Staring out my window I tried not to hear the sounds coming from below me. I sighed as I listened to the arguing voices, getting louder and louder. Eventually, the voices would stop and the banging of walls and shattering of glass would start, along with the screams. Those screams would stick with me for the rest of my night, haunting my dreams, turning them into nightmares. I would wake up, shuddering into my pillow with tears running down my cheeks and pray that I could forget. The next morning my mom would leave, my sisters would go off to school, and my dad would trap me in my room. I would be next.
It was all routine, one I knew very well. I took a deep breath and pushed myself away from my perch on the window sill, walking as silently as I could across my room to my closet, as if my dad would be able to hear my footsteps from two stories below. Still, I wasn't about to take any chances. I opened my door carefully to my closet and then closed the door behind me when I stepped in. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but as it had been raining all day and the dark clouds had cast my room into a gloom, it didn't take long. I looked around the small space that was my only escape. I lived in this closet, day in- day out, trying to hide from my abusive father. It didn't help much- the door didn't lock- but I would sometimes hide under a pile of clothes or on top of one of the shelves where my dad wouldn't find me. He was often too lazy to look any further than right in front of him; or just too stupid.
I cringed as I heard a huge crash followed with a loud scream of agony. I feared for my mother. I was afraid that one day, the screaming and banging would stop and I would come downstairs to find her dead. I forced my thoughts away from the activities going on beneath me and tucked myself into a corner, where I had hidden a flashlight and a journal. I switched on the light and searched around the floor, looking for a pen. After finding the one that had been rolled under a pair of my dirty pants, I opened my journal to the last entry and started reading.
Dear Journal,
It's happening again. I can feel it inside of me. There's no stopping it this time. I wonder if I'll survive, or if I'll die again. Dying will be unquestionably a relief this time. I can stand no more of this. I cannot stop my father- I cannot save my mother. I only fear for him. I wish there was some way I could find him and help him. I know he is in pain. Like I said, I can feel it. He will die soon- and with his death comes mine.
My eyes roved over the words I had written the night before. I shuddered as I thought of his face; his jet black hair, his sideways bangs slanting over his eyes, his sparkling blue eyes, his straight nose, his prominent cheekbones, his deep dimples, his perfect, pouty lips.
Stop.
I slammed the journal close and curled up in a ball, tucking my knees into my chest, and started to rock back and forth. He was gone. He was never coming back. I was never going to have him again, never going to hold him again. Maybe this time, death will be permanent. Maybe I won't have to go through this again. Maybe we'll be able to be together in death, if not in life.
But I didn't have much hope. It didn't happen the first time around, did it? And now here I was, sitting in a small, dark closet, all alone. I wish he was here, holding me in his arms, pressing his lips to my forehead and whispering comforting words into my ear. I felt the tears start to well up and quickly brushed them away, redirecting my thoughts. I was not allowed to think of him too much. Thinking of him would alert them to me. Thinking of him would put both of us in danger. I slipped sometimes, but so far I hadn't been caught. No one had come for me, like they had him. I knew he had been caught. I could feel it- his pain was my pain. They were torturing him, no doubt, and I felt all of it. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to go to him and comfort him- save him. But I knew I couldn't. If I did, we would both die all that much sooner.
I sometimes wondered if I was being a cowered. Aren't you supposed to take risks for love? Aren't you supposed to do whatever you can to save them, even if you knew you would never be able to? Aren't you supposed to be out there every second, looking for this, aching for them, crying over them? Surely you weren't supposed to hide out in a closet while your loved ones are being tortured and killed, even.
But there was nothing that I could do. Even though it killed me, I knew that. The very best thing I could do for him was stay hidden and keep quiet. So I would.
I jumped as I heard a loud banging on the door.
"Violet! Violet, open this door right now! Violet!" My dad's voice boomed right outside of the closet and I cowered back against the wall, shaking. There was no where to go, no way to hide. He would hear me if I tried to scramble up onto the shelf.
"Violet, if you don't open this door in the next three seconds, I'm busting it down!"
I backed up as far as I could and put my head in my hands, waiting as he counted down slowly.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
Here we go, I thought.
"THREE!"
There was a moment of silence and then a loud crash as my dad's boot came crashing through the door. His foot got stuck for a moment in the hole he had made, but it didn't take long for him to get it out and continue kicking the door until it crashed open.
I guess it never occurred to him that the door wasn't locked.
