We all have our escapes in life, places we go or things we do to shy away from the troubles of the real world. But what happens when that very escape becomes the thing that we fear the most?

Cover art by  ECH00

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I expect my legs to give as I stand, but this time, I am numb. Like my fingers on the piano, my legs move without instruction, carrying me closer to the storm. A gray shape ambushes me from the side. A powerful fist crushes my ear, and I yelp, feet collapsing as my dad holds me by the fragile flesh. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you mutt.”

Mutt. He throws that word around like it’s something I chose to be—as if he had no idea what would spawn when he married my mom. His own parents didn’t approve of that union, and now he acts like it’s my fault that my very existence has marred his proud lupine lineage.

I let him drag me, whimpering to create the illusion of remorse. Loose gravel fills my shoes as he drops me near our car. “Why did you run?”

“I—I messed up.” I stand slowly, not daring to clean the rocks out of my shoes in his presence.

My mom emerges from the church behind me. “Roy.” Her voice is stern, but not nearly as harsh as my dad’s. “I just got done apologizing to Ms. Viz. I want you to go back in there and apologize yourself for your… immaturity.” There are always pauses whenever she tries to scold me, as if she’s trying to find the words to match my dad’s ferocity. It doesn’t work.

“No.” My dad shuts her down. “Look at him. He’s filthy. He can apologize next time.” The sun glints off his fiery eyes as he looks down at me. “For now, just think about what you’ve done.”

Wearily, I crawl into the back of the van, shaking the dirt from my shoes. My parents are silent on the way home, giving me time to reflect upon my sins. The car shivers off the dirt driveway onto the smooth roads. I press my nose against the hot glass, watching the tangles of swamp trees and still water pass, giving way to the occasional storefront every now and then. We cross three islands and four bridges before the repeating landscape fades into familiarity of our yard. I sit still until dad slides the door open and silently points. He escorts me on my death march through the tattered screen door.

“You don’t run from your problems.” My dad paces in the kitchen. I stand perfectly still, each breath spanning five seconds or longer, as though the rising of my chest would spur him into a violent rage. But maybe that would be better, to taste his fury upfront. It’s when he’s calm that terrifies me the most. It means that each action he takes is deliberate, thought out and crafted with care. “You embarrassed everyone today.” I should apologize, but my jaws are locked. “You embarrassed me, your mother, Ms. Viz.” He crouches by my face until we’re muzzle to muzzle. “Even your friends.” My eyes begin to dew as I plead in my head for him to stop. He can see it—it drives him on. “You feel ashamed now, don’t you? Samantha came to hear you play, but you ran away. Because you’re selfish!” The last word breaks the calm as he shouts it, slapping his palm on the counter. My head jerks and I begin to sob, my mouth filling with slick drool as I choke back my cries. “You don’t run from your mistakes. You fix them!” I nod desperately.

My dad turns away, opening the utensil drawer. He draws a bamboo stick, not much thicker than a chopstick. On the end of the stick is a sculpted wooden hand, fingers straight and flat. The very existence of this tool perplexes me. It’s not a traditional household item modified and repurposed for my dad’s needs. No, someone actually sat down, thought about it, and invented this, a tool catered to parents like mine.

My heels are shaking but I remember what Sam told me. Be brave. So I stand. I stand as my dad turns, practicing his swing as a golfer would before a drive. Be brave. Be brave. My dad raises the rod. “Do not run.”

*Thwak*

The wooden hand slaps across my cheek. I gasp and hiss. The pain is sharp and concentrated. I flinch as he strikes me again. And again, swing his arm back and forth with metronomic precision. Each time I think be brave, but I don’t feel brave. I cry until the last stroke falls. My dad raises the rod one last time, just to watch me flinch. He huffs heavily, as though he was the one suffering, and stows the rod. My cheek burns as my face tightens. Through my own mucus, I can smell my mom nearby, but she makes no moves, just a silent observer as always.

It doesn’t hurt unless I touch it, but I cry long after the pain subsides. The coolness of my pillow seeps past my fur, soothing my cheek as I shiver in bed. My dad may be gone, but his words linger. Samantha came to hear you play, but you ran away. I’ve let down the one person that matters. The one person who knows.

Sam probably doesn’t care; just being able to finally hang out should’ve been enough for both of us. Yet it continues to gnaw at me, like a victory so close, only to be barred by an impossible hurdle on the final stretch. I picture Sam holding out her paws, playing her invisible piano. All those years she talked of loving music, yet she never had the chance to learn herself. It was up to me, I decided, to give her that music. She’s listened to every word of despair I’ve brought to her; the least I can do is balance it out with the sounds she wants to hear. Between that and my dad’s beatings, I like to think that Sam is why I still practice. After all, is it not times like now that letting her down hurts more than the strikes upon my cheek?

I slide out of my bed, leaving the covers in disarray from my frustrated thrashings. The sounds in the kitchen tell me my mom’s cutting something for dinner, and the lack of conflict means my dad’s out. With soft feet, I slink down the stairs and wander quietly through the kitchen into the living room. My mom’s ears flick, but that’s all the acknowledgement I get. Raw fillets of chicken are more deserving of her attention.

We don’t have a piano at home—in the traditional sense, at least. The wood and strings wouldn’t last a month in the humidity of our home. While the church has proper ventilation to survive the Etanville summers, my dad can’t be bothered to fix the gaps in our windows with anything but tape or glue. In lieu of a piano, I practice using an older model of electric keyboard, a matte black machine set atop a makeshift scaffold of aluminum bars. The power light is dark, but I brush my fingers over the keys, imagining the sounds they would make, playing a silent scale to tune my mind. I don’t know where my music folder is. Probably still at the church or lying in the car, but I’m too stubborn—or too scared—to face my parents again to retrieve it.

With the sound of my song still fresh in mind, I try to run my routine in silence, but the irregular clatter of knife on cutting board makes for a poor beat, and eventually I retreat back to my room. What’s the point? Sam’s already heard this song, and no matter how good or disastrously I play it, the response will be the same. Certainly, one might be more genuine than the other—but still, what difference would it make?

I collapse into my sheets, a sigh rumbling through my throat in a perfect tone. Drawing a breath through the threads, I sigh again, higher and louder this time, still in tune. Over the next ten seconds, my mattress muffles an unusual string of notes as I vent my vexation until I realize that it’s beginning to sound like a song. Embarrassment forces me to pause until I’m certain no one would be able to hear me through the closed door. Very softly, I hum through my closed muzzle, conducting a melody of my own, unrestricted by any paper sheets or music teachers. I was never a fan of singing, but Ms. Viz makes me practice, something about keeping in the mood even when I’m not near a piano. It’s been all but a silly exercise until now. Holding the tune in my mouth, I bounce out of bed, grunting as I do—that seemed like a good spot for a rest anyways. On my desk, I flip over a page of old homework and draw five hasty lines, plotting down my notes as I hum. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not just going to play a song for Sam. I’m going to write a song for Sam.

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