What These Eyes Have Seen

2

I stared down at the worksheet in front of me, the words blurring together until they looked like nothing more than tangled scribbles. I squinted hard, willing the lines to make sense, hoping that somehow, if I looked long enough, everything would become clear.

But it didn't. It never did.

Just as my frustration began to rise, the sound of yelling crashed through the thin wall beside me. My body froze, instinctively, like it always did. The familiar thumping, heavy and erratic, made my stomach churn. I swallowed hard, my eyes drifting to the door, my mind already calculating my next move.

I could feel the heat of panic creeping up my spine, tightening my throat. The yelling got louder. The thumps closer.

My heart pounded in my chest as I shoved the worksheet under the bed and slid after it, curling myself into the darkness.

I pressed my small body into the tight space, hoping the shadows and the suitcases would hide me well enough. I wrapped my arms around my legs, pulling them in tight, my small hands covering my mouth to stifle the shaky breaths that I couldn't control.

From under the bed, I watched with wide eyes as the door slammed open, crashing against the wall so hard I could feel the vibrations through the floor.

I flinched, every muscle in my body tensing as I saw his feet—my father's heavy boots, stomping back and forth, pacing the room in search of me, his anger crackling in the air like fire. I knew that anger. I knew it far too well. I could feel it suffocating the room, like it always did.

I stayed perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity. I was terrified he'd hear the rapid thudding of my heartbeat.

He couldn't find me. Not this time.

The boots moved faster, stomping back and forth, his fury building with every step. But then, as suddenly as it started, it was over. His feet turned toward the door, and the room grew still. I listened, straining to hear him leave, not daring to move, my body rigid and cold.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. I lost count.

Finally, I let out a breath, so deep it felt like my lungs had been locked in a cage. The relief was short-lived. My heart still hammered in my chest, fear crawling through my veins, telling me it wasn't over. It never was.

I stayed hidden, frozen in the darkness beneath the bed. Even when the house grew quiet, I couldn't shake the terror of being found, of what would happen if I stepped out too soon.

Just as I was beginning to drift, exhaustion pulling at me, I heard a creak.

My body jolted awake, and I turned my head, peering through the small gap between the suitcases. It wasn't him.

It was my mother.

She limped into the room, dragging one foot behind her as if it no longer belonged to her body. Her face was pale, gaunt, her shoulders slumped forward as though the weight of the world had crushed her down into something barely recognizable. Her lip was split open, blood dripping in slow rivulets down her chin.

"Sarah..." she whispered, her voice low, broken. Her eyes were wet, not with tears, but with something deeper. Something that hollowed her out, piece by piece, until there was almost nothing left of her.

I crawled out from under the bed, moving toward her. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't afraid anymore, not in that moment. All I could see was the blood, the bruises, and the shattered pieces of my mother standing there in front of me.

Her voice trembled, weak but steady. "I'm sorry."

But I didn't want her apology. I didn't want to hear her whisper broken words into the silence. I wanted her to fight. I wanted her to scream. To do anything but stand there, looking like she was already dead inside. Why wouldn't she fight?

An anger I didn't understand burned deep in my chest, twisting with every beat of my heart, making it hard to breathe. I hated him. But in that moment, I hated her too. I hated her for letting him do this to her. I hated her for leaving me to take care of everything.

I hated her for being too weak to protect us. To protect me.

I looked at her, the tears in her eyes, the blood staining her mouth, and for the first time, I felt something darker than fear, darker than sadness.

I felt anger.

It surged through me like a fire I couldn't control, hot and wild, filling every corner of my chest. But all I could do was stand there, staring at her as that fire swallowed me whole.

She reached for me, her hand trembling, and I stepped forward, hating myself for wanting to pull away. I wanted to scream. To cry. To tell her that I wasn't strong enough for this anymore.

But I didn't. I couldn't.

Instead, I wrapped my arms around her fragile frame, holding her the way she should have held me.

I am, but just a 12 year old girl.