Chapter Text
3am means different things for different people.
For some, 3am is rest. It’s the night air blowing in through the open windows. It’s the warmth of a fresh duvet, the soft pillow beneath your head, the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall.
For some, it’s fear. The knowledge that in just a few hours it’ll be time for work, or school, or other commitments. The silence, darkness and chill of night can be terror inducing. Some may wake in a cold sweat from a horrific nightmare, barely able to distinguish reality from what their mind has conjured up. Some may lie awake in anguish all night, praying for morning to approach quickly. Praying for the sun to rise, for there to be light again.
For some it’s exhaustion. The middle of a busy night shift. The knowledge that everyone else is tucked in bed asleep whilst you’re inserting cannulas and cleaning up vomit and being rushed off your feet.
For some, 3am isn’t a time they really recognise or feel anything particular towards. They’re asleep, dead to the world. Dreaming perhaps. 3am is meaningless. It’s just another hour on the clock. It doesn’t hold any value or sentiment. It just is.
For me, it’s freedom. It’s peace. Sanctuary. The only time that the rest of the world disappears. The only time I can breathe. The only time the overwhelming noise of the world dies down. The only time I feel like me.
I’m not lying in my bed, snuggled up under my duvet with a teddy bear in my arms, mind. I’m in the woods, my bare feet in the soil of the riverbank, the tiny waterfall trickling in front of me, barely clear in the dark of the night. My rusty old bike lies beside me, with my worn trainers that I’ve kicked off as they’re giving me blisters.
What am I doing in the woods at 3am? Escaping. Breathing. Living.
I’m 12 years old. Most parents would be horrified to know their child spends their nights in the depths of the woods. My Mum doesn’t know, but she wouldn’t care in the slightest if she did. She’s probably sprawled on her bed, a three-quarters empty bottle of Scotch at her bedside, some random bloke beside her most likely. She’s got a fella - Graham, or Gaz as he goes by. But he’s not always around so she sometimes gets lonely and bored and picks someone else up. All of the men scare me, but none more than her Gaz. I avoid all of them as much as I possibly can. I go to school as early as possible, getting there as soon as the gates open. I have breakfast in the hall, sitting alone. After school I get straight into bed, my earplugs in, trying to drown out the noise of Mums barneys with the neighbours or with whichever fella she’s got round. I sleep till about midnight, or I try to at least. Then I head out into the night. It’s the only time I can be alone. It’s the only time I can feel something resembling safety.
It does mean my body clock is a bit out of whack. I don’t always get the amount of sleep I need. Sometimes I feel like falling asleep in class. Sometimes I do sleep out in the woods. It’s not too comfy with all the twigs poking into my back, and the tiny bugs crawling over my skin. But mostly I just like to ride my bike round and round through the trees. Or I sit and watch the stream and the shimmering moon and listen to the hoot of owls and chirp of crickets.
Tonight the moon is full and beautiful. I don’t think there’s anything in the universe as beautiful as the moon. The sky is full of twinkling stars and I try to spot the constellations. I lie back, my head on the dusty, dirty ground and try to take in everything I can above me. I can’t even describe the complete peace I feel. It’s so different to how I feel at home, and even at school.
I don’t hate school. In fact, I love learning. Especially about history and art and literature. One day I’ll be an Art Historian. My dream is to go to Oxford University and study Classical Archaeology and Ancient History, followed by an MSc in Classical Art and Archaeology up in Edinburgh. That seems so far away but I long for it every day. It’s only a few years till I do my GCSE’s and, unlike everyone else in my year at school, I actually feel excited. My best friend Imogen is dreading year 10 and 11 and cries every time we have a test. She wants to be a Massage Therapist when she’s older and I know she’ll be brilliant at it. She gives me the loveliest Indian head massages at break time, which is another reason I verge on falling asleep in class as I’m always so out of it after one of her massages. She tried to teach me the techniques but I was useless at it and she said I kept pressing too hard on her head.
India is somewhere I’d love to visit, as I’m a quarter Indian, and Hindu architecture is a big interest of mine. My Dad’s dad was Indian and his mum was Italian. My Dad was born in Florence. I’ve never met him; not once. Mum was dating him back when she was in her early twenties when he lived in Liverpool for a bit. Mum got pregnant with me and told him to clear off, because he told her he didn’t think she was cut out to be a mum. He was quite right, but Mum didn’t want to hear that at the time. Sometimes I imagine what my life would have been like if my Dad had raised me instead of my Mum. I wonder if he would have been different to her. I wonder if he would have loved me. I wonder where he is in the world now; whether he’s still here in the UK or if he’s back home in Italy. All I know is his name. Luca DeCarlo. When I was little I used to write my name in pretty notebooks as Delaney DeCarlo. Sometimes I still call myself that in my mind. But I’m not Delaney DeCarlo. I’m Delaney Wilson. I don’t feel much attachment to my name. I don’t want to be a Wilson. The only Wilson I really know is my Mum. And she hates me.
I don’t say that lightly. She genuinely hates the sight of me. She’s told me so many times that she wished she’d listened to my Dad, that she wishes she’d aborted me so she didn’t have to deal with me. She doesn’t exactly deal with me anyway. She’s spent most of my life so far ignoring me. She doesn’t buy food for me; I always eat breakfast and lunch at school and only bother with dinner if I’ve cooked something in Food Tech class. She doesn’t clean. I do the cleaning; often when she’s out on one of her benders I’ll scrub the bathroom and the kitchen, instead of going out to the woods. I can’t hoover in case I wake the neighbours at that ungodly hour. But I get rid of the limescale and the dust and the cobwebs. I do it more for myself than for her. She actually doesn’t like me cleaning. When she came home one morning, hungover and in a daze, she somehow noticed the scrubbed floors and the clean dishes and the lack of hair in the bath plughole. She cornered me as I was on my way out the door for school and jabbed her finger into my face.
“Are you trying to tell me my house is filthy? I don’t need a little rat like you to tell me my house is a state, do I? What are you trying to suggest to me? I didn’t fucking ask you to clean up did I? You’re just looking down your nose at me. Fucking judging me. It’s not my fucking fault I’m depressed is it? That I can’t clean up myself. But I don’t mind it the way it is. It’s my house and I’ll live how I want. I don’t need you waltzing about polishing everything like you’re somehow superior to me. You’re fucking nothing Delaney. Get that into your thick head”.
“Sorry Mum” I apologised, unable to see what I was supposed to have done wrong.
I suppose I should count my blessings though. Mum doesn’t hit me or anything like that. I mean, she’s given me a thick ear before. And of course she’s spanked me. But I’m not sure that really counts as hitting. Not like Gaz. Gaz gets these really fiery tempers and lashes out at Mum, and sometimes me too if I’ve accidentally got in the way. He can’t stand the sight of me either. He calls me a creep. He says I slink around too silently. I once came downstairs in the middle of the night, ready to head off on my nighttime escapade, and I didn’t realise Gaz and Mum weren’t in bed yet. I caught them in a bit of a compromising situation and before I could hurry back upstairs, Gaz had caught sight of me, jumped up, and sent me flying with a shove.
“What the fuck are you up for, you fucking creep?” he’d hissed at me as I sprawled on the floor.
“She’s disgusting this one” he said to Mum. “She’s fucking watching us. Disgusting girl. She’s perverted. She’s sick in the head”.
Mum said nothing.
A few days ago I was getting myself a glass of water and Gaz came into the kitchen, punching a hole right through the kitchen door, in a mood with Mum about something. I jumped out of my skin, thinking he was on his way to punch me for some unknown reason, and I dropped the glass, shattering it on the floor.
“You fucking idiot!” he screeched at me, grabbing hold of my arm and digging his nails into my skin, drawing blood. “You’re fucking on edge all the time; I can literally feel it. You do my fucking head in. Clean this fucking glass up”.
I wanted to tell him, “of course I’m on edge. I’m terrified of you”. But I didn’t say a word.
He stormed out the house and I silently prayed he’d never come back.
My English teacher, Mrs Patel, saw the nail marks on my arm the next day.
“Delaney?” she called to me gently, gesturing for me to come over to her at the end of class.
I was scared I was in trouble for something, but I had no clue what it might be. I’m always polite. I never break the rules. I always listen and pay attention. Had I drifted off a bit in class without realising it?
“What are these marks on your arm sweetheart?” she asked me, when the rest of the class had filtered out of the room.
“Oh, I got worked up about something. I can’t even remember what” I replied, my heart thumping.
“You did this to yourself?”.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. No one else would have done it”.
I hated lying to Mrs Patel as I like her so much and she’s always been so kind to me. I’m not sure why I lied to her. What would be so bad about people finding out what goes on at home?
Actually, I think I know.
I think it’s that I’m used to dealing with it all by myself. I don’t need anyone else. I don’t want anyone else to intervene. I don’t really want things to stay the same as they are. But I don’t want things to change either. I feel in control when I go out at night and sit by the water and look up at the stars. I feel independent. I feel like I’m already a grown up. I don’t want that to be taken away from me. I almost don’t want to have an adult who looks out for me. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.
“Have you ever hurt yourself before Delaney?” Mrs Patel asked, her brown eyes looking at me in concern.
“No. No Miss, I swear. I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. I just got stressed about something. Probably something stupid”.
“These marks look really painful Delaney. It looks like you really, really dug your nails in. Your nails don’t look long enough to have done this”.
“It’s not too painful Miss. Honestly. I won’t do it again. I’ll find better ways to cope next time I’m stressed”.
“Do you get stressed a lot, pet?”.
“Not… not really”.
“I think we should have a chat with pastoral maybe. See if we can support you”.
“Miss, that isn’t necessary. I’ll be fine. I promise. I need to get to my next class” I said hurriedly, and I left before she could stop me.
And now, because of that, my Mum has been called in for a meeting. This morning.
But until then I’ve got the moon and the stars and the sweet night air and the soil and the water and the trees.
School doesn’t matter. Mum and Gaz don’t matter. Even lovely Mrs Patel doesn’t matter.
All that matters is 3am.