No One Will Know

9."Normal"?

My mouth still feels disgusting and dirty as I stare at Michael. He sits across from me, at the other end of the table. On the left, between us, is Mia, a bright reddish purple color of a fresh bruise marking her small face. I can feel my own face as well, swelling from the hit his fist gave to me.

We sit, still, staring at one another. We must sit there five minutes before he picks up his fork and twists a stand of noodle into it. Spaghetti. That is what he made. The smell of one of my previous favorite foods drifts to my nostrils, making me feel queasy and nauseous. I should be starving, after all, I can't remember the last time I ate, however the immense terror and anger of this last day is causing me to feel as if I would be alright if I never ate again.

"You aren't leaving this table until your plate is clear." Michael states, staring at both myself and Mia. Mia grabs at the spaghetti, swallowing it down as fast as she can. Following orders likely.

I look at him, he looks at me. There is no anger in my face, no sadness. I am drained of emotion, void of feeling. I am simply exhausted. He, however, glares, his eyes drifting pointedly to my fork. Slowly, I pick It up.

As I gather up some of the spaghetti, I think about how he could have put poison in it. But even then, I suppose it doesn't matter. I am stuck either way, dead or alive. I take a bite, and feel my mouth burst with flavor. It is delicious, the best spaghetti I have ever tasted. But I know immediately that although it has the best taste, I will never enjoy it, never enjoy this life or this food.

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I lie in the bed, the thin blanket wrapped around my body, and focus on wrapping my head around the last day. How do you understand the unthinkable? How do you cope when your whole life and future has been yanked out from underneath you? Since I cannot make sense of this, I focus on my breathing. On breathing in and out.

After dinner, he decided to take me upstairs, pulling my hand, yanking my arm harder every time a slowdown. When we got upstairs, he shoved me into the shower. He then left me to my own devices, saying that he would leave a towel outside door for me. I stepped out of my clothes quickly, showering in haste. The more I scrubbed, the dirtier I felt. My wrist where he had pulled was rubbed raw after I was finished scrubbing it.

When I emerged from the shower I found what my own clothes were gone, replaced by a nightgown. It was lacy and appeared to belong to a time far before my own. Nevertheless I put it on, feeling as if the last piece of my identity had been stripped away.

After I changed I found that the door was unlocked so I went out into the hallway, looking to see if there were any unlocked windows upstairs. But after finding all the rooms but one had locked, firm windows, I started to give up on that mission. From the one from upstairs I hadn't checked yet, I heard voices mumbling. Inching closer I found he was reading a bedtime story to his daughter. He seemed oddly human, as if there really was a person behind all those bad things.

I find myself contemplating how some of the worst people seem to have compassion, seem human. If that is true then what does that say about our world? Does that say that there's evil in all of us?

And then I wonder if it is fair that somebody who has endured so much abuse in their lifetime has to endure this?