Fear

21

One minute I was in the Act room, the next I was returning to a nightmare. My mind and body had become too weak to resist the memories. And the psychosis fed on my trauma.

I write these memories in the present tense because that's the way I relived it. Each memory felt like I was back there again — reliving every excruciating, harrowing detail. And I want you to do the same.

This time, it was a nightmare I'd lived at six years old. A wardrobe, my sister screaming, my brother crying, and a monster in the house that resembled my father.

So, reader discretion is advised. Skip this chapter if you feel uncomfortable.

Unfortunately for me, I couldn't skip it.

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I don't know how long I've been in this wardrobe.

There's no clock. No light. Just the smell of shoeboxes, old coats and jackets that I'm squished between, and varnished wood. My legs are aching. I can't sit down. My fingers and toes have gone numb. My breath is quiet because if they hear me, he'll find me.

And if he opens the door, I'll be next.

My sister told me not to make a sound. She closed the doors herself, knelt in front of me and whispered, "Don't move, okay? Just be quiet. No matter what you hear."

I didn't understand what she meant until the yelling started.

The walls shake when he shouts — not literally, but it feels like they do, like the whole house is rattling. The air gets thicker. Harder to breathe.

I cover my ears with my palms, but it doesn't help.

I hear glass break downstairs. A thud. Then a high-pitched scream.

Not Amber.
Mum.

The sound makes me gasp. My hand flies to my mouth. I'm shaking. My little legs feel like they're about to snap.

I can hear my mum being thrown around the living room. Her scream only lasts a second and then she goes quiet. She always goes quiet after the first hit.

Our baby brother starts crying. I can hear him crying for her, for it to stop.

My stomach twists. I want to be sick, but I can't. I don't want him to hear me retching.

A door slams, close this time. The door at the bottom of the stairs.

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps up the stairs, two at a time, and a pair of smaller, quicker feet running after him.

"Emily! Fucking show yourself, you coward!" His voice booms through the house.

Amber's voice is louder now. She's begging our father to stop. I can hear the desperation in her voice, but she's not crying. She never cries in front of him — that's one of her rules: never show weakness, it only fuels him.

Another sound. A sharp smack. Amber yelps.

I bite my hand to stop the scream that wants to escape. My teeth sink into the skin above my thumb, while my eyes burn with unshed tears.

It goes quiet again.

Has he stopped? Is it over? Is he still at the top of the stairs?

Thud.

Something hit the wall.

I can't hear Amber anymore.

The tears in my eyes start falling, rolling down my cheeks and over my hand.