Chapter Text
Cassie sat at the foot of her small twin-sized bed, her back against the cold, peeling wall, her knees pulled to her chest and arms wrapped around herself protectively. She stared straight ahead, her attention fixated on the posters that had almost melded into the opposite wall.
The posters featured long-neglected sports stars, men who might no longer hold a title in the world of athletes, some kicking what appeared to be soccer balls, others proudly holding glistening gold trophies. She always wondered about them, about where they had come from and what had become of them.
From the first day she had arrived at the Andersons’ small, dilapidated apartment, she had wondered. Even after voicing her curiosity to Stephen, he had denied knowing anything about them—after, of course, adamantly denying they belonged to him.
The posters were faded, the colors dulled by time, and the edges curling slightly away from the wall. It seemed almost a part of the apartment itself, as if it had been there for decades, silently witnessing the comings and goings of its inhabitants.
How many children had they seen come and go, how many unlucky foster kids had they witnessed walk into this very room, only a trash bag in hand?
Not that it mattered. After all, the men were frozen in time. They couldn't see, they couldn't do.
They couldn't know.
Cassie sighed deeply, breathlessly, as the soft light of dawn filtered in through the tiny cracks of the blinds, flooding through grimy windowpanes and beaten, worn screens. Small slivers of light danced against the groaning wooden floors, casting a soft glow on the old furniture and pink, peeling wallpaper. She pulled her thin blanket tighter around her shoulders, in a halfhearted attempt to ward off the incessant chill that seeped in through the cracks in the walls.
She awoke as she usually did, though most days now, it was all she could ask to have some extra time to sleep in during the frigid November mornings. She couldn't help it, of course—once she was awake, she was awake for good. She sat for a moment more, appreciating the almost silence. The room itself was quiet except for the occasional creak of the old building settling and the fly that buzzed loudly as it clanged against the lamp on Stephen's bedside table.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
She ignored the hum of traffic, the heavy snoring of Mr. Anderson from across the hall, and even the whispered chatter of Violet as she got ready for her day. It was almost a perfect morning—well, except for the nagging feeling of dread that had settled in her stomach.
Which wouldn’t have been an unusual sensation, not unusual at all. She was so accustomed to the feeling of dread, of fear, and all similar emotions that she could almost say she was comfortable with it.
Almost.
She sighed once more before leaning over the footboard to where a pile of books sat holding up her phone. She had to start angling her reach, grabbing her phone from its odd position and tearing it away from the charger that had at one point been a pristine, clean white. Over the years of not being able to afford any replacement whatsoever, it had faded, like many things, to an ash gray.
Parts of it were held together with tape and, of course, it would only charge her cracked phone if it was angled in an absurd position. The cracked screen cut through the thin skin of her index finger as she turned on the old, used phone that she had once, a few years ago, saved up tirelessly for.
The screen finally flickered to life after several failed attempts to turn it on. Cassie winced slightly as her eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness of the screen. A few notifications popped up—nothing important, just some social media updates, a message from Ned from the night before that she hadn’t had the time to reply to, and a reminder of a test later today. They cluttered her screen like a reminder, more than of her test or that she needed to text Ned back, that she wasn’t all alone. And well, that’s all Cassie could really hope for.
After looking at the time, still early—only a little after six in the morning—she decided she better start getting ready. The last thing she needed today was to be late to school because of her own foolishness and be punished by the Andersons, who would take any opportunity, whether real or fake, to punish her.
“They can’t help themselves,” Stephen once said, almost falling through the doorway of their shared bedroom, cradling his limp arm close to his chest. “It’s like, I don’t know, they’re just so fucking angry all the time, and they just can’t help it.”
Cassie pushed herself off the bed, the thin blanket sliding off her shoulders and onto the floor. She shivered as the chill in the room hit her, and padded over to the small wooden dresser that held most of her few possessions and pulled out a pale pink threadbare sweater and an old pair of jeans. She glanced back over to Stephen's bed, where he was still curled to one side, his arm draped over his face like a shield against the incessant cold that filled the room like festering parasites.
She dressed quickly, the sweater and jeans doing little to ward off the biting cold, but it was better than nothing.
Her backpack sat against the desk she and Stephen shared. As she reached for it, the pins that decorated the small space clinked together like a tiny metal chorus. She hissed, fearing the noise might wake the still-sleeping Stephen, and the last thing she wanted was to encounter a grumpy, sleep-deprived Stephen.
She slung the worn backpack over her shoulder, careful of the strap that had already fallen off more than once, despite her attempts to fix it. A soft rustling came from where Stephen slept as he turned over, the fly now gliding across the pimpled expanse of his long face.
She smiled at that and made a mental note to tell him about it when he woke up. "Morning," she whispered softly, not loud enough to wake him but enough to let him know she was there, that she had said it.
Of course, there was no response, only the rhythmic sounds of his heart beat.
Bump
Bump
Bump.
And his chest rising and falling with the soft sounds of his breath that escaped his cracked lips. Cassie tiptoed out of the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her socked feet. She made her way down the narrow hallway, passing the closed doors of other rooms until she reached the small bathroom.
The tiles were icy under her feet, even through the soft layer of her worn socks, and she winced as she turned on the dim light, which flickered and buzzed overhead. She quickly washed her face and brushed her teeth, avoiding the cracked mirror as much as possible. She didn’t need to see the reflection of her tired eyes and hollow cheeks to know how worn down she looked. After running a comb through her hair, she pulled it back into a loose ponytail and took a deep breath.
Returning to the hallway, she paused outside the kitchen door, listening to the familiar sounds of breakfast being prepared. Violet was already at the stove, the smell of toast and eggs mingling with the faint aroma of coffee. Cassie’s stomach growled softly, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before.
She hesitated for a moment in the doorway, listening to the gentle, melodic hum that escaped from Violet. She watched the mouth-watering food being prepared, her stomach growling in protest. She shook her head, reminding herself that the Andersons wouldn’t take kindly to her taking any food before they had a chance to.
With one last longing look at the small kitchen, her stomach rumbling like a hungry beast just waiting to pounce, she turned and walked away. Instead of doing the sensible thing and grabbing whatever she could get her hands on, or, in the Andersons' case, the unsensible thing, she walked off.
Leaving behind the sweet sounds of violet humming and the food that always looked so good from an afar.
┈━ ◇ ━┈
There is something about the haze of a cold, rainy day that hits Cassie somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind. The gray clouds and the relentless drumming of the rain against the pavement seem to stir up a familiar pang of fear, a sensation that she cannot quite place no matter how often she tries. It’s a feeling that hovers just out of reach, like a half-remembered dream or a shadow that dances at the edge of her vision. Always there, always out of reach.
She finds herself pushing it around in her thoughts, examining it from all angles, trying to bring it into focus. The more she tries to grasp it, the more it seems to slip away, falling apart like sand through cupped hands.
Before she gives up completely, because it is a waste of time.
It is always a waste of time.
She walks to school today, despite the pouring rain. The streets are no kinder than they were yesterday or the day before. Especially now, when everyone is miserable, and the streets are rain-soaked and dreary. The only pops of light and color come from the random bright umbrellas bobbing through the sea of black.
She walks today because she can, because she woke up early enough and doesn’t want to waste even a dreary day on a bus. Even if the pangs of hunger nearly overwhelm her and she knows she’ll be as drenched as if she’d taken a dip in the Hudson by the time she arrives. Cassie needs this time—she needs to think, even though she already thinks too much. She needs to separate herself: from the girl she is at the Andersons, from the girl she is here, and from the girl she will be when she finally arrives in Midtown.
So, she walks.
Her music practically screams in her ears through her bright blue earbuds, all wired and tangled. The loudness doesn’t completely drown out the sounds of Queens; she can still hear the coughing of the man three streets over, the mutterings of the man in the coffee shop across the way complaining about watered-down coffee and the world going to shit as if they’re comparable.
She can hear the groaning of a woman waking up for the morning and smell the burnt mess her husband made as an attempt at an apology. And—
She can hear it, above all else.
Screams. Loud, desperate, and terrified.
The gnawing feeling returns with full force, overtaking her like the wind—heavy and relentless. She knows she’s going to regret this. She knows she’ll regret it when she arrives at class nearly an hour late, when the school calls the Andersons, and when she’s nursing her own bloody wounds in bed tonight.
But regret is a feeling she knows how to handle; it's familiar, almost comforting in its own painful way. She understands that her own regrets will always outweigh the potential regrets of not doing what she knows she shouldn’t.
So she quickens her pace, weaving through crowds of irate people whose coffee-stained breath spits words of abuse, sliding off tired tongues like venom. She ignores them, as she often does with most things.
She sees the smoke rising from a distance, the acrid scent of burnt flesh and ash filling her senses. The shouts grow louder as she draws closer. Dodging another group of disturbed businessmen, she turns into the first alleyway she comes across.
The alley is small and narrow, the first few inches of the ground flooded with water. Cassie barely has time to shrug her backpack over her shoulder and toss it into a trash can that smells worse than the rats swimming with determination around her.
She takes a moment to breathe and glances back at the welcoming street outside the cold, barren alley before she turns away and dons her mask. Cassie knows she’s going to regret this later—being late, the pain, and even potentially missing that test she didn’t want to take. But she won’t regret this.
┈━ ◇ ━┈
When Cassie finally arrives at school, nearly two hours after the first bell rang, she is a sight to behold. Her once neatly styled hair is now a wild, frizzy mess, each strand clinging to her damp face. The rain has soaked her through to the bone, leaving her clothes clinging to her skin, and she smells vaguely of smoke.
The woman at the front desk, someone Cassie has seen before but not enough to remember, is clearly not pleased to see her. Her pinched face and frown are enough to convey her displeasure.
She asks Cassie several times, in the five minutes it takes to sign her late pass, why she is late. The weather, apparently, is not an acceptable explanation, as the woman’s disdain grows more palpable with each response.
By the time Cassie receives her pass, the woman’s face is flushed red with disgust, her lip curled in irritation. Cassie smiles gratefully, anyway, deciding that the woman—whose name she couldn’t even remember—was not worth getting upset over. She practically whispers her thanks.
She has only taken two steps towards her second-period class when she hears the woman yell from behind her, instructing her to avoid leaving wet trails on the floor.
Cassie rolls her eyes to herself, glancing at the walls adorned with photos of past incredibly successful students. She hopes that one day, her own photo will join the display, with her smiling proudly, a trophy in hand or goggles strapped to her face. She imagines the woman behind the desk walking past it each day, thinking, Is that the girl I disliked for no good reason? — and feeling a pang of bitterness, knowing that while she’s signing late passes for students, Cassie will be out there, away from this place, making a name for herself.
It takes Cassie far too long to finally make it to her second-period class, even though it is just across the hall from the office. She waits for a moment, wanders a bit longer, and stares at the ground, noting the wet trail she is leaving and maybe she was a bit too harsh to the woman before.
By the time she finally gets to class, it is nearly over. She regrets not waiting for the third period to start, waiting until she was hopefully a touch drier, and a bit more put together. She could have stopped by the restroom to try to clean herself up. But no, instead, she walks in, and the door creaks loudly on its hinges as she opens it.
Everyone's faces instantly darted upwards to see who had just entered, and Cassie couldn’t help but cringe at the looks they gave her. Water still dripped from her sweater like a leaky faucet, her clothes clung to her, and her hair must have looked like a damp nest of knotted curls. She lowered her head awkwardly, unsure if she could keep enduring their unabashed stares.
She trudged over to the teacher's desk, leaving puddles in her wake and acutely aware that she must look like a complete mess. Her heart raced nervously as she clutched the crumpled late pass in her damp hand.
Mr. Austin was her history teacher and, unfortunately, was very big on punctuality. Usually, Cassie managed to be on time, so it wasn’t an issue. But today was different, and Mr. Austin did not seem to care.
She groaned inwardly as she saw, the moment she handed him the pass, that a lecture was coming. She had heard it before and could practically recite it. A long time ago, he must have written it down and memorized it to use on every student who happened to be late to his class. Even though most students in her class had faced his usual attendance tirade at one point or another, it didn’t make it any less humiliating or make the blush on her reddened cheeks fade.
By the time she finally sat down, it felt like decades had passed since she entered the room. She was exhausted, and her face was as red as the woman in the office.
And as the sudden echo of pain wracked through her lithe body, she realized she might have bruised a rib or several for that matter. She winced momentarily at the pain before noticing Ned staring at her from across the room, his face contorted with worry. "Are you alright?" he mouthed in her direction.
"No, Ned, no, I am not alright. Can't you see that I am not alright? Can't anyone see that?"
For the first time that day, she felt her heart swell, warmth returning to her frigid skin. She smiled, ducking her head for a moment to avoid Mr. Austin’s steadfast glare.
"Slept in," she mouthed back. It was the only believable excuse she could give Ned. She felt sorry for lying, for being so late, for leaving him to face first-period AP Bio without her, and for never telling him anything. But she didn't say that. She didn't even mouth it. She just gave him one last quick smile, which he returned, before turning his attention back to something he had been reading before she walked in.
She knew there was probably coursework for her to do or something she could study instead of sitting there aimlessly. All it would take was for her to raise her hand long enough for Mr. Austin to see and come over. It would be simple, beyond simple. Yet, she sat still, her mind fixated on how she should have told Ned she was sorry. And the pain that echoed in her ribs.
┈━ ◇ ━┈
Ned nudged her shoulder, just enough to arouse her from her thought-driven trance. She flinched back for a mere fraction of a moment before she recognized that it was Ned, but not before the books she had half-heartedly taken out of her bag and placed on the small wooden desk fell over and spilled out onto the floor.
“Geez, Cassie, is everything okay?” Ned asked. His tone was lighthearted, but she could tell he knew something was wrong. Ned always knew when something was wrong.
And unluckily for her there was always something wrong.
“Yeah, of course. Sorry, just a bit jumpy, exhausted if you know what I mean, and cold and wet in places I didn’t even know could get wet and—” She looked up at his smiling face. “It’s just been a hell of a day, is all.”
Before Ned could respond, she got down on the floor to retrieve her books. Ned joined her. “So, are you going to tell me why you came in late and drenched, looking like you were a few seconds away from falling face-first into the floor? Or are we just gonna keep beating around the bush, which, I mean, if you want to, that's okay, I guess, but I mean, as your like best friend and all, I just—”
“Ned,” she said, standing up and ignoring the pounding in her side and chest. “Ned, I overslept. That’s it. I overslept, missed the bus, had to run to school, and even then, I wasn’t able to get here on time.”
It was like all the tension that she had just noticed fizzled out of Ned in an instant. The rigid line of his shoulders went slack, and he took in a full breath before releasing it.
“Of course, sorry. I wasn’t trying to jump to conclusions, but I know how awful the Andersons can be sometimes, and I mean, I was just worried for nothing. You've been coming on time to school since you moved in with them, and I was just... I was just worried that something had changed.”
She listened to his ramble, and she felt bad—bad that she couldn’t tell him why she was actually late.
It seemed like all she did lately was lie, pretend, and regret.
Cassie sighed inwardly, trying to push away the gnawing guilt. She couldn't tell him the truth, none of her truths; they were too complicated, too messy.
“Hey, come on, Ned, don’t worry. I mean, the Andersons are a piece of work, but so are most people in this city. I could be doing a whole lot worse. Like, Mr. Austin could be my foster parent worse,” she said with a small, empty laugh.
Cassie hadn’t even realized they were halfway to her next class before Ned stopped by his locker. It was the rain, she surmised; the haze of it had affected her in more ways than just unknown feelings. It was like her mind was overcast too.
“Anyways,” Ned continued, pulling out a textbook, “Lola got me the new Lego Death Star. Do you want to come over tonight and help me build it? We can order pizza and maybe play video games if we have time.”
And oh, did Cassie just want to drop everything right there and say yes. Most of her would actually be willing to get down on her hands and knees and beg Ned to let her come over. But she couldn't.
For a moment, just one, she imagined it: Ned's apartment, his quiet and kind family, enough food to finally fill her empty, gnawing stomach, and a warm bed. But the moment ended like all moments do, and disappointment replaced it.
“I wish I could, Ned,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “But you know how the Andersons are. I have to head straight home after school.”
Ned's face fell, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, I get it. Raincheck then?”
“Definitely,” Cassie replied with a small smile. “Maybe this weekend?”
Ned's face lit up. “This weekend then.”
She hoped this weekend, as she hoped every weekend, that she could spend it in the safe confines of Ned's family's apartment. Away from the Andersons, from Violet's incessant humming, and even from Stephen. No matter how good he was, he was a reminder, and Cassie... Well, Cassie hated reminders.