A Gentle Collision

Chapter 13

The soft light of morning filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room as Freen woke to the muffled sounds of the house stirring. The world outside seemed too bright, too full of life, but inside the walls of this house, it was always the same: suffocating, heavy, and full of tension.

It was Sunday.

The thought made her heart sink, a deep, familiar weight settling in her chest. Sundays were the worst. It was like the whole house knew that the new week was starting, and with it came her father's wrath and his never-ending list of expectations. Sundays were when he found every flaw, every small mistake that she had made over the week. They were when the air felt thicker, more oppressive. When the smallest misstep would send him into a fit of anger.

Freen pulled herself up from the bed, the familiar ache in her bones making her movements sluggish. She had barely slept, her mind racing with thoughts of everything she had to do, and the suffocating silence that stretched out before her. It was a feeling she had grown accustomed to, the constant tension that never fully let go. Even when her father was silent, it was loud-his presence, always looming, like a dark cloud hanging just above her head.

She ran a hand through her tangled hair, the messiness reflecting the chaos she often felt inside. The mirror in front of her showed the same tired eyes, the same pale face. The girl staring back at her didn't look like herself anymore-she barely recognized her reflection, this version of herself that had grown so used to pretending, to enduring.

Her mind drifted for a moment, to last night. The party. The strange feeling of being out of place, but also the strange sense of belonging in a space that wasn't her own. She had briefly let herself believe it was possible for things to be different. But that was foolish, wasn't it? She had no right to dream of a life beyond this. Beyond her father.

Freen swallowed hard, trying to push away the ache in her throat. There was no time for weakness today. There never was.

She shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom, her feet dragging along the worn-out floorboards, the same creaks and groans that had become the soundtrack of her existence. The cold water splashed against her face as she stared into the mirror once more, trying to summon the energy to face another day. The same routine. The same fights. The same coldness from her father.

After brushing her teeth, Freen didn't linger. She couldn't afford to. She pulled on her old, faded clothes-nothing new, nothing special-and headed downstairs, her heart already pounding in her chest. Her father would be waiting, as always. The kitchen would smell of something unappetizing-eggs and burnt toast, or whatever he had decided to cook this time. He always cooked on Sundays. It was his way of asserting control, of making sure everyone knew who was in charge.

As she entered the kitchen, the harsh light from the overhead bulb made everything seem sterile, cold. Her father was already at the stove, his back turned to her as he hummed under his breath, a tune that didn't reach his eyes. His presence was always larger than life, even when he wasn't speaking.

Freen didn't say anything as she sat down at the table, the same chair, the same spot. She just sat there, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for him to speak, to remind her that she was nothing. That she wasn't good enough.

He didn't disappoint.

"Late again, Freen?" he said, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. "How many times do I have to remind you that there's no room for laziness in this house?"

Freen swallowed, biting back the words she wanted to say. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him how much it hurt to live like this, how much she hated it. But she knew it wouldn't matter. It never did. Her father was never interested in what she had to say. He only cared about control.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, her voice small and barely audible.

"Sorry?" He turned to face her, his eyes narrowing. "Sorry doesn't fix anything. I don't want excuses. I want results. You think you're going to get away with doing nothing forever?"

Freen's heart raced. The anger in his voice was like a slap to the face, sharp and painful. But she didn't show it. She couldn't afford to. Not with him. She had learned long ago that it was easier to stay silent, to accept the punishment, than to fight back.

"Just eat your breakfast and get to work," he said, turning back to the stove. "There's laundry to be done, dishes to be washed, and don't forget the yard. You're not getting out of anything today."

Freen nodded, forcing herself to pick up her fork and take a bite of the food in front of her. It was tasteless, bland-just like everything in her life. She didn't want to eat. She didn't feel hungry. But she ate anyway. She always did. It was just another part of the routine.

As she ate, she couldn't help but wonder if there was more to life than this. If there was a world beyond the walls of this house where she could just be... happy. But no. That was a foolish thought. She had been taught from a young age that happiness was a luxury, something reserved for people who were rich, or lucky. It wasn't meant for her. Not with her father around.

Her father's voice broke through her thoughts again. "Why are you always in a daze? Are you listening to me?"

Freen snapped her gaze up, startled. "Yes, Dad."

"Don't 'yes, Dad' me," he snapped. "I'm not your friend. I'm your father, and you'll start acting like it."

Freen's hands clenched into fists on her lap, but she said nothing. She just nodded again, the words too painful to speak. Instead, she finished her breakfast in silence, the sound of her fork scraping against the plate the only noise in the room.

When she finished, she stood up, her body aching, but she didn't look at him. She didn't want to.

"I'll get started on the chores," she said quietly, already feeling the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders.

"Good," he said, his voice cold. "And make sure it's done right. Don't make me come down there and check on you again."

Freen's heart sank, but she didn't argue. She didn't have the energy for it. She knew better.

She moved to the living room, grabbing the laundry basket and taking it upstairs, her steps slow and deliberate. Every task felt like a mountain, every chore a burden. But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. If she did, her father's anger would rise again. And she couldn't bear that. She couldn't bear his yelling, his criticism. Not today.

As she worked, the hours seemed to stretch on endlessly, the day moving at a crawl. Every task she did felt like one more step toward exhaustion. One more way to prove to her father that she was good for nothing.

By the time the sun began to set, she was completely drained-physically and emotionally. She wanted to scream, to break something, but there was no point. Her father would just find a way to make it her fault.

As she stood in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, Freen felt the familiar sense of hopelessness creeping back in. The same hopelessness she felt every Sunday. She couldn't escape it. No matter how much she wanted to, no matter how hard she tried to imagine a life beyond this house, she knew it was pointless. This was her life. This was what she had to live with.

She could feel it now-the weight of the walls around her, the suffocating silence. The world beyond the house seemed so far away, a place she would never reach. But she couldn't help herself. She couldn't stop dreaming of something better. Even if she knew it was impossible.

Her father's voice broke through her thoughts again. "You done yet? There's more work to do."

Freen closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. She had no choice. She had to keep going. She had to keep pretending. For now, it was the only way to survive.

"Almost," she muttered, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

And with that, she turned back to the dishes, the same routine carrying on, relentless and unyielding.