Frances (Frankie) Ryan was no stranger to violence. Her whole life was constant reminder of how being born into a dangerous family never escapes you. After years of trauma, Frankie finally thought she had left that world behind. But her past caught...
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Cillian
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Dublin, Ireland. 1981.
"Hurry the fuck up, will ya? I haven't got all bleedin' night. I've to meet the boys in half an hour." Tommy Ryan banged the table with his fist, making his young son jump with fright and his daughter roll her eyes. Margaret Ryan took a steadying breath before placing her husband's plate of Shepperd's pie in front of him. "Not this muck again? Jesus, do you not know how to make anything fuckin' else?" Tommy roared as he reluctantly dug his fork into his meal. Margaret served the children and sat down, opposite her husband, with a cup of tea. "Thanks, Ma." Frances offered a smile to her mother who returned a small one. She winked at her daughter and cleared her throat. Frances could see the sadness in her mother's eyes. "Make sure you eat your carrots, Michael." Michael happily lapped up his dinner, blissfully unaware of the tension building around the table.
The family sat around the small square kitchen table and ate in silence, save for the intermittent sighs of displeasure and annoyance coming from the head of the table. "What are you looking at?" Tommy snapped at his daughter who narrowed her eyes in disgust. Frankie was only eleven, but had learned to keep her mouth firmly shut when it comes to her father's treatment of her mother. Margaret had stood up to him not so long ago when Tommy came home pissed one night and convinced himself that she had been carrying on with some fella from the pub. Frances had always disliked her father, but that night she realised just how much of an evil bastard he truly was. That night, a bitter seed was planted deep inside Frances. She fucking hated him.
It was a few months ago when Frances had woke to shouting. Oh God, he's at it again, will he actually kill her this time? She thought as she ran downstairs and burst into the sitting room. She jumped in front of her mother, screaming at her father in anguish. Margaret was covered in blood and trembling on the floor, begging him to stop. Frances launched herself in front of her father, feeling the wrath and full power of his leather belt. It stung her face as it tore into her skin above her eye. At least it's me, now and not her.
