Aloura West | ✓

Chapter Two

Aloura found comfort in the rooftop. She had originally found this place when she had reached the lowest point in her life. She stood at the edge, counting down the seconds before midnight would strike and would officially mark her mother's second death anniversary. But she'd noticed how alive she felt as she struggled to balance onto the edge. How her mind begged her to go back onto safe grounds. The way her heart beat a little faster with every passing second. A ticking reminder that despite the numbness that seemed to submerge her, she was still alive.

Maybe I don't want to die, she'd thought to herself, loosening her grip on the handles behind her. Maybe I just want to feel alive.

She'd wondered if those before her had come to the same conclusion she had. If others religiously came to this rooftop to stand at the edge, scrambling for momentarily feelings of high. She wondered if others too were addicted, if they had one day decided this momentarily high wasn't enough. If they too now sat with her mother in the stars looking down at her. Watching her take the same path they did.

Aloura's mind had wondered to Kaden, she swallowed back the bile as she thought of the possibility of another's hands roaming his body. Aloura pushed through her tears, she didn't want her cry count to become five; she hated odd numbers.

Aloura smiled up at the sky, "how many times have you cried?" She asked the clouds. It thundered back in response, and Aloura giggled quietly. She had embarrassed the sky. In response, the clouds spat down fat droplets onto the ground, and Aloura grinned cheekily. Her eyes caught the blinking star in the distance, and she smiled softly. Her mother was telling her to get home before she got sick.

Aloura was too engrossed with the sky to have noticed the young man that stood below her. He had wanted to call out to the stranger and reassure them there were better options, but he knew his cries would fall upon deaf ears.

He wondered how insignificant he looked down here. Maybe this is why God hasn't been answering my prayers. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as Aloura answered her phone and swung her legs over the edge.

He wasn't sure why he cared if she'd jump or not, he hated people, and people hated him. Maybe his ears were so desperate to hear how things would all be okay, that if he said it aloud he'd be able to convince his eyes it wasn't his lips moving. But without speaking a word to the girl, he'd walked away, his mind replaying how peaceful she looked at the edge. Wishing to the stars he'd one day find his momentarily high.

                                                      ♡ ♡ ♡

Aloura had gotten halfway home before she'd realised how much trouble she'd gotten herself into. It was way past midnight, and her father had expected her to cook his dinner. Part of her wanted to turn around and sleep under the slide in the playground like she had done plenty of times before. But she knew it was impossible when she had work tomorrow.

Aloura grew restless as the familiar building came to review. She wished she could have a resting place, where she sighed in relief when it came in view. But instead, the place she used to race her mother to, became the place she ran from. She found it ironic how she'd been running for so long but not strayed far.

Aloura's shaky hands pressed down onto the cold metal handle, twisting it and pushing the door ajar softly. Her breath held itself in her throat. She was too scared to breathe, this was no way of living. The door creaked softly as Aloura helplessly forced her body through the small gap. The hallway was dark, and no sign of her father greeted her. That is, if you don't consider the mountains of beer bottles that littered the floor a sign. Aloura pushed the door silently, kicking past the heap of unopened bills that lay scattered around the floor.

She made her way into the once comforting home, only to be greeted by her father's snoring figure, sprawled uncomfortably on the couch. The television blared out a random game show. If her situation wasn't so depressing, Aloura would laugh at how money hungry her father was, yet still refused to work.

Aloura walked into the living room, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes permeated through the room. She picked up the remote and switched it off before turning to her snoring father. She knew she had to help him to his room- she didn't want to face the consequences of leaving him on the couch again.

"Come on dad" she groaned hoisting him up. But to no avail, he remained seated, light snores escaping his lips. "Help me please" she groaned to him. Aloura's dad, Michael, was no longer the fitness and health obsessed father everyone seemed to remember him as. He now sported a stubbly beard, opposed to his usual clean-shaven face. His healthy body now larger, a beer belly hanging before him.

Michael groaned at the movement around him, his head was pounding and with every movement his daughter made, his anger seemed to grow. "Where the fuck were you?" he slurred, his eyes half open.

Aloura's body froze at the sound of his voice, "work" she lied through her teeth. "But come on dad, you have to help me get you to bed." Aloura attempted to change the subject, fearful her father would start talking with his hands.

"don't call me das" he snapped, his hand lazily finding Aloura's curls and tugging at them harshly. "Understand?" he forced her head to look down at him. Aloura nodded fearfully, and with another tug at her hair she realised her mistake.

Rule number four: verbal responses. "Yes sir" she muttered. Rule number two: call me sir.

Aloura was never sure why her father had given her such extensive and extreme rules. She'd always believed the sir one was merely a way he detached himself from her, and in turn her mother. I guess he feels less guilty when the girl he's laying his hands on refers to him as sir rather than dad.

"Good bitch" he spat out, his hand connecting with her cheek. His head was now moving in an ungainly manner as Aloura supported his weight. They moved painfully slow across the hall and up the stairs. When they'd reached his room, Aloura used her body to push the door open, before helping his now sleeping body onto the bed. She had originally made no attempt to make him comfortable or cover him, but as she turned to leave, she found herself turning back to him. Hesitantly moving the covers up, before digging through his drawers and placing Advil at the nightstand.

Goodnight, dad. She thought to herself as she stepped out the door. Too fearful to say the words out loud. She wasn't sure if it was his hands on her body that hurt more when she referred to him as dad, or the rejection and disgust that filled his eyes.

Aloura made her way to her room- or if she could call it that. It remained plane and undecorated as before her mother died. They were going to do it together, and it felt too painful to do it without her. Not that she could anyway, Aloura was the sole provider, and with the stacking bills, and her dad's addiction to both alcohol and fags, she barely had any money left for food, let alone decorating.

Parts of Aloura never attempted to decorate in hopes of moving to college, decorating her room would mean she had accepted this prison as her home, and Aloura would draw her last breath before that happened.

Everything was going well, Aloura had saved enough money to help start a life away from her father, but after getting wind of his daughters plans, Michael was quick to spend her hard-earned cash on alcohol and gambling. And Aloura could do nothing to turn back the time and take back her father's detrimental actions.

Aloura laid on her bed, her mind was racing. She hated thinking, she hated being left alone with her mind. It dragged her to dark places she hoped to never revisit again. But with the silence bouncing off the walls, Aloura felt herself submerged yet again, alone, with her dark thoughts.