"Why are you such an ungrateful brat? After everything we've done for you! You can't just-"

Erica stalks upstairs and closes the door behind her. She wishes desperately she could slam it, but then the noise would draw the fight upstairs. She sits at her desk and puts her head in her hands. It's not normal, she tells herself. Other parents aren't like this. I've seen them. It's not normal. She slumps forwards in exhaustion nonetheless; normal or not, fighting with her parents is always tiring. She fumbles for her headphones, relaxing when her new CD comes on.

♫ I can see your eyes, staring into mine...

She spreads her homework out over her desk. Only assigned yesterday, not due for two weeks, and already half done. If she's doing homework, her parents won't interrupt her.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the door opens. She can see first her father, then her mother, looking inside from their reflections in the window. Without turning around, she holds up her textbook and the pile of papers she's writing her outline on. Her father grumbles a bit, and she can tell he wants to keep arguing, but they're not quite willing to interrupt her homework more than they already have, and they go back downstairs without saying anything.

♫ You can throw your words, sharper than a knife...

She glares down at her outline as they leave. It's not fair. She didn't do anything. Most parents would be pleased she wants to join a singing group. Extra curriculars are supposed to be good, right? But no, she's ungrateful, that might cut into her work hours, never mind she already works the legal maximum every week. Or she doesn't spend enough time at home helping, as though any amount of cleaning could make their house livable, much less presentable. Furious and stressed, she starts singing along to her CD. Can't sing loudly- mustn't disturb her parents- so she sings quietly. Intensely, but quietly.

♫ I lay low, lay low, and watch the bridges burn...

Her eye catches on a pile next to her desk. Hand vacuum, Windex and a dish towel; once she left for school, her mother must have left cleaning supplies so she can be helpful once she's done with her work. Isn't that grand.

♫ Now you only bring me black roses...

She grabs the towel. It's soft, and won't break anything- she can throw it. At something, anything. How dare her mother.

♫ ...and they crumble into dust when they're held...










And, as ordered, the towel crumbles into dust in her hands.

Erica stares.










And then she smiles.

---

It takes Erica weeks to figure out even the basics of what she'd done. After a month has gone by, she's only managed to make what she calls 'Things' happen a handful of times. That she has to be singing is reasonably clear to her. She suspects she has to be emotional in some way; her few successes have all been when she was particularly upset at something (and by "something" she means "her parents", of course.) She's given up on the singing group idea, much to their delight- she lets them think she's doing what she's told, it makes her life easier, but really she just fears someone else seeing. This is hers. No one should know about it.

She's going to use it to get out.

She's always been planning to get out. This isn't anything new. She feels bad, abandoning Tommy with them, but she always promised herself she'd come back later. Once she's free, once she's old enough to take him with her. She'll come back for him.

She keeps a spreadsheet of everything she's doing, to leave. It's set up to look like a homework assignment when it's open, and a corrupted image file when it's closed. Everything she'd need to take with her- it's a short list, mostly things like "clothes" and "toiletries". She can't be messy, her parents wouldn't permit it, but she keeps her closet just disorganized enough that she has the basics just happen to be on top of her backpack.

Money takes longer. None of her tries to use Things to get money (or jewelry, or fancy electronics, or anything she could use to get out) go anywhere. But if she hums just right and she's annoyed enough, her parents will- blank. Just a little. Enough for her to sneak more money out of her paychecks than she used to, or convince them that the tips were just that bad, again. They're bad enough with money they don't notice, later, once they're alert. And being annoyed at them is never a problem, when they force her to hand over a paycheck. Slowly, so slowly, she saves up.

The fake ID comes last. Turning eighteen will take too long, she has to get out. It takes a lot of sucking up to the popular girls, and a larger-than-she-liked chunk of her savings, but she gets one. Now she's "eighteen". Now it's safe.

Six months after her towel crumbled, a month before her seventeenth birthday, Erica runs.

Atlanta, here I come.