MAZE

prologue

Today our family cat, Max, died.

I don't really call him the family's cat too often; If anything, he was just my dad's cat. I had known Maz my entire life and not once did he ever approach me or even look in my direction. The closest we would get to an interaction would be when he wanted to sit on my window sill on rainy days and watch the neighbors' kids ride their soon-to-be muddy bikes.

However, when Max was around my dad it was another story.

A year before I was born and after my mom and dad married, they got themselves a pet. Neither had ever owned a pet before, so it was a learning experience for both of them. My mom's friend had a cat that had several kittens and wanted to give away some. Without hesitation, my mom took the cat in, and my dad knowing my mom, he knew that she didn't regret her decisions so he went along with it.

For the most part, I was never told any wild stories about Max besides the occasional dead mice he would bring in, to which my mom would shriek in horror. Besides that, he was a pretty reserved cat. It wasn't until my mom was hospitalized for appendicitis and later passed away that Max gained character in my story of him.

When mom died, my dad shattered. He lost his mother, father, grandparents, and his older sister, and now his wife. I had never seen my dad— or anyone, really— act in such a manner. He didn't shed a tear; It was as if he completely left himself and some odd soul took over his body upon his departure. The man whom I adopted many of the traits I have still to this day— A man full of jokes, a man who never stopped smiling, and a man who managed to keep everything positive turned into someone unrecognizable. I would go days without seeing him, and when he would come back he would be drunken, the smell of whiskey jabbing at my nose. The first thing he did when he got home would be to pick up Max and take him to his bedroom, where he would just sleep in silence. To me, it seemed like he saw mom in Edo. But if that was the case, why didn't he talk to me? After Mom died, I don't think I spoke to him for a few months. Or rather, he didn't speak to me. I tried to talk to him, but every time I tried he would be too drunk to answer.

This was how it was for a few years until I had my daughter when I was sixteen.

Initially, although he didn't approve of my mistake, he was supportive. Though he forced me to get a job, he said he would also help pay for other fees and he kept his word. It wasn't until my daughter's mother decided that she wasn't cut out to be a mom did my dad turned on me. On nights he came back drunken, he would get violent. Sometimes I would be in the kitchen washing my daughter's bottles and he would come and shove me, hard, onto the floor, claiming that "it was my fault." This is all he would say to me, blaming me for something I have no idea about.

It's not like he had to, but he stopped supporting me financially with my daughter. As a result, I had to quit tennis and several clubs to get more hours in at work. I didn't really mind though because I love her, and always will, and I wasn't going to let anyone get in the way of that.

Progressively did the shoves get harder and then eventually turn into punches. Some nights, after I put my daughter to sleep, I would step outside to be at peace for just a moment. When I would come back inside, my dad would punch me in the stomach, causing me to take several steps back, but I stood my ground. We would get into rough fights pretty often, and despite my nose and lips bleeding I would still check on my daughter at the end of the altercations to make sure she was sound asleep. My dad was much bigger and stronger than me so he always won, but I was going to wimp away and let him think that he got the best of me.

A few weeks ago, he put his hands on my daughter for the presumed first time. She, now two years old and able to walk and talk, went to the pantry to grab herself a juice box. I had realized that she already drunk the last one earlier and went into the pantry to tell her but came to a very abrupt stop. I saw my dad shoving her out of the way, telling her "Get the fuck out of the way ugly brat." This was way more than enough to get me to completely lose it. I sprinted into the pantry, pulling her out of there and telling her to go to our room and close the door. As soon as I heard the door close, I punched him in the jaw with all my strength. He stumbled back, bumping into a shelf and causing it to fall and spill its contents. After wiping the slight blood from his lips, he ran full force at me, tackling me and causing my head to hit the ground first. I cough repeatedly, my spit getting trapped in my throat. However, I had enough adrenaline running through me to try and squirm out of his strong grip but it was no use. He sat on my stomach and pinned my arms down. After trying to get me to stop trying to get my arms free, he let them go. Immediately I started trying to get hits in at his face but it was too far away so I opted for his stomach. Knowing how drunk he is, this probably did not affect him. He realized that I was getting frustrated that none of my hits were having an effect and the most unsettling smirk appeared on his face. I paused momentarily in fear of what he was about to do next, which was a bad idea. He took that chance to throw numbers punches at my face, the taste of copper filling my mouth as uncontrollable lines of drool poured out of my mouth. At first, the pain in my nose was surreal but after a few more punches, I couldn't feel it anymore. My vision began to blur, I couldn't tell if it was because blood covered my eyes or if I was losing consciousness, but moments later I passed out. The last thing I heard was what sounded like words jumbled with tears. My dad supposedly said 'Why'd you make me do this?', though I wouldn't know for sure.

I woke up on the kitchen floor the next day, the entire upper half of my body in pain. However, I woke up knowing exactly what I needed to do.

I needed to get me and my daughter out of there.