School became Angie's second home. A place that felt safer, quieter, and just a little more fair. At school, she was seen. Heard. Noticed. She was the kind of student teachers talked about in staffrooms-always early, neat, quiet, but sharp. Her answers were almost always right, and she never needed to raise her hand to be trusted. Still, like any child, she had her moments. Angie was crafty with her hands and curious beyond measure. Whenever she had the chance, she'd sneak crayons, markers, or coloured pens from her teacher's desk. She always returned them. She just… never asked. That part usually got her in trouble with Mrs. David.
But Mrs. David was kind, the sort of teacher kids remembered long after they'd left school. She'd scold Angie in front of the class to make a point, but afterward, when no one was looking, she'd slip her an old set of crayons or a sheet of clean paper. She understood Angie. Or at least, she was trying to.
It started with small things: Angie's butterflies drawn with stunning detail, her silence during break, her way of standing still while others ran and screamed. Mrs. David began paying closer attention. Angie wasn't like the other kids, she had patterns. Some quiet, some odd, some quietly worrying. One day, she called Angie to her desk. Angie rushed forward, thinking she was being given more paper or markers. She was almost bouncing, until she noticed the look on her teacher's face. Not angry. Not happy. Just… careful. The kind of face grown-ups wear when they're about to tiptoe into your mind. "Angie," Mrs. David began softly, "is there anything you'd like to share with me? Anything at all? Maybe… your favourite food at home? Your mom's name? What you did yesterday?" Angie blinked. "I love rice and chicken," she said with a little grin. "But I only eat it when Aunty is happy. My mom is not gone. I'll see her soon." Mrs. David smiled and nodded. Not the real kind, but the polite grown-up kind that hides a thousand questions. "Rice and chicken? That's my favourite too." She handed Angie a fresh set of crayons. Back then, it had just felt like a friendly chat to Angie. But much later, she would realize what those questions truly were soft probes, gentle tests to see if the quiet child was okay.
Mrs. David never stopped asking those questions. Each time, she'd reword them. Smile a little wider. Nod a little slower. And Angie, always the polite student, answered them without knowing she was being watched for something more. At school, Hope had made friends, the twins, Lina and Lira. Angie tried to follow along, but it was hard. The noise, the speed, the loudness of it all, it was too much. So, she learned to only speak when needed. And at home, everything stayed the same: the favouritism, the subtle jabs, the lies buried in politeness. But she was used to it now. She'd stopped expecting love. Stopped expecting to be chosen.
Still, she wasn't completely alone. Her uncle, Joseph, came around sometimes. Not often. But when he did, it felt like sunshine in a cold place. He never looked at her like she was invisible. Never let her go unnoticed. He wasn't always present, he had his own life in a room he built with his own hands, a few blocks away. But when he came over, whether to eat or wash up, and found Angie doing chores while the other kids played, he made a fuss. He'd yell at Catherine, demand fairness, call another kid to take over the task. And for those moments, Angie felt protected. Defended. Loved. She adored him for that. She wished he stayed longer. Wished he lived closer. Wished he didn't have to go. But children don't get to keep the people who make them feel safe. And Angie was slowly learning that sometimes, even the safest places… don't last forever.
Her mind had always been a quiet place, safe, still, and familiar. But lately, it had grown noisy. Loud, even. So loud she could barely hear herself think. Angie didn't do well in her end-of-year exams. Not terribly, but not the way everyone expected her to. She came third. Lira took first place, then Hope, and Lina came just after her. The four of them had always quietly competed, pushing one another further each term. But this time, Angie had fallen behind, and the fall felt deeper than it was. Mrs David, kind as ever, had told her she expected more. But Angie's mind translated that into something else. "You failed. I'm disappointed." That was all she heard. And just like that, her second home, her safe space, no longer felt safe. School became just another place that echoed the same weight as home. The shield that had protected her inner world, the quiet that kept her thoughts in place, was cracking. She began to disappear into herself. She wasn't sure when she'd started feeling invisible again, but it was familiar. It was how she always felt when Catherine looked through her like she didn't exist, like she was just an object taking up space. That same feeling returned now, sharper. The noise in her head grew louder, more twisted. Little voices echoing the same message: You will never be enough, not for your family, not your friends, not even your teacher.
At home, Hope was praised like a queen. Everyone raved over her report card. Angie watched, quietly, trying to understand what it would take to feel seen like that. Maybe if she worked harder… just maybe, someone would love her out loud. Maybe someone would be proud. But time was not on her side. If she wasn't at school, she was working. And like any other child, her heart longed to play, to feel light for just a moment. Still, she made a plan. She would work harder. She would try to earn the love she hadn't yet received. But even in the planning, her mind was still a battlefield. The dreams began not long after. Her mother appeared first in sleep, then in the spaces between waking and drifting. She'd show up beside Angie during her daily chores, watching her with a softness, a silent worry in her eyes. Angie didn't care what the dreams meant, she was just happy to see her again. She started believing her mom was near, maybe her guardian angel. Then, the changes came. Her silence thickened. She became even more withdrawn, detached from the world around her. Catherine noticed but didn't understand. Angie stopped reacting to her commands, simply staring into space when asked to do something unfair. Her rebellion was quiet, motionless, but full of storm.
And the voices? She started listening to them.
Not acting, just listening. She let them whisper their fantasies, dark little ideas, each one plotting revenge against the woman who made her feel worthless. She no longer belonged to the real world. Her mind became her only reality. And her dreams? Her dreams were the only place she wanted to be, because they were the only place her mother still lived. She grew curious. About movement. About bodies. About what lived inside things. Ants, grasshoppers, small creatures with tiny organs and unknown systems. What powered them? What would happen if she opened one and tried to sew it shut again? Could it live? For how long? The same thoughts turned toward people. What was inside us? She'd seen her own blood before. Cuts from knives, scrapes from falls. But she wondered what lay beyond the surface. What would happen if the cut went deeper?
The questions stayed in her head, haunting and unanswered. She never acted, but she thought. And somewhere between her silence and her mind's noise, the world began to feel unreal. Like she wasn't living anymore. Just existing. Just... passing through.
One night, the voices in Angie's head didn't whisper, they roared. It happened when Pearl, her own sister, ate the food Angie had saved for herself.
Angie and Pearl never had the closeness people expected of sisters. They didn't share warmth or whispers in the dark. Pearl clung to Hope, as if Angie's presence meant nothing, and that stung in places Angie couldn't name. Still, she tried to ignore it, bury it, and move on. But some things don't stay buried. Not when they come with hunger. At home, mealtime was a battlefield. Too many children, too few plates, and the boys, their hunger louder than anyone's, always finished first. Angie, small and quiet, never stood a chance. So, she created her own way. Her survival plan.
When the food came out, she brought a little bowl. She would sit with the others, eyes fixed on the fastest eater. Each time they reached for food, she would mirror them, scoop for scoop, but instead of eating, she slipped the food into her bowl. When the shared plate was empty and the others began to laugh or talk, Angie would vanish into her quiet spot and finally eat in peace. It was the only control she had.
But on that day, Pearl followed her. "Can I please eat with you?" she asked softly. Angie shook her head. "No. But I can give you a bit. I haven't eaten, and I'm starving." Pearl didn't care. She reached, grabbed the bowl, and ran before Angie could protest. Ran straight to Hope and the boys. Angie sat still, holding a single piece of meat in her hand as she watched them laugh and devour her food. They didn't just eat it, they took pride in it, in the cruelty of it.
She felt the silence in her chest turn to something else, pressure. Her grip on the meat tightened. Her heart pounded. Her ears rang. But she didn't move. She only watched. Pearl laughed the loudest. When the food was gone, Pearl came bouncing back, empty bowl in hand, wearing a smile that looked like triumph. "Here," she said, shoving the bowl at Angie. Angie stood up slowly and took it. Her hands were gentle, but her eyes weren't. She turned and then turned back. The bowl flew from her hands like it had a will of its own, crashing against Pearl's back. She was aiming for her head. Pearl screamed and turned around, pain in her eyes. Angie didn't flinch. She was smiling. It wasn't joy. It was release. It was rebellion. A taste of what it felt like to fight back. Pearl shouted for help. Catherine came running. And Angie knew what came next.
Catherine's wrath was never subtle. She stormed forward, wooden spoon in hand, anger written all over her face. Angie didn't wait for her name to be called. She ran. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, barefoot through the dust, her breath sharp, her heart sharper. She knew Catherine wanted to hurt her, really hurt her. And this time, Angie wasn't going to let her. She ran straight to Uncle Joseph's house. It was the only place that ever offered her a sense of safety. But when she arrived, the doors were shut. Locked. No one answered. So, she sat on the doorstep. Not because she had no other choice, but because for the first time, she chose not to return. She chose not to obey. She chose silence over punishment.
Night crept in slowly. The wind grew colder, rising from the river and slicing through the holes in her old blue skirt. That was all she wore, no shirt, no shoes. Just that skirt, thin and torn. Her stomach growled. Her skin shivered. Still, she stayed. She knew Catherine was at home, waiting for her. But Angie wasn't going back. Not now. Maybe not ever. The cries of hyenas echoed in the distance, wild and hollow. The kind of sound that once sent her hiding under bedsheets. Now, she just listened.
She wasn't afraid. Not of the dark. Not of the animals. Not even of dying. She was angry. And beneath that anger, something colder stirred: hatred. It didn't consume her. It settled inside her like something she could live with. Like something earned. She sat upright, eyes open, body frozen but heart burning. She stared at the shadows around her, daring them to move. Deep down, she wanted something to happen. Something big. Something to match the storm inside her.
And in that moment, she realized what she truly longed for wasn't comfort, it was disappearance. She didn't want to be found. She didn't want to be seen. She wanted to cease, even for a moment. To slip into nothingness where there were no rules, no spoons, no betrayal, no Pearl. That was the shift. The moment obedience died, and something else, something wild, was born. She wasn't the same Angie anymore. She had tasted the power of disobedience. And it didn't taste like guilt.
It tasted like freedom.