First-person short story competition - Winner

Do you remember the night we saw the shooting star?
I throw the blue biro down; of course Jake remembers. Screwing up the scrap of paper, torn from an old school notebook, I aim it at the bin two metres away on the other side of our studio apartment (meaning bedsit), that’s been home for the last year. Perhaps I should go without leaving a note; I owe him more than that though, after everything he’s done for me.
What did he see in me? From his first day at school, when he stood up to the boy calling me skank, dirty girl, he always sensed when I needed help. Like when the glossy girls, with their designer backpacks and made up faces mocked me thanks to my charity shop clothes, my lack of a mobile phone let alone a tablet. It took a long time for me to trust Jake. Gradually he wore me down, shy smiles, winks when a teacher stuffed up, sharing chocolate during break. Later Jake called me his wounded deer, large deep brown wary eyes, always ready to leap away on spindly legs if anyone approached me too quickly.
I don’t know if Jake knew precisely what my life was like. I don’t know if he somehow sensed the fear, the oppression. Father put on a different face when he left the house each morning, surrounded by a thick cloud of aftershave to mask the stench of stale beer and hatred, that oozed from him each night. Smiling and waving at the neighbours, a good old boy, struggling to bring up a teenage girl alone. Everyone knows how difficult teenagers are, poor bloke, he’s doing his best. But Jake saw the reality behind the façade. Or perhaps the wall between our houses wasn’t as thick as Father hoped, not thick enough to mask the shouts, the punches, the over-turned furniture.
Gradually I learnt to trust, to see what life could be like away from Father. What a normal life could be like. Maybe Jake wasn’t the tallest boy in class, or the strongest, but when I was with him, I felt safe, protected. We had to be careful though, meeting at the newsagents on the corner to walk to school together. If I didn’t appear, Jake always ran home at lunchtime to make sure I was okay, even if my bruises forced me to speak through the closed door.
I tear out another page and start again. I will always love you Jake, but there are different kinds of love. Will he understand? Perhaps my scars run too deep, prevent me from giving myself completely to Jake. I’m not brave enough to let go, to freefall into his love. I pull my backpack from the top of the rickety wardrobe and swiftly stuff my meagre collection of clothes into it. How can I explain? I’m not bright like Jake, words don’t come easily, they lurk stuttering and stumbling in the corners of my mind, just out of reach.
His parents expected Jake to go into the sixth form, university, his future mapped out, no doubt eventually joining the bank like his father. They were suspicious of me; I could tell from the furtive glances I gave their faces although their words told a different story. Their plans for Jake didn’t include someone like me. He talked of a future I couldn’t visualise, the cliché happy wife, happy children, a neat house behind a neat fence, like his parents, like I’ve never known.
Everything changed on the night we saw the shooting star; the night I realised for certain he was serious. I’d slipped through my bedroom window, down the drainpipe, picking my way across grass littered with fag ends and rubble, to squeeze through the gap in the hedge, as I’d done so many nights before. It felt different that night, there was an energy, a sense of things changing, beginning. He held my hand tighter that night, as we lay on his neat dew-soaked lawn, caressing the soft skin on the inside of my wrist with his thumb, making me tremble inside, stomach swooping with longing. He pointed out the plough and Cassiopeia, suspended in an immense sky, the moon a comma amongst the dancing stars. I had no idea if he was right, I couldn’t make them out but didn’t like to say.
Did he propose that night to rescue me? I said yes because he made me feel safe; did I believe I loved him? What did I know about love? But I believed I would learn, because, with Jake beside me, I thought I could do anything, be anything. We couldn’t get married of course, we were too young, needing parental consent. I guess Jake’s parents went along with our plans because they knew that and hoped that in time our youth would drive a wedge between us, reveal our differences to be irreconcilable.
But we couldn’t see that far ahead as we planned so carefully. Jake found this studio flat, at the top of an old house, near the town centre, so that he could walk to his clerical job in the council offices. I tried to find work, to contribute, so that Jake’s parents could see I was trying, that I didn’t expect him to provide for me. That I wasn’t useless. But between my straggly black hair hiding my face from the world, my reluctance to look anyone but Jake in the eye, no one would hire me. I’m good for nothing after all; I’ve been told often enough stretching back as far as I can remember. I’m good at housekeeping and budgeting though, something I didn’t need to learn at school. There was never much money left for food or even the most basic clothes, let alone luxuries from the meagre allowance Father gave me, so I knew I could help that way.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll manage,’ Jake said as he enfolded me in his arms and I melted into his kiss, hidden from my house by the hedge. With those strong arms around me I believed we could.
We gradually furnished the flat, with his parents’ reluctant help; a saggy sofa bed, his portable telly, some mis-matched plates. I smuggled some cutlery and a saucepan out one night when Father was snoring drunk in the living room. Despite longing to get away, the thought of actually going tied my stomach in knots. Would Father track me down? Or wouldn’t he care?
I can’t leave Jake without at least trying to explain. I turn to a clean page. I will always be so grateful for everything you’ve done for me. But the words look trite, pathetic in blotchy blue biro. How can I ever express what I feel inside? I’ll never forget Jake, or how he makes me feel but our lives are changing. I see it in his face when he turns away from me, worry aging him far too quickly.
The day I left home I thought I would die from fear, sneaking out when Father left for work, terrified he had forgotten something and might return as I was filling a bag with tins from the kitchen cupboard. For weeks afterwards, the sound of a car door slamming in the road outside, or someone hammering on the front door, so far below, would send me scurrying to hide, curled in a corner, knees pulled up to my chest, making myself as small as possible as I had done so many nights before. Making myself a smaller target. I did see Father once, in town. Buying some almost out-of-date bread from the budget supermarket I glanced at the street to see him stalking past, fear making me drop the wire basket, but he didn’t turn his head. I wonder sometimes if Jake’s parents speak to Father, they are neighbours after all, hint that they know where I am, hoping Father will reclaim me and free their son.
I have to go, you’ve made me see I can manage alone. Thanks to you I can see a future, but you deserve better than me, much, much better. That sounds nicer, closer to how I really feel. I check the time – three thirty, I have to hurry, Jake will be home just after five and I need to be long gone, sitting on a bus to somewhere, heading for a new life.
I realised the truth a few weeks ago, when we were in town and saw a group of Jake’s ex-school friends gathered by the war memorial. He waved but they ignored him, forgotten already, as they carried on laughing, taking selfies, shouting about the up-coming rugby match they were heading to watch. Jake’s face fell, hurt by the snub although he tried to hide it when he felt me watching him, pulling me close and kissing my forehead. He should be with them, thinking no further than celebrating their team’s win that evening, not worrying about paying the rent.
You deserve someone who loves you properly, an equal. I do love you but it’s not enough. I’m setting you free. Tears speckle the paper, making the ink even blotchier, am I doing the right thing? I anchor the scrap of paper to the scarred worktop with my door-keys, sling my bag over my shoulder and open the door. Hesitate. I’m scared but not as scared as the day I left Father’s, this is a good scared, despite the niggling voice questioning my decision. I scan the room, committing it to memory, remembering the happy times.
As I walk to the bus station I don’t look back. I’m still unsure, wish I had a sign telling me I’m doing the right thing. Perhaps tonight, wherever I am, I’ll stare up at the night sky and hope to see a shooting star. Because then I’ll know everything will be fine.