Angie had found something that made Catherine happy, or so she thought. A discovery so small, yet powerful enough to disarm Catherine's usual wrath, if only for a flicker of a moment. Angie had stumbled on a way to get her to look at her without those cold, dissecting eyes. And in that brief pause of judgment, in that quiet blink of time where she wasn't being picked apart, the little girl felt… hopeful. Hopeful that maybe, just maybe, there was still a sliver of peace left for her. That she could breathe in her own home. That the ground beneath her feet wouldn't always tremble with the weight of walking on eggshells.
So, she started practicing more. Her doll became her muse, her project, her proof. The doll's long, smooth hair became her sanctuary, each braid she twisted a tiny prayer for better days. And with every new pattern she taught her fingers to weave, she imagined weaving her way out of the shadows. Soon, Catherine noticed. She handed Angie Hope and Pearl's heads as if they were chores, braid them for school. Angie didn't hesitate. She worked hard, gentle and patient, as though her fingers could stitch peace into their scalps. But when the morning of school arrived, no one touched Angie's own hair. No one fixed her crown.
She never liked looking dirty, not even on the worst days when her stomach grumbled and her clothes hung loose from too many skipped meals. So that morning, she rose before the sun, tiptoeing across the cold floor in silence. The house was heavy with sleep, the kind of silence that made her footsteps feel loud. Her hair was undone, a tangled mess of tight curls and forgotten braids, with specks of sand still clinging from yesterday's play. She didn't mind the pain she knew was coming, what mattered was trying. Trying to look decent. Trying to feel like she belonged.
She found the only comb she had, a faded blue plastic one with missing teeth and bent edges, tucked away in a drawer like it didn't matter. Catherine always hid the better ones after doing her own hair. Angie knelt in front of the cracked mirror, its surface clouded and scratched, and began the slow battle. Every stroke of the comb caught and yanked, sending shocks through her scalp, but she kept going. Tears welled, not from sadness, just the sting, but she blinked them away. Her fingers trembled, her arms ached, but still she pulled, section by section, until her hair looked almost neat. Not perfect. Just enough. Enough to feel like maybe, for a moment, she could walk into school and not be ashamed of how she looked. Enough to feel seen.
The first day of school after the holidays was always Angie's favourite. The school yard would buzz like a beehive, stories flying from one child to the next. Tales of trips to the city, of fried chicken and fizzy drinks, of grandmothers who spoiled them with gifts and cousins who taught them games. It was magic. It was joy. Mrs. David, who had been Angie's teacher since her very first year, made it a tradition: their first task back would always be to write an essay, "How I Spent My Holidays" or "The Day I Will Never Forget." The kids loved it. They'd chatter excitedly before their pens even hit the paper, already reliving the laughter, trips, new clothes, and sugary treats. Their voices would fill the classroom with life, their faces bright as they competed to see whose holiday had been the best.
All except Angie.
This time, her holiday had been a quiet war—not loud or explosive, but slow, seeping, the kind that presses into your bones and rewires your silence. No meals to remember, no joyful trips or festive scents. Just stale air, taut silences, and tension crawling beneath her skin like a parasite, feeding on her stillness. She hadn't laughed. Not once. Play had become a distant language, foreign and unreachable. The old toys sat untouched, relics of a self that no longer lived in her. The days blurred in shades of grey, shadowed by the memory of a man whose breath reeked of rot and whose hands had carved an invisible wound into her. He had stolen something she couldn't name, something silent but permanent.
There was no highlight to mark the season, no warmth to light the gloom. Only that night. Ian's hand crushed her throat, the weight of it enough to steal air and redefine safety. In that single moment, something fundamental had changed. Her lungs, though working now, still carried the memory of panic. Her body flinched at shadows, braced against hands, waited for the grip to return. He hadn't just hurt her, he'd altered her. That night rewrote the meaning of holidays, of home, of trust. Not with noise, but with stillness. And the worst part was that the house kept moving, blind and ordinary. Plates clinked. Doors shut. Radios hummed. But she remained there—invisible, unheard, and forever caught in the quiet ruin of that moment.
So she lied.
She sat there, pencil trembling between her fingers, and told the story she wished was true. A picture-perfect holiday. She laced her essay with fragments of truth to give it a heartbeat, but the rest, smiling faces, shared meals, the sound of wrapping paper and delighted squeals, was a carefully crafted mask. She told of a warm home, laughter in the kitchen, hugs and presents. And she wrote it well. So, well that when Mrs. David read it, her face lit up with pride. "Brilliant," she said. "So heartfelt." Angie smiled softly, but it wasn't pride she felt. It was something else. A quiet sting. Because the words on that paper weren't real, but everyone loved them.
And that's when it happened, Angie learned that lies were easier to love than truth. That smiling through the pain made adults nod and move on. That saying "I'm fine" when your heart is breaking earns you applause instead of concern. That pretending to be full kept people from asking uncomfortable questions. So she became an expert at performing happiness. And for a while, it worked. Too well, in fact. But Walker noticed. He always noticed.
He'd become her shadow in the most comforting way. The boy with the sixth sense, the one who could smell sadness behind a smile, the one who had once told her the head was the best place to stab if she wanted to kill a doll. One day after class, he looked at her with narrowed eyes, that same old Walker squint that meant he was reading her like a book no one else knew how to open. "Angie… are you hiding something from me?", "No," she lied again. "Why would you say that?" Before he could answer, she deflected. She changed the subject, told a joke, smiled a little too hard. But Walker didn't press. He waited. He always waited. Like he knew truth had to be invited, not pried.
Then came the walk to afternoon studies.
Their route was always the same, Angie, Hope, and Jade left first from the furthest end of the village. They'd pick up Walker, Lina, and Lira on the way. It was routine. It was safe. But that afternoon, something was off. Angie lagged behind. Not unusual, she was always the slowest, but this time, she wasn't just slow. She looked down at her feet like they might betray her. Her shoulders curled inward. Walker slowed down and drifted beside her, quiet, letting the others walk ahead lost in whatever nonsense they were giggling about. He'd bought candy at the tuckshop, sweet, sticky little temptations, and he knew Angie couldn't resist them. So, he struck a deal: one candy for one honest answer. She gave in. And beneath the yellow leaves and soft dust of the path, Angie spoke. Not everything. She never said Ian's name. But she told him what happened what she could remember, what her body still felt even when her mind tried to forget.
Walker listened, his face tight and still. Anger flickered behind his eyes, soft and boyish but loud in its promise. He wanted her to tell someone, anyone. Mrs. David. Granny. God. But Angie refused. "They won't believe me," she whispered. "I don't even understand what it was." So, Walker did what she asked. He promised not to tell. But made her promise, too, no more hiding. No more lies. Their friendship deepened. Angie found warmth in his company, but also unease. Because sometimes Walker talked to Jade for too long. Sometimes he laughed with other boys. And Angie hated that. Not because she didn't want him happy, but because she didn't trust anyone else. He was her only human interaction that didn't hurt, that didn't take something from her.
School started changing.
Their new grade meant joining clubs and sports. It was a big deal. If they excelled, they could earn medals, get their names called at prize-giving, maybe even travel for tournaments. Everyone buzzed with excitement. Everyone except Angie. She hadn't planned on living this long. She'd never imagined herself growing old enough to join sports teams. But here she was. Walker joined the football team. So, Angie did too. Not because she loved football, but because she loved being near him. But she was no good at it, at least not in the way that counted.
She was fast. Too fast. Her legs moved like lightning, beautiful and dangerous. But she was also reckless. Her body carried too much rage, and it came out in flashes: kicking ankles, colliding with chests, knocking the wind out of those who got in her way. The coach tried. God knows he tried. But eventually, he had to pull her aside and ask her to try something else. "You've got speed," he said. "You should try sprints. You could be great." So, she did. But she didn't stop there. She tried netball, too. It wasn't awful. But it wasn't football. And Walker wasn't there. Her body went where her heart didn't want to follow.
The world around her kept moving, but something inside her stayed stuck. Stuck on the way Walker's eyes burned when he looked at her too long. Stuck on the sound of Ian's boots crunching in the yard. Stuck on the smell that wouldn't leave her nose. Stuck on the memory of that blue comb dragging through dry hair while no one looked her way. Things looked better on the outside. She was in school. She was braiding hair. She was on a team. But inside, she wasn't fine. And the question kept echoing at the back of her mind.
How long will the feeling last, though?