How Far Back is it to Normal?

Chapter ElevenHeron Bay, Washington — May 1, 1983

Thin slivers of light cut through my barely opened eyes.

My breath came short and panicked. My arms were stuck—pinned to the bed. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone was on top of me, but I knew I was alone… right?

I wanted to wake up—but was this a nightmare?

I tried to scream, but nothing came out. It was like my voice had died in my throat.

From downstairs, I could smell coffee. I heard Belinda’s slippers shuffle past my door.

Everything was normal.

Except it wasn’t.

Through sheer willpower, I managed to roll over and sit up. A single beam of light cut through the split in the drapes, dust drifting lazily in the air. My alarm clock clicked to 11:11.

I was awake now—wasn’t I?

The room felt wrong. Like something had just been there—or worse, still was. I could feel it.

I crossed the room and pulled the curtains open, letting the sun fall across my face. I grabbed a scrunchy and pulled my hair into a messy bun, then slipped my feet into my slippers.

The hallway lay in shadow, stretching toward the stairs. It pulled me with it.

Downstairs, the kitchen sat quiet. I was starving. No dinner the night before had left a hollow ache in my stomach. I dropped waffles into the toaster, waited, then smothered them in syrup. The first bite grounded me. For a moment, everything felt normal again.

“I see you’ve finally graced us with your presence.”

I jumped, spilling my tea.

“Jesus—you scared me.”

Richard stood behind me, smiling in that way that never reached his eyes.

I moved to pass him, but his gaze lingered—too long, too familiar. It crawled over my body, settling where I didn’t want it to.

A shudder moved through me.

He’d been doing this more often.

I crossed my arms over my chest, wishing I could disappear back into a version of myself that hadn’t changed yet.

“What’s it feel like,” he said, “to be the newest member of the lil’ itty bitty titty committee?”

He wasn’t joking.

Something sour rose in my throat.

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, trying to slip past him.

His hand caught my shoulder.

“You’re growing up,” he said softly. “Beautiful, actually. Your mom used to look like you… years ago.”

“Where is my mum?” I asked quickly, looking past him.

Through the window, I spotted Belinda walking toward the house. Relief loosened something in my chest.

The moment she stepped inside, I pushed past him and grabbed her hand.

We headed for the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he called.

We stopped.

Belinda glanced at me. I felt it—the same quiet calculation, the same need to move carefully.

“I want to get dressed,” I said. an excerpt from the world of Without Wings...

Belinda stayed quiet.

Richard’s eyes shifted to her. “Why were you outside?”

“I was just reading my magazine.” She held up a copy of Teen Beat.

“You need to clean up your mess,” he said, turning back to me.

“Okay. I will.”

I slipped past him, and Belinda hurried up the stairs ahead of me.

The kitchen felt too big when I came back down.

I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, filled the sink with soapy water, and scrubbed Richard’s frying pan. The Formica counters were sticky under my hands, and I wiped them clean with a damp cloth before putting the syrup back in the pantry.

Everything in its place.

Everything quiet.

Like nothing had happened.

Upstairs, I paused at Belinda’s door and knocked.

“Come in,” she said.

I stepped inside and smiled. “Want to go roller-skating later?”

Her face lit up. “Yes! We haven’t done that in forever.”

“Okay. I’ll ask Mum when she gets home… where is she anyway?”

“I think she’s outside.”

“Alright. I’ll be in my room with my friends—” I grinned. “—the important ones.”

“Try not to make him mad, Willa.”

“I don’t try to do anything,” I said. “He just likes giving it.”

Her eyes dropped.

I left before either of us could say anything else.

In my room, I shut the door and got dressed.

My favorite Star jeans—the ones Delphine gave me—fit just right. I paired them with a pink, angel-sleeve blouse and pulled my hair back tighter.

Then I reached for my crate of records.

Stevie. Pat. Bon Jovi. Michael.

My fingers slid along the edges until I pulled out Fleetwood Mac. I eased the vinyl from its sleeve, holding it carefully at the edges, and placed it on the turntable. The needle hovered for a second before I lowered it.

The soft crackle filled my ears.

Then the guitar came in—gentle, familiar.

I slipped the headphones on and lay back, letting it take me.

Stevie’s voice wrapped around everything.

For a moment, I disappeared.

The sound shattered.

A loud pop—then a screech.

I jerked upright.

Richard’s face hovered over me, flushed red, his presence crashing into the room. The smell hit me next—sour, stale, something I didn’t want to name.

“You’ve got chores to do,” he said. “After your talk-back yesterday.”

“I know—now?” My voice felt thin.

“What do you think?”

I pushed myself up, dizzy for a second. “What do you want me to do?”

“You can start with the garbage. Then the garage. Then the fence needs painting. After that, you can weed your mother’s garden.”

The list dropped like weight.

“That’s a lot,” I said. “I can’t get all that done today.”

His hand moved fast—grabbing the back of my hair.

“You’ll get it done,” he said, low, close. “Or else.”

The smell of his breath turned my stomach.

He let go and stepped back toward the door.

“Hey,” he added, pausing. “Who sings that song you were listening to?”

“Fleetwood Mac.”

“You should let them sing it,” he said, laughing at himself.

Then he slammed the door.

The walls shook with it.

I sat there for a moment, the silence pressing in.

Then I changed.

Shorts. Flip-flops. A blue bandana halter top.

I grabbed my Walkman, shoved in The Cars, and headed downstairs.

The garbage smelled worse than I expected. I tied it off, carried it outside, dumped it into the bin, and rinsed the can clean.

The sun was already warming everything.

I grabbed a broom and headed for the garage.

The music kicked in—Let’s Go—and my head moved with it, automatic, like my body needed something to hold onto.

Something that wasn’t him.

It took both sides of the cassette to finish.

By the time I was done, Mum came in through the front door. I slipped my headphones off.

“Hallo, love. You cleaning things up?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“It looks great.” She glanced around. “It’s getting hot. What do you girls have planned today?”

“I was going to ask if Belinda and I could go skating.”

“That sounds fun. I don’t see why not.”

“Cool. I’ll go get her.”

I moved before anything could change.

The rink blasted cool air the second we walked in.

I grabbed a pair of size sevens from the counter and laced them up fast. The music pulsed through the space—bright, loud, alive. When Rock with You came on, I couldn’t get out there fast enough.

“Wait for me, Willa!” Belinda called.

Too late.

Delphine caught up beside me, and we pushed off together, laughing as we picked up speed. The floor carried us, smooth and endless. The air rushed past, lifting everything off me—the house, the tension, him.

For a while, I felt free.

We circled the rink, weaving through people, singing along. I swung around behind Belinda as she wobbled, grabbed her hands, and spun to face her, skating backward while she laughed.

“I love rock ’n roll—” the speakers blasted next, and we shouted the words, rolling faster, louder, brighter.

Nothing had ever felt better than that moment.

“You’re cheeks are all red,” I said, breathless.

“Yours too,” she shot back.

We stumbled off the floor and made our way to the snack counter, ordering red slushies that froze our mouths mid-laugh. Delphine joined us, and for a while, everything stayed easy.

Simple.

Normal.

Then I saw him.

Standing in the doorway.

Richard.

My stomach dropped so fast it felt like I’d missed a step.

He walked toward us, already angry.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“You never learn, do you?”

The room felt smaller. Louder. Like everything tilted slightly out of place.

“Out. Now.”

I hugged Delphine quickly before she skated away, her face confused, unsure. Belinda and I returned our skates in silence and followed him outside.

The heat hit hard.

The drive home was worse.

No music. No talking. Just the sound of the road and the weight of what was coming.

Belinda reached for my hand.

I held on.

When we pulled into the garage, Richard killed the engine.

“Go to your room,” he said to Belinda.

She hesitated, looking back at me.

It’s okay, I tried to tell her without speaking.

It wasn’t.

She went.

I moved toward the side door, grabbing a hoe from the wall.

“I’ll finish,” I said.

His hand caught my hair again, sharp and sudden.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To finish,” I said, my voice thinner now. “You’re hurting me.”

His face darkened.

“I’m sick of you,” he said. “You don’t listen. You do whatever you want. What good are you?”

He was too close.

Too focused.

Something in his expression twisted—not just anger. Something else. Something worse.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I said.

He smiled.

That was worse than anything.

“I said let go.”

I twisted, trying to pull free. The handle of the hoe knocked against his chin.

Everything stopped for a split second.

Then—

I moved.

The impact landed hard.

He folded, cursing, dropping to the ground.

I stepped back, gripping the handle, my body already bracing for what came next.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I heard myself say.

He started to rise.

I raised the hoe.

He laughed.

“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” he said. “I’m ready for you now.”

I backed away as he stepped toward me. His eyes were set—he knew exactly what he was doing. He’d done it before.

Before I could react, he lunged forward, ripping the hoe from my hands. The wood cracked as he snapped it across his thigh and threw the pieces aside.

Then everything came at once.

A scream—somewhere, maybe mine.

“Stop—please, stop—I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

The words echoed, barely sounding like they belonged to me.

Through the blur of my arms raised in defense, I saw movement—shadows, fragments. He bent down, grabbed the broken end of the handle, and swung.

Pain exploded across my back.

It felt unreal, like watching something happen from outside myself. My voice broke against it, the world slipping in and out like it couldn’t decide if I was still there.

“Richard! Stop!”

That voice wasn’t mine.

He didn’t stop.

I collapsed, the ground hard beneath me, and then my mum was there—lunging, grabbing, pulling at him. Grocery bags spilled across the floor. Oranges rolled past my hands. Eggs cracked under his feet.

“Mum—!”

She clawed at him, trying to pull him away. He shoved her, and she hit the ground. Still, she reached for him again, her fingers catching his leg, dragging upward.

“Richard, stop—calm yourself,” she said, breathless.

He shrugged her off, stumbling, his breath suddenly uneven—ragged, like something inside him had snapped out of rhythm.

“Wilona—go. Go to your room. Don’t come out until I come to you,” she said.

My heart pounded in my throat.

“Wilona. Do you hear me? Go to your room, love.”

I ran.

I slammed my door shut and twisted the lock.

My legs gave out, and I collapsed to the floor.

Everything hurt—my knees scraped raw, my back throbbing, my nose bleeding—but the pain didn’t land anywhere I could hold onto. It all blurred together.

I curled into myself and cried into my arms.

Thoughts came fast, too fast to follow—each one louder than the last, none of them staying long enough to make sense.

Time slipped.

When I finally lifted my head, the room was dark.

My cheek stuck to my arm—salt, saliva, something I didn’t want to name. My breath came uneven, catching on the way out.

The clock read eight.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I pushed myself up and moved to the window.

The sky stretched wide, streaked with color, like nothing had happened.

Like everything was still normal.

But it wasn’t.

I turned—and froze.

In the mirror, someone stood behind me.

I didn’t scream.

I moved.

Outside, the air felt different—thick, charged, like something had already decided for me.

Leaves and branches cracked beneath my feet as I stepped forward, hesitation catching in my chest.

Was I going?

Or wasn’t I?

Decide.

Leaving was the only option.

I didn’t know where I was going—

only that I couldn’t stay.