Free Falling by Debbie Moon

creaked.
    Of course it did, she told herself, taking the weight with one bruised arm as she slipped through the gap. It creaked until the day they threw us out in preparation for the redevelopment that never happened. Probably still does.
    And yet it surprised her still; the familiar two-tone creak, the flicker of the TV, the way her mother’s hair fell across her face as she dozed in the armchair, legs drawn up to her chest to protect herself from unseen enemies. Her adult-self ached to rush across the room and curl up in the last remaining inches of chair seat, cradled between her mother’s cotton nightdress and the tatty velvet cushions.
    But she knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Her mother would wake and hustle her off to bed, muttering darkly about clingy children and the terrible fates that awaited them in the world. And even if she didn’t, everything would all turn out the same in the end. If there was anything she could ReTrace to that would change that inevitable parting, she hadn’t found it yet, and she certainly wouldn’t find it here.
    Tiptoeing through the ripples of light the TV cast on the grey carpet, she passed behind her mother’s chair and into the open bedroom doorway.
    The nightlight was still on, glowing green like some alien entity come to haunt her dreams. She’d never liked it, but her mother seemed to think nightlights were somehow necessary, and she’d been too embarrassed to confess her fears.
    In the underwater glow, her mother’s unmade bed loomed, filling most of the room. She had to climb over it to reach her own – which meant taking off her shoes and replacing them in the right spot on the rack, trying not to drop mud on the carpet. Not that anyone would notice, the state it was currently in.
    Clothes off, nightdress on; three or four well-rehearsed movements, the routine of a child who went through this secret ritual almost every night. Then cold sheets and traces of lavender scent on the pillow, squeezing her eyes tight shut as she heard a long yawn from the next room.
    It was a game. She hadn’t realised that until years later. Her mother, too proud to admit her failure, curled up in that chair every night, waiting to feign sleep so she didn’t have to issue scoldings that wouldn’t be heeded and orders that Jude would ignore. Keeping the peace, saving face.
    As her mother’s silhouette loomed in the doorway, Jude opened her eyes and said, ‘Do you ever worry about me?’
    Her mother tensed visibly, suddenly faced with things she’d kept at the edges of her vision for so long.
    â€˜That someone might be out to get me?’
    A slow breath, and the silhouette settled on the edge of the larger bed. ‘Someone at school, you mean?’
    But there was concern in her voice and Jude was in no mood to keep up the child pretence. ‘Someone. Anyone. Maybe someone from the government. Someone who knows that I’m different.’
    Her mother’s fingers touched her mouth, quick and hard, as if she could force the words back in somehow. ‘You’re not different. We’ve talked about this –’
    Oh yes. I remember those conversations; and the crying myself to sleep afterwards, wondering why she couldn’t see the obvious…
    â€˜And I’ve told you. They’re just memories, fantasies, games you play inside your head. You’re not different.’
    â€˜Because if I was, everything would change, wouldn’t it?’
    The silhouette straightened abruptly. ‘If you keep this up, things will definitely change, I’ll tell you that for nothing. If they find out you tell these ridiculous stories. They’ll take you away and give you drugs to sort your head out.‘
    â€˜They’ll take me away because I have an ability that very few children have. Today, tomorrow –’
    Don’t tell her, you can’t change it, you can’t take the