DEFINITELY, MAYBE

The room was dark, save for a small candle I had snuck out from the kitchen cabinet. Had I not known where Father hid his cigarettes and lighter, it would have remained unlit. I stared at the flame, a murky blue transforming into a bright yellow, and wondered if I’d get burned if I touched the tip. Definitely, maybe.

The wall clock ticked away softly, and my heart beat aligned itself to it. It was strangely calming. Without looking, I knew it was a few minutes before 12 AM. I had never been allowed to celebrate a birthday, because my parents did not feel it was a day to revel with joy on. On most days, I agreed with them. Not today. I felt apprehensive and excited. It was not everyday that a child turned eighteen, an adult according to the law of the land. For me, it meant more than just having the opportunity to vote, drive a car or marry. It translated to freedom.

I shivered a little, pain shooting down my back at the movement. I had been careful to keep still, in the hope that the wounds from earlier that day would magically heal. Mother had found me standing in the balcony, listening to the music being played by the neighbours. I had barely listened for ten seconds, before I was dragged inside and thrashed, until I passed out. She used Father’s belts, and by now, my skin had become used to the metal tearing through it. I had bandaged it, after I had regained consciousness. Seventeen years of living in this house had trained me to be careful, and the beatings had reduced to twice a month, now. I slipped sometimes; I couldn’t control it.

I did not know if my parents preferred discipline, or if they were simply cruel. Even when I went to school, they attached a small body camera to me, to make sure they knew exactly where I was going, what I was doing and who I was talking to. Perhaps I would have accepted this life, if I did not hear the things my classmates talked about. Their lives sounded so remarkably different from me I was worried I had begun hallucinating. I was ignored by them, and I preferred that. I did not want to answer questions about the limp I had because I was made to stand on one foot as punishment for eating too slowly during dinner, or why I always kept my eyes down and hands tightly gripped together. They would not relate.

The candle had melted halfway and the sweet fragrance of wax shot up my nostrils. Five minutes to go, I noted. Two months back, on my way back from school, I saw a Billboard Advertisement for a Tour Bus taking travellers who had landed in our city to the neighbouring towns for sightseeing. It cost 2000 bucks, for a one-way journey. It left every Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, at 12:30 AM, to cover the distance overnight. I couldn’t stand and look at it for too long, because my parents would notice. So, every day, I gave it a fleeting glance and absorbed more information. Soon, I knew where the buses left from and what I would require to get a ticket.

Thankfully, we were taught about local geography in school, so I knew what was beyond where I lived. Over the course of three weeks, once I had made the plan, I started collecting sufficient clothes and money from the house, in quantities that would not attract attention. I was terrified they would realise, but much to my relief, they did not. Their ignorance had started to seem almost suspicious, but spending too much time thinking about it drove me crazy. Instead, I focussed on what I had to do. Right now, I had 2500 now, and clothes for a week, stuffed into a small bag. It lay at the foot of the bed, waiting to be taken away.

One minute to go. I closed my eyes, counting down the seconds. They would understand. They would understand. They would understand. I whispered, consoling myself. After eighteen, I would no longer be under their care, and would not need to return to them, even if I was found. They will accept that and leave me be. Definitely, maybe.

Tick, tock. Ding. ‘Happy Birthday’, I gasped and blew out the candle.