Her Silent Screams

||STEPPING TOWARDS FREEDOM||

VAANI

"Papa! No, please!"

I let out a gut wrenching scream.

It all happened at once, the flashback, no the nightmare-the screeching sound of brakes, the blinding headlights, and the gut-wrenching impact-images of the accident that stole both my voice and my father from me replayed like a cruel movie.

I tried to scream again but my voice lost somewhere, a metallic taste comes on my mouth. I tried to gulp it and tried to call my father again.

"P.. papa.... W...w. wake up p..please!"

But everything failed. My voice come out in broken whispers only. Black dots covered my vision and I wish I fall in the abyss and never come out of it.

A gurtal scream build on my throat but only comes as the release of air as I jolted awake. Beads of sweat clung on my forehead. I found myself on my narrow bed and my gaze linger towards clock - 6.00 Am. The creaking floorboards outside my room signaled the unwelcome presence of my stepmother, a woman whose cruelty matched the darkness of the night. Her voice, sharp and venomous, cut through the silence.

Stepmother: "Vaani, you worthless mute! Keep your nightmares to yourself. No one wants to hear your pathetic screams. Oh! I forgot you cannot scream also".

I remained silent, my eyes avoiding hers. Every word she speak at me was a lash, and I felt the sting of each syllable. The room became a suffocating prison, and I knew I had to escape and I will, just few hours of wait and I will be free.

Stepmother: "Get up you useless! I want whole house clean and the breakfast done fast".

She takes the warmth of my blanket and threw it on floor as I waited for her to go out. I stand up and just take my last torture and start to do all the things.

After 2 hours.

My stepmom towers over me, her lips twisted into a cruel sneer as she threads the belt of her bag in its loops. I rest my throbbing head against the kitchen cupboard and blink away the trickle of blood dripping into my eye, too afraid to swat it away in case she sees the motion as a pathetic attempt at retaliation. I've learned that the best way to handle her when she's like this is to remain as small and as still as possible. Let her think she's won.

Stepmother: "And I want you and this entire goddamn house cleaned by the time I finish my shift tonight," she says, her bared teeth making her look like a diseased weasel. To compare my stepmom to a dog or bitch would be far too kind; dogs are loyal and protective and sweet. She fastens her bags belt, the metal buckle clattering loudly.

Stepmother: "Understood!"
My faint nod is met with an arrogant snort, and she glances over my almost-bloodied body, surveying her handiwork. With a final curl of her lip, she turns around, and strides out of the kitchen-transforming into Elegant Professor Nina Agarwal, upstanding and decorated professor of the most reputed college.

It's been 1 year whole one year when I come to know that my stepmother wants my inheritance. The inheritance which I got from my father and my grandparents after their death, and who don't want the millions on the silver platter. Just when I see those papers while cleaning this house I make myself a promise. Promise of Escape. Promise of Freedom and the day of fulfilling this promise is today.

As soon as the door closes, I force myself to sit up and run my tongue around the inside of my mouth. The metallic tang of blood seeps into my tastebuds, but at least I didn't lose any teeth this time. I glance at the broken breakfast dishes littering the ground around me. Coffee and cereal are splattered all over the cabinets and the new cream floor tile she picked out a few weeks ago.

It will take hours to clean the kitchen to meet Nina's exacting standards. Getting my feet underneath me, I wince at the throbbing ache in my head, ribs, and thighs. When I feel steady enough to move, I stumble out of the kitchen and into the downstairs bathroom. With the light on, my gaze is drawn straight to the mirror over the sink, but there's no need to prepare myself for the sight that greets me. How sad is that? I can't remember the last time I looked in a mirror after one of Nina's outbursts and felt shocked or surprised by what she'd done to me. Sad and hurt-that still gets me everytime-but not surprised.

I run the water and grab a washcloth, soaking it before placing it over my right eye. Then I repeat the process I've done so many times that I don't even have to think about it anymore. My muscles move of their own volition, like a machine. I always clean my face before getting into the shower to survey the rest of the damage bruises on my body I can hide, but bruises on my face require more care.

Not that I care as much about that today. Professor Agarwal does whatever she can to keep tabs on me. Nina sees everything-everything except me.

She's so focused on controlling my life outside of these walls, she pays little attention to my life within it. So when I occasionally have a spot of paint on my T-shirt or a colour on my knuckles, she doesn't even notice. I always have an explanation ready just in case, but I've never needed one. Done showering, I wrap a towel around myself and look in the mirror. There's a gash above my right eye and the deep purple bruise spreads over my entire cheekbone. Lifting my chin, I study the fingertip-shaped bruises around my neck and touch the cut on my bottom lip. I give myself a confident smile.

This is the last time. After my shower, I feel fresh and clearheaded. I thought it would be different. I thought my hands would tremble, that my heart would race, but I feel surprisingly calm. Calm when I walk upstairs and take the small orange floral suitcase from the bottom of the closet. Calm when I fill it with my essential toiletries, several pairs of clean innerwear, and a few changes of clothes. I'm still calm when I walk down the stairs, suitcase in hand, and make my way through the kitchen, littered with the remnants of breakfast. I grab my purse, but I leave my cell phone on the counter. It's little more than a glorified tracker these days.

Opening the garage door, I smile when I see it. My black goddess. The Maruti Suzuki Alto K10 that Nina forgot years ago and never uses it, shortly after my father died. She thought the car was useless but I've spent the last year fixing it. It's incredible what you can learn online these days. I mean, you can get yourself a degree using only a computer, right? No reason you can't learn to fix an engine that way too. I put my necessities and my precious paintings that Nina never noticed.

I climb into the car and, with a deep breath, run my hands over the steering wheel. Moisture gather behind my eyes I tried to blink it but traitor tears still falls. I wipe them off with back of my hand. This is it. My ticket to freedom. It's been a long time coming. I get her fired up, and the roar of the engine vibrates through my bones. It's the sweetest sound I've heard in my entire life. Excitement and trepidation coil in my gut. After checking my reflection one last time, I put on my sunglasses, hiding the worst of the bruises. Not that it matters where I'm headed, but I don't want some cop seeing my busted face and pulling me over out of concern while I'm getting there. It's a fifteen-hour drive, and apart from bathroom breaks and filling up on gas, I have no intention of stopping until I arrive at my destination. I've got one shot at this, and there isn't a snowball's chance in hell I'm going to screw it up. So I welcomed myself in my new life where my art speaks louder than my silent words.

Hello Wattys!
📚✨ I hope the first chapter of the story didn't give your brain too much of a workout. 😄 If you've got a spare moment and a cup of coffee in hand, would you mind sharing your thoughts on it? Your feedback is as valuable as a plot twist, and I'm eager to hear what you think! Thanks a bunch! 🌟📖

Also spare the mistakes😅 bcz this is my first time writting and English is not my first language. And z do vote.

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