The house was dark when Kalisa pushed the door open, her hands trembling against the knob. She staggered in, her shirt clinging to her skin, stained crimson. The iron tang of blood lingered in her nose, even after the fight, even after the adrenaline had begun to ebb away. She slammed the door shut behind her, her breath shallow and uneven.
Lisa was waiting in the living room, her frail figure wrapped in a shawl. She had been sitting in silence, eyes fixed on the light on the table by her side. The moment her gaze lifted and landed on Kalisa, her face hardened, not with shock, but with the quiet weight of someone who had seen too much already.
"Where have you been?" Lisa's voice was steady, too steady. Then her eyes narrowed, noticing the red stains smeared across Kalisa's arms. "And why," she said, rising from her chair, "are you covered in blood?"
Kalisa tried to brush past her, heading for the small chest near her room. "We have to leave, Mama. Now. Every second we spend here—"
