The Quiet Slipping

The hairs are soft. That’s the first thing I notice, the thing that keeps me from screaming. I sit on the edge of my bed, the afternoon light slanting through the curtains in long, dusty beams. My arm rests on my knee, and there it is—a patch of dark fur, almost black, growing just underneath my shoulder. It’s dense and sleek, and when I...

The hairs are soft. That’s the first thing I notice, the thing that keeps me from screaming. I sit on the edge of my bed, the afternoon light slanting through the curtains in long, dusty beams. My arm rests on my knee, and there it is—a patch of dark fur, almost black, growing just underneath my shoulder. It’s dense and sleek, and when I touch it with my other hand, it’s warm. I don’t tell anyone. Must be this puberty thing Mum warned me about. Downstairs, I can hear Mum moving in the kitchen. The clatter of a pot, the low hum of the radio. The newsreader’s voice is tense, speaking of things that don’t make sense. Children in Japan. A boy in Brazil. Something about "physical abnormalities", about changes. Mum turns the volume down, and the words dissolve into static. I stand up. My room is small, cluttered with things I’ve collected over the years. Stones with smooth edges. A feather from a magpie. Books I’ve read so many times the spines are cracked. I run my fingers along the windowsill, feeling the grain of the wood, the cool glass. Outside, the garden is quiet. The sheep in the field beyond the wall are grazing, their heads bent low, oblivious. I’ve always been good at watching. People say I don’t look at them, but I see everything. The way Mum’s hands tremble when she pours tea. The way Dad’s jaw tightens when he reads the paper. The way my brother, Robert looks at his toys when he plays with them. I don’t know what’s happening to me. My head is more clouded than normal. Puberty? I don’t know what I’m becoming. 'Responsibility' scares me. The world is too loud, too bright, too sharp-edged for a girl like me. I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the sheep are still grazing. The radio is still murmuring. it fogs my mind.

I come downstairs to the smell of toast and the sound of Robert’s spoon clinking against his cereal bowl. Mum is at the stove, her back to me, shoulders tight beneath her cardigan. She doesn’t turn around when I sit down, but she says my name, soft and careful, like she’s testing whether I’ll shatter. “Morning, love.” I murmur something...

I come downstairs to the smell of toast and the sound of Robert’s spoon clinking against his cereal bowl. Mum is at the stove, her back to me, shoulders tight beneath her cardigan. She doesn’t turn around when I sit down, but she says my name, soft and careful, like she’s testing whether I’ll shatter. “Morning, love.” I murmur something in reply. Robert looks up at me, milk mustache on his upper lip, and grins. He doesn’t notice anything different. He never does, not about me. The radio is on again, low. Mum must have turned it back up after I went to bed. The newsreader is talking about a school in Manchester, about a girl who stopped speaking entirely, about feathers. Robert asks if he can have more cereal. Mum says yes, her voice too bright. I eat without tasting. School is worse than I remembered. The hallways feel narrower, the noise sharper. Everyone is talking in clusters, heads bent together, voices hushed and urgent. I catch fragments as I walk past—did you see the news, my mum says it’s happening everywhere, who do you think it is. A boy in my year, Liam Harper, is standing by the lockers with his friends, and I hear him say who they think is 'sus' with a laugh that doesn’t sound real. I keep my head down. I keep my sleeves long. The classroom is unbearable. The teacher tries to start a lesson on fractions, but no one is listening. Someone at the back whispers about a girl in Year 8 who’s been off sick for two weeks. Someone else says they heard she’s growing scales. The teacher raps a ruler on the desk and tells us to focus, but her hand is shaking. I stare at the window. I watch the clouds move. By the time the final bell rings, my head is pounding. I walk home alone, the way I always do, but today I take the long route, along the lane where the hedgerows grow thick and the road narrows to dirt. The air smells of damp earth and something green. I slow down. Near the old stone wall, something catches my eye. A stone, smooth and grey, flecked with mica that catches the low sun. I pick it up. It fits perfectly in my palm, cool and heavy, a small, solid thing in a world that’s turning strange. I slip it into my pocket and keep walking. When I reach the garden gate, the house is quiet. Mum’s car is in the drive. The kitchen light is on. I pause at the threshold, my hand on the latch, and for a moment I don’t want to go inside. I want to stay out here, where the air is still and the sheep are grazing and no one is asking questions. But Robert appears at the window. He waves at me, his face bright. I open the gate.

I push through the gate and Robert meets me at the back door, still wearing his school jumper even though he's changed into his play clothes. His hair is sticking up at the back, the way it always does after a day of running around. "Alice! Come see what I built." He grabs my hand and pulls me through the kitchen, past Mum who is peelin...

I push through the gate and Robert meets me at the back door, still wearing his school jumper even though he's changed into his play clothes. His hair is sticking up at the back, the way it always does after a day of running around. "Alice! Come see what I built." He grabs my hand and pulls me through the kitchen, past Mum who is peeling potatoes at the sink. She glances at me, a quick, searching look, but I'm already being dragged toward the living room where a fortress of cushions and blankets has taken over the floor. "See?" He points proudly at the lopsided structure. "It's a castle. You can be the dragon." I sit down cross-legged on the carpet, and he dives into the game without waiting for my answer. He roars, he attacks, he defends his cushion castle with fierce determination. I let myself be drawn into his world, where the rules are simple and nothing has changed. For a while, I forget about the fur on my arm, about the whispers at school, about the way Mum's voice goes tight when she thinks I'm not listening. Dinner is shepherd's pie. We eat at the kitchen table, the radio off for once. Dad asks Robert about his day, and Robert talks through mouthfuls of mince and potato. Mum watches me more than she eats. I push the food around my plate, but I manage to finish most of it. After dinner, I do something I never do. I stand up from the table and walk toward the back door. "Alice?" Mum's voice follows me. "Where are you going?" "Just outside," I say. "Just for a bit of air." She hesitates. I can feel her wanting to ask more, to keep me inside where she can see me. But she doesn't. She lets me go. The evening air is cool and soft. I walk past the garden, through the gate, and out onto the lane that leads to the meadows. The grass is damp with dew. The sky is a deep, bruised blue, fading to orange at the edges. I keep walking until I reach the edge of the forest, where the trees stand dark and still. I sit on a fallen log and listen to the silence. A bird calls somewhere in the trees. The sheep are distant shapes in the field. I stay until the stars come out. When I come back, the house is quiet. The kitchen light is on, and Mum is sitting at the table, a cup of tea cold in front of her. "Alice," she says, and her voice is careful again. "You've never done that before. Gone out alone at this hour." I shrug. "I just wanted to." She doesn't push. She tells me to go to bed. I wake to stiffness in my fingers. My hands feel wrong, the joints tight and unfamiliar. I hold them up in the grey morning light and see that my knuckles are swollen, the skin pulling taut. When I try to curl my fingers into a fist, they resist.