PEOPLE AND STILL
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Born into noise. Not the warm kind — not laughter or music — but slammed doors and the clink of cheap liquor bottles rolling across the kitchen counter. Father being the kind of man who believed control was the same thing as strength; gambling like he was chasing destiny and drinking like he was punishing it. When in a bad mood, he would take it out on her — and her twin sister. Sometimes they didn’t go to school for weeks. Bruises took time to fade and their parents didn’t want anyone to see them. Split lips needed explanations. Long sleeves became routine. Always telling teachers they were sick or that they fell. The lies had been imprinted in their minds. Mother, not cruel — just tired. Always pregnant, always recovering and always working. She relied on the twins as caretakers before they were 10. Being close with her twin sister; late nights whispering under shared blankets. An unspoken pact: if one of us survives this, we both do. Being 16, when everything shifted. A night that began just like the others. Drunken father, younger siblings hiding under the table — he had been losing again. Not disappearing fast enough as their father shoved her into a glass cabinet, grabbing her wrists too tight. That night it was different; he was going to kill her. Her twin sister was there — suddenly, reacting with adrenaline, as she hit his head with something sharp. His head hitting the floor - everything was silent. Checking his pulse together; there wasn't one. There was no discussion whether to call for help; help had never helped them. They had cleaned blood before, they had hidden bruises before. Cleaning the house of evidence with shaking hands until they finally buried him in the garden. Packing his bags, cash gone from the drawer, his favorite jacket gone. Telling their mother he had left. After that, the house was completely different. Their mother went into shock, not being able to work or take care of the younger kids. Everything was silent. The whole world had stopped in the Hammond house. And she couldn’t breathe in it.
Leaving first. Not bravely, not cleanly, but in a way people leave when staying feels like it might kill them. With a bag that wasn’t full enough and a chest that was too heavy. Telling herself she would come back for them, that she just needed air, just needed time.
Building something new out of that quiet. A small apartment that didn’t echo. Clothes she chose herself: soft fabrics, short dresses, ribbons threaded into her hair like something deliberately pretty. Details began to matter. The way things looked, the way they felt.
At 25, working as in a diner as a waitress. Long shifts, coming home late at night. Not liking it, but it pays the bills and creates a safe space for the life she is building up from scratch.
Believing in love in the way someone believes in something distant — something real, but not meant for them. Feeling like she had left something unfinished, something unresolved, back in that house.
It’s never simple with men. Always a distance she couldn’t fully close. Being drawn to depth, to intensity, to people who feel layered — but when things become too stable and certain, something in her pulls back. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to create space. Just enough to feel safe again.
Wanting closeness. But that comes with a kind of weight she doesn’t know how to carry. Existing in something in-between. Almost letting people in. Almost staying.
Not thinking about the family she left behind constantly — and that’s what unsettles her most. It comes in flashes. Her siblings feel distant now, but her twin is different, heavier, harder to ignore. Telling herself she had to leave, that she wouldn’t have survived otherwise — and she believes it, most days. But underneath it lingers a quieter truth: she left someone who never would have left her. For that reason, not believing she truly deserves a future family. Babies and children on the streets reminds her of the ones she left behind. She doesn't deserve to have a family.
Never talking about her past. Not because she’s forgotten — but because she hasn’t. Living in quieter ways. In the way certain tones of voice can make her chest tighten. In how she sometimes needs to leave situations without fully explaining why. In the way she can create softness everywhere except inside herself. And still, ske keeps building it. In her work, in her space, in the way she dresses. A life that looks gentle. A life that feels, at times, almost like peace. Almost.
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