𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋

𝐨 𝐧 𝐞

I was fifteen at the time
Stuck in a life that felt like a never-ending cycle of misery. You know those days when even the smallest thing can set off a storm? Well, it started with something so ridiculously small, it's laughable. I'd borrowed my dad's pen to do my homework, and in the chaos of my life, that pen had gone. Literally just disappeared.

The day was going into night, and I could feel the tension in the air. Every word hung like a guillotine, ready to drop. My step father's footsteps echoed in the dimly lit living room, and as he walked in, you could cut the tension with a butter knife. He looked like a ghost of a man, all hunched shoulders and tired eyes. You could tell he was ready to just sit back.

I spotted the pen on the coffee table. It was right there, sitting pretty, but not in the right place. Panic swelled in my chest. As he reached for the pen, his eyes locked on the empty spot where it should have been.

I stammered out an explanation, a clumsy apology, but it was like talking to a wall. My words fell flat, and his eyes—those once-warm eyes—were now pools of icy anger. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers like steel, and the pain shot up my arm.

At that moment, whenever he gets like this, I was no longer his 'daughter'. I was a target for his frustrations, a punching bag for his anger. I remember the feeling of being lifted off the ground, my voice begging for mercy, for a break that wasn't coming.

The room blurred around me. I was drowning in my own tears, choking on fear. All I could focus on was his hands, those clenched fists, and the s taste of my own tears. My mom, she was just a broken soul in the corner, a silent witness to the chaos.

The minutes felt like hours, and time lost its grip on me. This wasn't about a pen anymore; it was about power, about control, and the unbearable weight of despair that hung in the air.

When it was over, when he finally let go, I fell to the floor like a doll. Gasping for air, body aching, I was broken in ways I couldn't even fathom.

I wish I could say this was the only time it happened, but it was just one scene of my life. A reminder that in my world, even how much i think its getting better its not.

But what happened next was perhaps the most disturbing part of it all. My stepfather , after letting out all his rage, acted like nothing had happened. It was as if nothing happened. He'd walk away from the scene, not a hint of remorse on his face, and resume watching TV as if he hadn't just unleashed hell on his own daughter.

It was like a twisted, eerie dance. We'd be sitting at the dinner table, and he'd bust jokes or talk about the weather, completely ignoring the bruises and the broken spirit he'd left in his wake. My mom, equally trapped in the cycle of abuse, would play along, pretending that our world hadn't just imploded.

Those were the moments that left me feeling the loneliest. It wasn't just the physical pain; it was the emotion of knowing that the man who was supposed to protect me could transform into a monster and then act like nothing had happened. It was the aftermath, the silence that spoke volumes, that haunted me the most.

But through it all, my grandmother, my heart, had guessed what was happening. She told my mom, countless times, that we should leave, that we deserved better. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of concern and sadness every time.

My mom, though, she stayed. She told herself that she was staying for me, but it was more than that. It was fear, it was uncertainty, it was a tangled web of emotions that kept her trapped in that nightmare.

After the storm passed, and my Step father had retreated to his 'normancy', my mom would come upstairs, sit on my bed, and hold me in her arms. Her words, though often inadequate, were her way of comforting me. She would apologize, though she had nothing to be sorry for, and she would tell me that she loved me. It was in those quiet moments that I saw the love in her eyes.