expecting to see my father in the far distance by now. But he was there, crouched in front of me; his kind brown eyes filled with concern. I reached out to him, sobbing with relief, expecting to be taken into his warm embrace. But as soon as our bodies made contact, he dissolved in a flurry of butterflies. I fell onto the soft dirt, scraping my palms. I scrambled to my feet and gazed after the swarm of insects, eyes welling with fresh tears. I collapsed to my knees and wailed, a high keening cry of grief. A feeble flutter in my tightly closed fist snapped me back to attention. Cautiously, I opened my hand, expecting to see something terrifying at the very least. Instead, it was a single butterfly.

I awoke in a cold sweat, my heart thumping. My pillow was stained with blood and tears. The photo frame had fallen and smashed on the ground. My father smiled up at me from the frame, serene despite his world having been desiccated around him. A sudden wave of rage crashed over me. It was all his fault. His fault that my mother had married Adrian. If only my father, my real father, hadn’t died… What was I thinking! None of this was my father’s fault, it was all Adrian. If only there was a way I could get rid of him... That’s when it hit me. Tumbling to the floor with my sheet tangled around my waist, I lifted up a corner of the thin carpet to reveal the floorboards beneath. I dug my chewed fingernails into the crack between two panels and lifted the wood up a fraction. Reaching for an abandoned shoe on the ground, I wedged it into the crack and drew a faded box out of the hollowed-out crevasse beneath the panel. Trembling with fear that Adrian may catch me in the act, I replaced the wood and the carpet and drew in a ragged breath. With quivering fingers I opened the box, revealing the forbidden phone within. I closed my eyes and breathed. Once. Twice. Three times. My eyes flew open, and I grasped the phone with resolve.

I can do this, I thought. I unlocked the phone and dialled in the only number I knew.

“This is triple 0, what’s your emergency?”