Fists over Feelings

Chapter 1

I've never had a good relationship with my parents.

Beatrix yelled at her mom and dad once again for searching her room and barging in. Usually, whenever she was upset at them, her dad would start yelling and her mom would start crying. Her sister, Camille, was thankfully too young to understand.

I regret ever yelling in front of my baby sister. Thankfully, she couldn't understand anything yet.

"Why?" Beatrix shot back. "So you can tell me again how I should feel?"

"You're overreacting, sweetie. We're just trying to help." Her mom said with a sickeningly sweet smile.

Help. That word. They always said they were helping, but to me, it felt more like being smothered. I was 13, and yet every decision- what I wore, what I ate, who I talked to- was under their microscope. It wasn't love anymore.

"Beatrix, this family has always been open with each other. We don't do secrets. We don't hide things." Her dad explained and Beatrix felt herself clench her fists, anger bubbling beneath the surface.

That was exactly the problem. There were no boundaries. They were everywhere, all the time, hovering like drones.

"Dad, I'm not hiding anything," Beatrix said, trying to explain things to her parents with desperation. "But I need space. I need my own life."

There was a pause before her mom and dad exchanged glances. They didn't get it, and they never would.

"You don't need space from your family," Her mom finally replied, her voice sweetened. "We're just trying to protect you."

"From what?!" Beatrix screamed, her frustration boiling over. "From making my own decisions? From living my life without you watching everything I do? I'm not a kid anymore!"

You don't understand how the world works...

"Beatrix, you don't understand how the world works," Her dad said, voice firm. "We've been through more than you can imagine, and we know what's best. One day, you'll thank us for this."

I've heard this a thousand times before, the condescending lecture disguised as love. Sometimes I wondered how Patrick was able to get through this before becoming a full adult.

Beatrix pressed her palms against her temples, trying to breathe, trying to find calm in the middle of a storm she knew she couldn't escape.

"We're not going to let you shut us out, Beatrix," Her mom said softly, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

Beatrix flinched. It wasn't a comforting touch. More of a slap to the face or a punch to the gut than anything else.

"Let's talk this through," Jack added. "As a family."

Beatrix shook her head. "Talking" was never about listening. It was about them deciding what was best and her complying. She could feel the walls closing in. They wouldn't leave. They wouldn't stop.

"I don't want to talk," She said, stepping back, her voice trembling. "I want you to leave me alone."

Claire frowned, confused, as if Beatrix were speaking a foreign language. "We love you, sweetheart."

"You love the idea of me," Beatrix snapped back with teary eyes. "But you don't actually know who I am, and you don't care. You just want to control everything."

"Oh, honey, you don't mean that." Her mom whispered, her eyes tearing as fat tears ran down her face.

And there she went again. Crying because when she started crying, dad started yelling and hitting. And then that would usually shut me up.

Her dad's face tightened, and his voice grew hard. "What did you just say?" His voice was low, dangerous. He took a step toward her, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her small frame.

"I said you don't love me. You love the idea of me," she repeated, louder this time. Her heart pounded, but the words tumbled out in a rush, years of frustration spilling over. In a flash, his hand lashed out, striking her across the face. Beatrix stumbled, the sharp sting spreading across her cheek. She caught herself on the table, gasping.

I refused to cry in moments like that. In moments where they wanted you to feel vulnerable.

Her mother flinched but didn't intervene. She never did. She stood in the doorway, her face blank, eyes glazed over like she wasn't even there. "You think you can talk to me like that in my own house?" her father growled, his fists clenched. "We work for you and your sister, we provide for you, and this is the thanks we get?"

I always hated my mother for never standing up for me. For being a silent coward.

Beatrix pushed herself up, her face throbbing, but her voice was steady. "You don't provide anything." She spat the words, knowing they would cost her, but unable to stop. His hand shot out again, harder this time. She felt the impact before she registered the pain, the sharp crack of bone meeting bone. She fell against the wall, her vision swimming, but still, she didn't cry. Instead, she glared up at him, hate burning in her chest.

But, like they say. Like mother, like daughter.

Her mother moved then, stepping between them, her arms raised as if to shield Beatrix. "Please," her voice was thin, barely a whisper. "She's just a kid. Stop."

He shoved her aside, not hard but enough to make his point. "Shut up. Both of you. You're lucky you have me. Ungrateful brats."

Without another word, Beatrix turned and stormed up the stairs, her heart pounding with anger and helplessness. She slammed the door to her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed, her body trembling. Beatrix turned her head to see her 1 year old sister, Camille, sleeping soundly. She was too young to understand what was happening. And too young to know what would happen when she grew up.

I love Camille.

She breathed in a shaky breath before carrying her sister in her arms, she looked out the window, the moon shining through the satin curtains before looking back at her sister. Beatrix's face stung from the slap, as well as the bruises on her arms and legs as well. She let out a sigh before nodding and staring out the window again. Tonight's the night.

I wasn't about to leave her to go through the same things I'd gone through.