What We Lost

Emma:

The carpet scrapes my cheek, rough against my skin. My lip is split. I can taste the iron every time I swallow, and my ribs throb with every breath where his fist landed. But it’s the burn at my throat that’s the worst, hot and raw, as if the air itself is cutting me open. Each inhale drags like sandpaper; each exhale catches too fast, as if my body no longer believes breathing is safe.

I don’t even know when he climbed off me. One minute his hands were locked around my neck, squeezing the world to black, and then... There was nothing. He was just gone. As suddenly as he lunged, he disappeared.

I roll weakly onto my side, body stiff and stuttering with pain. My arms quake when I try to push myself up, refusing to hold my weight. They collapse beneath me, and I sink back down, cheek pressed hard into the carpet again as the fibres burn against my skin.

I am not choking anymore, but it feels like I could be. My throat is still convinced it’s locked in his grip.

Never has it been like that before. Dad had his drunken outbursts, yes. Evan has followed in his footsteps, yes. But those were quick, vicious jabs to the ribs, smacks hidden under my hairline where no one would see.

It was never that.

That was a beating. A full beating with sustained blows. My body pinned and flailing, his hands closed over my throat, and there was nothing—nothing—except panic clawing through my chest as my nails tore uselessly at his skin.

My life really did flash in front of me, but it wasn't this beautiful tranquillity you see in films. It came in these jumbled, ordinary flashes. My desk at uni. Oscar laughing on the walk home. All these small, forgettable things I suddenly thought I’d never touch again.

He could’ve killed me.

My own brother.

The thought pierces, knocking me sick, but I can’t hold onto it long. My body revolts first as a sob rips out of me, but my swollen throat won’t let me be loud. I cry into the carpet until my ribs spasm, until my throat aches more than it did.

Until I'm completely empty.

He really could have killed me. I was at his complete mercy.

He is so much stronger than me. Of course, I’ve always known that in theory. My brother is taller, broader, and heavier. But theory is nothing compared to the reality of it: my body wasn’t mine the second he wanted it not to be. There was no shove hard enough, no twist sharp enough. My arms might as well have been paper against him.

The panic hit when I realised that I was no longer in control of myself. He could pin me, strike me, choke the very breath from me, and all I could do was thrash until the last of my strength gave out.

And I know why it happened. I’ve never spoken to him like that before. Not once in our whole lives. I’ve always bitten my tongue, softened my voice, bent myself smaller until the storm passed.

But tonight I snapped. Panic made my voice harsher when it should’ve been small. I was too afraid of Oscar overhearing, too afraid of him glimpsing this world, and the fear twisted out of me in the wrong tone.

It’s the first time I’ve ever properly stood up for myself in this house.

And that’s why Evan lost it.

That’s why his hands ended up on my throat.

My voice quite literally nearly cost me my life.

It's my own fault.

I glance at my phone. I don’t know if I even got to hang up before he launched his attacks. The thought turns my blood cold. If the line stayed open, then Oscar would have heard. He would have heard me scream, choke, beg.

The shame of it burns hotter than the bruises. My chest contracts so violently I almost gag. I can’t let that be true. I can’t let him carry even a scrap of this. He doesn’t belong anywhere near it.

Oscar Hollis doesn’t belong near me like this.

I need to get up.

I need to leave.

I can’t stay here.

My body’s heavy, trembling, reluctant to move, but I force it. One elbow first, digging into the carpet, then the other. My ribs scream, my throat is raw, my body weak, but inch by inch I drag myself until my fingers close on the phone.

It’s lying facedown, screen cracked, a thin line of blood across the glass, from God knows what. I think it’s from my lip.

With clumsy, shaking hands, I flick it over.

Oscar’s name hovers in my head before I can stop it. I see he’s called a few times. My thumb twitches toward his number. I should ask him for help. He’d answer. I know he would. He would help me too. But if the line did click dead, if he didn’t hear anything, if he’s off having fun on Christmas Eve and I call him now to tell him what happened, to drag him into this mess, it will ruin it all for him.

It’ll ruin his Christmas.

My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone. I squeeze my eyes shut, shove his name down, deep, where it can’t choke me too. Then I swipe to another number and call the safest thing.

“Emma?” Val answers first ring.

“Val.” The word scrapes out of me, it's barely a sound at all.

There’s a pause, then a rustle on her end like she’s already sitting up. “Em? What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m at home.” My voice sounds way too deep and raspy, nothing like my own.

“Okay?” She breathes and I can hear the panic. "Are you ill? You sound funny."

“Val.” I force out, hating every second of this. Hating how desperate it makes me sound. “I need you to book me the earliest flight from Cork." It's painful to talk, so painful it makes me wince. "I don’t care where it takes me. Manchester, East Midlands. Fucking London if it has to. And I need you to do it right now.”

“Sure.” She doesn’t hesitate. No questions, no pushback. “Let me just get my laptop.”

“I need you to stay on the phone,” I rasp, my voice barely there. “If he comes back, you need to call 999 and tell them my brother is going to murder me.”

“Tell them he’s going to what?”

“Murder me,” I repeat. “If he comes back, you don’t hesitate. You hang up, call them, and give them my address. Okay?"

Val sucks in a breath. When she speaks again, her voice is tight, “What did the fucker do?”

“Please. You need to get me out of here. When I can move—”

“What do you mean when you can move? Why can’t you move?”

I close my eyes, trying to ignore the pain that is settling in all over me. Every single part of me hurts. It hurts to breathe, to move, to talk. “He beat the fuck out of me, Val.”

"He did what?"

“When I can move,” I push on, fighting the tide against me. “I am going across the street to ask Liam Doyle to drop me off at the Travelodge near Cork Airport.”

“Em, you’re barely making sense!”

I don't relent, my mind reeling, an exit plan taking shape. “The rest of my money I’ll use to rent a car at whatever fucking airport you get me to land in.”

“Slow down.”

“I can’t slow down! I need to get out of here! He’s going to come back! He's going to come and finish me off. I don’t know where he’s gone!”

“Okay,” Val tries to coax. “Then tell me what you need me to do.”

“I already told you.” My voice breaks and I force it steady. “You’re booking me a flight out of Cork. Whatever’s earliest, whatever’s cheapest, I don’t care where it lands as long as it gets me out of Ireland. And you’re staying on the line with me until I’m gone.”

“Okay. Okay.” She breathes. “Laptop’s booting up now. I’m with you, Em.”

That’s enough to give my body a reason not to collapse right back onto the floor. I brace my palms flat against the carpet and push. My arms shake violently, ribs screaming as if they’re splintering from the inside, but I keep going.

First, I get to my knees, then one hand against the wall, dragging myself upright inch by inch. My vision blurs and my body protests, but I grit my teeth and force myself on to my feet.

My suitcase is under the bed. My hands fumble for it, dragging it out by the corner until the wheels catch with a jarring scrape. The sound ricochets through the room like a warning, but I don’t stop even though every noise I make feels like a beacon, as if I’m announcing myself to him, daring him to come back and finish what he started.

My eyes keep darting to the door, expecting his shadow to blot out the light, and my whole body begs for me to collapse. Every muscle screams for rest, to curl up and shut down. But my mind won’t let me. Exhaustion drags me down; terror drags me forward.

I yank the zip open and start throwing things inside. Clothes, shoes, whatever my fingers land on. Order doesn’t matter. Being gone is the only thing that matters.

“I’m searching flights now,” Val murmurs, her voice comforting against the frantic scrape of hangers and fabric. “Earliest out of Cork is at six, but there is some later. Which airport do you want to land in?”

“Manchester.” The word grinds out of me as I shove a pile of jumpers into the case. “Pick Manchester but I honestly don’t care. Any will do.”

“Got it.” I can hear her typing, the quick, decisive clatter of keys.

My throat burns with every breath, but I keep moving. My hands land on something solid in the mess of fabric, Oscar’s Christmas present to me. My heart constricts as I shove it deep into the suitcase, burying it under layers of clothes like leaving it would be a betrayal.

“Passport,” I croak, eyes darting the room. It’s there, on the desk under a scatter of unopened post. I lunge, ribs flaring, and snatch it up, shoving it in my handbag.

“Found a flight,” Val mutters briskly. “Six twenty, Cork to Manchester. I’m booking it now. You’ll have the confirmation in a second.”

“I feel like a spy,” I whisper, almost laughing, which is so strange. “This feels like something from a movie.”

“Just get out of there, Em.”

“I am.”

I glance around my room. At the bare walls and thin carpet. The same plain curtains Mum picked years ago. It’s never really been mine, it’s never allowed to be. Just a place I slept, nothing more. There’s nothing here worth saying goodbye to. If anything, leaving it feels like shedding a skin I should’ve crawled out of long ago.

I pause outside, the landing stretches ahead, dim and silent, but the silence doesn’t comfort at all. I picture Evan rounding the corner, blocking the stairs, his hand closing over my throat again. The thought makes panic rise in me but I push it down.

Taking a steely breath, I grip the suitcase harder. One step. Just one. The floorboard groans under my weight and I freeze, listening, waiting, praying he’s left. Holding my breath I go completely still, only breathing when there is nothing. No movement, no voice. Just the thunder of my own pulse.

“Val?” I whisper. “Are you there?”

“Yeah.” She whispers back. “I’m here.”

“Val, I’m scared.”

“It’s going to be okay, Emma.” But it’s not reassuring because she sounds as scared as I feel.

“I walking through the house.” I force myself forward, every nerve braced for him to appear. The wheels of the suitcase judder against the carpet and it feels like an alarm announcing my escape. My breath is shallow, ears straining. I’m half-dead with fatigue, half-wired to survive.

My body doesn’t care that I can barely stand—only that I have to be ready, in case he lunges from the shadows.

I plan to use the suitcase as a weapon. It’s laughable, really, fabric and wheels against his fists, especially when I already feel so weak, but it’s the only thing I’ve got. Maybe it could buy me seconds. Maybe that’s all I need.

The shadows pool thicker at the top of the stairs, black enough, that for a heartbeat, I swear I see him stood there. My knees nearly buckle as I swivel towards him, my hands shooting up to my protect myself before I even realise I’m doing it, but when no blow comes I lower them and realise there’s no one here with me.

I suck in a breath. “Val?”

“I’m still here.”

The terror stays, hot and sour in my mouth. Everything feels like it’s humming with the threat of him, the certainty that I’ll round a corner and he’ll be waiting. My hand shakes against the suitcase handle, sweat slicking my grip.

Don’t stop.

Just keep moving.

Down the stairs.

Get out.

“Emma?” A voice sounds near me that isn’t Val’s. My chest locks tight, expecting a punch as I whip around so fast my body screams, vision bursting with stars.

And then I sag when I take in the sight in front of me. It’s not him. It’s Mum. Standing halfway up the stairs, her hand tight on the banister, staring at me like I’ve grown another head.

“What the fuck are you doing?” She demands. “Why do you look like that?”