God of Pain

10.Tara

I sat alone in my dorm room, reading through my textbooks.

Suddenly I heard a knock. Maybe it is Cecily coming again for my opinion on her pink dress, which all look the same by the way.

I slowly got up and opened the door coming face to face with my own personal demon from hell. My father. His face was twisted in anger, his eyes blazing with hatred.

"Tara, you need to study harder," he spat, his voice venomous. "You're not living up to your potential. You're a disappointment to me, to our family."

I felt a lump form in my throat as I tried to defend myself, but my father wouldn't let me speak. He just kept yelling, his words cutting deep into my soul.

"And don't even get me started on your behavior," he sneered. "You're running around with who-knows-who, doing God-knows-what. You're just like your mother, always causing trouble."

I felt a surge of anger at his words, but I knew better than to speak up. My father's anger was a palpable thing, and I knew that if I said anything, he would lash out at me physically.

But then he said something that made my blood run cold. "You're just like you were when you killed my Emma," he hissed, his eyes flashing with anger. "You're a killer, Tara. You're a murderer."

I felt a wave of fear wash over me, but I knew I had to stand up for myself. I took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.

"I didn't kill her," I said, my voice shaking but firm. "And you know it. She was just a jealous bitch, And you are not ready to admit that my mother was just some woman you used and discarded."

My father's face turned red with rage, and he lunged at me, his hands closing around my throat. I tried to struggle, but he was too strong. He choked me, his grip tightening until I thought I was going to pass out.

"You're a bastard, Tara," he spat, his breath hot against my face. "You're a bastard and a killer. And you'll pay for what you did."

With that, he dropped me to the floor, leaving me gasping for air. I lay there, my throat throbbing in pain, my heart heavy with fear and sadness. I knew that I would never be able to escape my father's wrath, that I would always be trapped in this cycle of abuse and fear.

As I lay there, I couldn't help but think about my mother, about how she had been used and discarded by my father. I thought about how I was just like her, a product of his lust and greed. And I knew that I would never be able to forgive him, that I would never be able to forget the pain and suffering he had caused me.

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I lay on my bed, tears streaming down my cheeks, the weight of the world pressing down on my chest. It wasn't always like this. There was a time when happiness was my constant companion, a time when my laughter echoed through our home.

One of my earliest memories, and perhaps the happiest, was of my mother and me in the kitchen. The warm, sweet scent of chocolate chip cookies filled the air as she patiently showed me how to mix the dough. I could still hear her gentle laughter as I clumsily tried to crack an egg, bits of shell falling into the bowl. She never scolded me, only guided me with love and patience, her hands warm and comforting as she helped me scoop the dough onto the baking sheet.

But the last memory I had of my mother was starkly different. The car ride had been uneventful, just another routine trip. Until it wasn't. The sound of screeching tires, the blinding headlights, the sudden impact—it all played in a horrifying loop in my mind. My mother had thrown herself over me, her body a shield against the chaos and destruction. Her arms wrapped around me, her last act of love and protection.

I could still feel the warmth of her embrace, the way her body had trembled with pain, yet she held on to me, whispering soothing words until her voice faded away. That moment, that terrible, beautiful moment, had shaped everything that came after. The joy of baking cookies, the safety of her presence, all ripped away in an instant.

I hugged my pillow tighter, wishing it were her, wishing I could go back to those simpler times. The loss felt like an unhealing wound, a part of me forever marked by her sacrifice. I cried for the mother I lost, for the childhood cut short, and for the overwhelming burden of living up to her memory.

But even through the tears, I could feel her love, a gentle reminder that she had given everything to keep me safe. And for her sake, I knew I had to find a way to keep going, to live a life that would make her proud. Even on the days when the pain seemed too much to bear.