As the school year drew to a close, the air buzzed with the excitement of freedom. At school, the halls emptied and laughter spilled out as children eagerly awaited the long holiday ahead. For most, the thought of staying home for months was a blessing, a sanctuary from routine, a chance to rest and play. But for Angie, the days stretching endlessly before her were a shadowed prison she wasn't prepared to endure. The house, which for others promised comfort, meant chains for her. She knew, as surely as the sun would rise, that her time at home would be spent as a silent servant, invisible and bound to the will of others, while the world outside reveled in joy. Yet, amid this looming dread, there was a sliver of light she clung to, Christmas. Christmas meant more than gifts or tinsel; it was the rare moment when the fractured family came together under one roof. It was the day they slaughtered one of granny's livestock, turning it into a feast overflowing with steaks, laughter, and stories that carried warmth like a blanket. Christmas was also their grandmother's birthday, a double cause for celebration that painted the house in hues of joy and hope.
Angie cherished Christmas because it granted her a fleeting taste of normalcy, a chance to dress in new clothes, to walk through town and feel, for a moment, like a child rather than a shadow. The Orphans and Vulnerable Children's Program always arranged for them to shop, setting a modest budget that introduced Angie to the unfamiliar language of budgeting and spending. It was a lesson she didn't quite master but tried to understand through the tug of her small hands and cautious eyes. Her grandmother usually accompanied her on these trips, a comforting presence amid the crowd. But this year was different. Catherine had convinced Granny to stay behind, insisting she would go instead.
Angie's heart sank with suspicion, though she dared not voice it. Alone was not an option, rules were rules, and so, reluctantly, she agreed. Alongside her was Pearl, also registered with the program, and Catherine, who claimed to be a guardian for the day. Aron and Collen shopped separately, and the three set out with cautious steps toward the marketplace.
At the store, Catherine immediately turned her attention to Pearl, helping her try on clothes with the ease of a mother picking flowers in a garden. Pearl giggled and twirled, basking in the simple joy of playing dress-up, her eyes bright with excitement. Angie, however, became the reluctant escort, her arms laden with garments Pearl discarded and chose. The weight of the clothes was nothing compared to the heaviness settling in Angie's chest. When her turn finally came, Catherine's demeanour shifted sharply. There was no gentleness, no questioning, only commands. Clothes were chosen for Angie without a single glance toward her preferences. The colours were not hers, muted shades she barely recognized, and every item was doubled in different hues. Shoes, underwear, two of each, bought with an impersonal hand that never once paused to ask what Angie might like.
Her fingers ached as they clutched at the fabric, but her mouth remained shut. In public, Catherine's orders were absolute. "Say nice," she had warned, "or you'll be taken away." The threat hung over Angie like a noose, suffocating the child's faintest voice of protest. She obeyed, not because she agreed, but because silence was the only armour she had. Returning home, the house was alive with voices and footsteps, the yard suddenly too small for the gathering. Pearl and Angie walked tall despite their tiny frames, clutching plastic bags brimming with clothes they only ever saw once a year. Pride shimmered in their eyes, a fragile shield against the harshness of their daily lives. Hope and Jade, already clad in their new finery, bounded toward them with the carefree joy of children who knew no worry. But the moment cracked when Catherine snatched Angie's bag away with a swift, practiced hand. Her broad smile faded into something colder, harder—a warning without words. Angie's heart tightened, her breath caught as Catherine sifted through the clothes, pulling one of each item and stuffing them into her large handbag. What remained was a half-empty plastic bag, a hollow echo of what had been hers' moments before.
Catherine's gaze was a sharp blade, slicing through the laughter and chatter, commanding Angie to quiet obedience. Without a word, Angie knew better than to protest. Around them, eyes watched silently, but no one stepped in. The injustice was a weight pressing down on Angie's chest, heavy and suffocating. The stolen clothes were handed over to Hope, Catherine's own child, who had already returned from shopping days earlier with ten times more than what Pearl and Angie had gathered. Angie's pain wasn't in sharing, it was the betrayal, the cruelty in the way it was done. What kind of parent takes from one child to give to another, while the world watches and stays silent?
The celebration pressed on, spilling into every corner of the yard that now felt overcrowded and unfamiliar. Among the many guests was a man Angie recognized, Ian, the immigrant she had seen the morning before, slipping quietly from Catherine's house. His presence unsettled her deeply. Stories whispered that these people were fleeing war and destruction, crossing borders in search of safety. Yet, to Angie, their arrival meant danger and distrust.
The man, Ian, watched her from across the crowd with a gaze that set her nerves alight. She shrank closer to her grandmother, seeking the comfort of familiar fabric under her fingers, the steady presence of a loving hand resting nearby. The children ran and played around them, their laughter like distant music Angie felt too removed from to join. Ian's stare lingered, heavy and unsettling, until Catherine's sharp call broke his reverie. She approached, her eyes flickering with silent accusation as they landed on Angie. The weight of that look pressed down hard, a reminder that in this place, Angie was always the one under suspicion.
The evening wore on, adults gathering for drink and whispered conversation, the yard shrinking into shadows. Angie kept her distance, her unease swelling as Ian remained close, his presence a constant, unwelcome shadow. When Catherine summoned Angie with a harsh call, she hesitated, small bucket in hand. Slowly, she stepped toward them, careful to keep space, to guard her trembling voice. "Yes?" she managed. Without warning, Catherine grabbed her roughly by the empty hand, nearly pulling her off balance. "Why are you standing so far away? I called you!" Her voice was sharp, demanding obedience. "Put the bucket down," Catherine ordered, "Go to my house. There's a small bag on my bed. Find my medication and bring it here…now."
Before Angie could respond, she was shoved toward the house, the distance to her grandmother and safety growing with every step. She moved quickly, desperate to return soon with the water Granny needed, but the unease at her back was a cold weight she couldn't shake. Ian followed silently, his strides long and slow, but somehow growing faster, closing the gap with each heartbeat.
Inside Catherine's house, the air felt still, unnaturally so, like the quiet that creeps in just before a storm. Angie found the bag exactly where she was told it would be, perched at the edge of the neatly made bed like it had been waiting for her. Her small fingers reached for it, heart racing not from the errand itself, but from the chilling feeling she couldn't shake, like something was behind her, watching. The moment her fingers curled around the zipper, she heard it, the creak of the door, soft but deliberate. Her breath caught. Slowly, she turned, her stomach twisting into a knot. Ian stood in the doorway, his frame filling the space like a shadow swallowing the light. His steps were silent now, calculated, almost careful, as if he didn't want anyone to know he had come in.
The air grew heavy. No voices. No footsteps from outside. Just her and him and the suffocating silence that crawled up her spine like icy fingers. She clutched the bag to her chest, pulse thudding so hard it echoed in her ears. She tried to walk past him, to slip away as quietly as she had entered, but Ian stepped into her path with a slowness that felt rehearsed, too smooth to be innocent.
A grin spread across his face, not warm, not playful, but a twisted curve that made Angie's skin crawl.
"Where are you rushing off to?" he asked, voice like wet velvet, smooth, but wrong, far too wrong. Angie froze, her throat tightening. "I… I'm taking the medicine to Catherine," she whispered, each word cracking under the weight of fear. Her voice barely sounded like her own. Ian took another step closer, and though he moved like a man with no urgency, the air around him pulsed with something violent. His grin stayed, but his eyes… his eyes were hollow, gleaming with something she didn't have a name for, but her body understood too well.
Without warning, his hand lashed out, fast and firm, wrapping around her throat like a vice. The bag fell from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Angie's mouth opened but no sound came out, her scream died before it could be born, choked off by the pressure tightening around her neck. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. His grip was strong, fingers digging into her skin like he wanted to leave a mark, a reminder. Her tiny hands clawed at his wrist instinctively, her legs trembling beneath her. Her vision blurred at the edges, her thoughts scattered like birds startled from a wire. The room spun, twisted, bent around her. "Better hurry," Ian whispered into her face, his voice lower now, like it belonged to something inhuman. "She hates waiting." Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he let go. Angie stumbled back, coughing, her throat burning, her body quivering uncontrollably. She didn't dare look up at him. Her only thought was escape, get out.
As she tried to slip past him, squeezing through the narrow gap between his looming body and the wall, Ian reached out one last time. His hand landed with a slow, deliberate slap on her behind. It wasn't playful. It wasn't accidental. It was a brand. A silent warning. And it burned more in her soul than it did on her skin. The weight of that touch made her want to peel off her body, to disappear into the floor. She didn't know what to call the feeling. It was more than fear. It was shame. Violation. Confusion. Her whole being recoiled, like her spirit was trying to run even faster than her legs.
Angie didn't say a word.
She bolted, her tiny feet thudding against the cold floor, hands trembling as she scooped up the fallen bag without missing a step. She didn't dare look back. Every fiber in her told her not to. If she did, she might never stop running.
Outside, the festive noise had resumed. Laughter. Voices. Music crackling from a nearby speaker. But it all sounded so far away, as though she had stepped through some invisible veil into a different world, a quieter, darker place where only she and her silent scream existed. She delivered the medication to Catherine with numb fingers, barely able to lift her eyes. Catherine snatched it from her, gave no thanks, no glance. Angie didn't wait. She turned and walked away quickly, bucket still in hand, remembering that her grandmother was waiting for water.
The walk to the tap was a blur. The evening sun dipped lower, shadows stretching longer across the ground, like fingers trying to grab at her feet. When she returned to her grandmother, her job done, she sat down beside Pearl and Hope, who were deep in giggles, their voices a soft buzz in the background. But Angie didn't speak. Didn't laugh. Didn't blink. She just sat there, staring into nothing, hands clasped tightly in her lap like they were trying to hold her together. Inside her, everything was shaking. Her throat still ached from his grip, her skin crawled from his touch, and her mind spun in loops, trying to understand what had happened, what it meant. She didn't have the words. Not yet. But something inside her had changed.
It was like something had cracked open, and from inside, the silent screams began. Not loud, not wild, but deep, echoing through her like ripples in a well. They rattled her bones and curled around her soul. Screams no one else could hear, yet they rang louder than the laughter beside her.