The rise of the White Widow

"Not the red room... please not that"

As I arrive home, I'm relieved to see that nobody is there. My relationship with my parents is complicated and tense, for several reasons.

Firstly, they have been sending me to the dreaded "Red room", ever since I was little. The experiences I've been through is terrifying, and I've never truly forgiven them. Secondly, they often treat me more like a servant than their child, piling chores and tasks onto me. And thirdly, they are both physically and mentally abusive, something that has deeply affected my self-esteem and overall well-being.

I unlock the front door and quickly close it behind me, enjoying the temporary peace and silence. My cat dashes over to greet me, a small comfort in this challenging environment. I feed her before making my way upstairs to my bedroom.

Once inside, I throw myself on the bed and gaze at the portrait of Jessica. She is strikingly beautiful with her bright blue eyes and long flowing hair that seems almost ethereal. Somehow, looking at her provides a sense of calm and escape from reality.

With a sigh, I jump off my bed and head over to my desk. Picking up my pencil, I continue working on a drawing. Each stroke serves as a distraction from my home situation; and for now, it's enough to help keep my thoughts from spiralling into darkness.

Time seems to vanish when I lose myself in my thoughts, and before I realize it, the front door clicks shut. My heart skips a beat as I hear my parents' voices. I completely forgot to do my chores. Panic rushes through me like an icy current, and I bite my lip with anxiety.

"Aleksandra Rushman! Get down here right now!" bellows my mother from the base of the stairs. Her voice bounces off the walls like it's trying to find every corner of the house.

Shuddering, I hastily climb down from my cozy bed and race towards the stairs, my pulse racing in rhythm with each step. As I reach the bottom, my mother glares at me with pursed lips and furrowed brows.

"You haven't done your chores yet!" she exclaims, pointing accusingly at the untouched vacuum cleaner and pile of unwashed dishes.

"I'm sorry, Mum," I stammer, "I was busy with schoolwork and just lost track of time."

"That's not good enough!" she snaps back.

Lowering my gaze to avoid her angry eyes, I mumble another apology.

Her hand shoots out suddenly and strikes me across the face, a sharp slap that brings tears to my eyes. The sting lingers like a constant reminder of my failure to meet her expectations.

"Looks like you'll be spending this weekend in the red room," she seethes as she turns on her heel and walks through the kitchen door.

My breath catches in my throat at those dreaded words. Not the red room... please not that.