A psychologist even noted last year that she shows mild paranoid tendencies. Ms. Catherine nodded. We’ve noticed some odd behavior too.
Maybe she should see a psychologist again. Laura had no choice but to agree, disappointed. Without concrete proof, it was just one child’s word.
And Martha, with her skilled eyes, won again. That night, Alyssa curled up in bed. Her nose wouldn’t stop itching.
She scratched until her skin cracked. Blood oozed out, staining the pillow. Her eyes were wide open.
She couldn’t sleep. Why doesn’t anyone believe me, she whispered. Why can’t they see it? I’m not crazy.
In the dark, streetlight filtered through the window slats, casting long strips of light on the floor. She touched her nose again it felt stiff, like the skin was pulsing, something deep inside watching each breath she took. Another night passed.
And the 12-year-old girl stepped into a new day with sunken eyes, bloody fingers, and a nameless terror pulsing with every breath. The clattering of dishes echoed through the small kitchen. Alyssa was washing them under the dim yellow light, hands numb from the cold water.
A bruise from a rattan whip still marked the back of her right hand. She didn’t dare stop for even a moment. Hurry up.
You think you’re a damn princess. Martha’s voice rang from the living room, full of rage. Alyssa swallowed hard and replied, trembling, why yes.
I’m almost done. Oh, so you dare talk back, huh? Disrespectful little brat. Seconds later, Martha was behind her, plastic slipper in hand.
Whack! The blow landed on Alyssa’s shoulder, nearly knocking her over. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.
You live in my house, eat my food, wear my clothes, and you think you deserve forgiveness. Alyssa bit her lip, still washing dishes as tears streamed down her face. Her nose began to itch again, the same way it always did when her emotions surged.
That thing inside her was reacting. She quickly scratched, trying not to let Martha see. But Martha saw.
Doing that nose thing again. What, you need attention that bad? You think I don’t know you want people to feel sorry for you. I’m not, it really itches.
Shut up. Martha grabbed Alyssa by the hair and dragged her to the dark storage room under the stairs a dusty space with no windows, just a rickety wooden chair and moldy walls. Stay in here until morning.
Think about your stupid crazy stunts. Please. I’m scared of the dark.
I’m not your mother. I was forced to raise you. If it weren’t for that damn will your father left, you’d be on the street by now.
The door slammed shut and locked from the outside. Alyssa burst into tears. She curled up on the floor, shivering from the cold.
In the darkness, the itch exploded like a wild animal. She clawed at her nose, blood running down her hand. And for the first time, she swore she heard a faint noise, like a soft squeaking deep in her nasal cavity.
The next day, Alyssa arrived at school wearing a thick scarf that covered most of her face. Eleanor approached and whispered. Are you okay? I texted you yesterday but you didn’t reply.
I was locked, in the storage room, all night. Eleanor’s eyes widened. Why? Martha said, it was because I made things up.
I just wanted someone to believe me. Eleanor squeezed Alyssa’s hand tightly. I believe you.
But I’m scared of Martha too. She once came to school and talked to my teacher. Everyone thinks she’s a good mom.
Yeah. Everyone thinks that. That afternoon, Miss Catherine, the homeroom teacher, called Alyssa to the office.
Do you know why I called you, Alyssa? No, ma’am. Someone reported your case to child welfare. Do you want to say anything? Alyssa clenched her fists and looked down.
A moment of silence passed. I. I think it’s unfair. I’m not lying.
I really, itch. Every day. And Martha, doesn’t love me.
You believe she’s hitting you. Yes. And starving me.
Locking me up. Miss Catherine nodded. You need to be honest, Alyssa.
This is serious. Alyssa looked her teacher straight in the eyes. I’m not lying.
But I know, people always believe Martha over me. And sure enough, after the meeting, Martha once again came to the school, all smiles. I’m sorry if anything I’ve done caused concern.
Alyssa is a special child. She’s been traumatized since she was little. My husband her father died in an accident, and I don’t think she’s ever truly gotten over it.
We understand, Miss Catherine nodded. It’s not easy raising a child with complex psychological symptoms. I try my best.
But sometimes she makes things up, like claiming there’s a living creature in her nose. It’s heartbreaking. We’ll recommend she get more counseling, said Mrs. Teresa.
Martha smiled gently. I really appreciate that. I only want what’s best for Alyssa.
That evening, Martha threw Alyssa’s old cloth bag onto the bed. If you ever dare talk bad about me again, you’re not going to school anymore, you hear me? I didn’t talk bad. I just told the truth.
Truth, my ass. She lunged forward, grabbing Alyssa by the collar and shaking her violently. The girl screamed in fear.
I’m sorry. I won’t say anything again. Too late.
Smack. Another vicious slap. Alyssa was flung onto the bed, her head hitting the corner of the table.
She lay there, panting, blood trickling from her nose this time mixed with a dark gray mucus. Martha paused for a moment, eyeing the strange substance on Alyssa’s hand with a frown. Disgusting.
And now you’re leaking who knows what. Then she turned and walked away, leaving Alyssa alone in pain. The next day, Mrs. Teresa, the biology teacher, once again pulled Alyssa aside during recess.