Page 28 of ICED
Lila wakes up like nothing happened.
She yawns, rubs her eyes with her tiny fists, and blinks up at me with a soft, “Mummy?”
I’m already dressed. I haven’t slept. I spent the night curled around her like a human shield, counting her breaths, listening for sounds that didn’t come. My head feels thick, my limbs like they’re moving underwater. But I smile anyway.
“I’m here, baby,” I say, brushing her curls back. “Time to get up, yeah?”
She stretches and hums contentedly, the way only toddlers can, like the world’s a safe and lovely place. It should be. I want it to be. For her.
But I don’t feel safe.
I haven’t, not since the alarm went off. And I know it was nothing, just a glitch, a stupid system fault, but it doesn’t matter. The second it screamed to life, so did every nerve ending in my body. My mind doesn’t care about technical errors. It only knows one thing. Run.
Lila chatters away while I make her toast. I butter it with shaking hands, hoping she doesn’t notice how pale I am, how I flinch every time the kettle clicks or when the post drops through the slot.
“Can we go to the park after nursery?” she asks around a mouthful of toast.
“Maybe,” I murmur. “We’ll see how the weather is.”
But I won’t go. I already know that. Not today. Not when I haven’t slept. Not when I’ve spent the last six hours imagining someone breaking down our door.
I walk her to nursery like normal, one hand on the pram handle, the other gripping my phone like a lifeline. She’s too big really to be in a pram, but I figure she’s harder to kidnap when she’s strapped in than if she was walking beside me. My eyes scan everything; parked cars, passing men, joggers, the man who lingers too long outside the corner shop. Rationally, I know it’s nothing. But my chest is tight the entire way.
After I sign her in, I kiss her cheek and linger a beat too long.
“You okay, Mummy?” she asks, cocking her head like she’s seen something she doesn’t have words for yet.
I nod too quickly. “Just tired, love. You go have fun, yeah?”
I turn away before she can ask again. Before my voice can crack.
Back at the flat, I deadbolt the door and slide to the floor.
I sit there for twenty minutes. I know I should get up. Clean something. Shower. Prep dough. Something productive. Something normal.
But I can’t. I can still hear that shrill, invasive scream of the alarm. The way it tore through the dark, dragging me back to then. Back to broken glass and bruised ribs and that night I thought might be my last.
I press my palm to the floor. It’s solid. This place is real. My flat. My locks. My rules. And still, I feel like I’m falling.
Eventually, I force myself into motion. I scrub the kitchen even though it’s already spotless. I check the locks every fifteen minutes. I reset the alarm again. I delete and reinstall the app just to be sure. Then I email the security company and demand a technician.
Their auto-reply sayswithin 72 hours.That’s not good enough. I make tea. Drink half. Pour the rest down the sink.
I think about calling someone, the women’s centre or Isla, my counsellor, maybe, but I don’t. What would I even say?Hi, it was a false alarm, but I’m spiralling anyway.That’s not the kind of thing you say out loud.
Around lunchtime, my phone buzzes with a message.
JACKO: Just checking in. You alright?
I stare at it for a long time.
He doesn’t know what happened. I didn’t tell him. We haven’t talked since the night at the bakery, when he carried a sleeping Lila and offered to drive us home like it was nothing, like he does that sort of thing all the time.
But he texted. He thought about us.
I type and delete four different replies before I settle on one that doesn’t screamplease save me.
MAYA: Bit tired. Long night. But we’re okay. Thanks for checking.
