❝Why do you have a tongue piercing?❞ I asked, observing the other piercings he had and the designs inked on his skin. I'd never seen so much work done on one person before. ❝What's the purpose?❞
A playful grin quirked on to his lips, cha...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Sophia's P.O.V.
I was only thirteen when I got my first taste of violence—and I wouldn't have been hysterical about the entire ordeal if it weren't for the fact that my father was behind it.
That night, I had gone to bed earlier than I typically did, dazing off before my head had even hit the pillow.
The noise of screeching tires had awaken me from my sleep. I turned on the light and squinted over at the alarm clock that was propped on top of my nightstand, squinting at it with groggy eyes. It was a little past three in the morning. The sun hadn't broken into the night sky yet. A ray of moonlight shimmered into my room through the window.
All around me, the house remained silent. I decided that I was hearing things. I crashed my head back onto my pillow, but before my eyes could begin to close, screams echoed through the house, loud screams that were desperate to be heard.
"Come down here! Please!"
It was undeniably my father's voice, crying out for help. I pushed back my blanket and rushed out of my room. Flipping on the hallway light, I held onto the railing and hurried down the stairs, still disoriented and sleepy. From where I was, I could see the front door was wide open and two figures were lugging in a third person in between them. I hesitated on the last step, seeing them struggle and haul this person inside. I knew it was my father and one of his friends at either side of this person, holding him close up on to his feet, walking him inside.
Dad's arm reached for a tall lamp beside the sofa, but missed it entirely and knocked it down instead. It hit the floor with a loud crash.
My mother's bedroom door opened and I listened to a set of footsteps, hurrying down the stairs to the living room. "What's with all the commotion?" mom asked from up the stairs, talking low enough to not wake up my two younger siblings. She walked around me and went to turn on the light. I wish she hadn't. I wish she had left the lights off and let us all pretend we hadn't heard screams for help.
But she hadn't done that. She had turn them on, bringing light to the gruesome scene before us. The mystery on who they were carrying into the house was finally solved. And the reason to why they had to hold him so closely was discovered. My brother, Rio, couldn't walk right without their help. The white shirt he had been wearing to school today was no longer white, but red and brown—stained with blood and dirt. Holes appeared in the fabric of the shirt. Deep bruises ran up along his arm and to his swollen face.
I stood there, numb to it all. There was nothing else I could do. Just stand and watch. Like it was a movie and I was merely a useless, powerless spectator, watching from the outside. Everything that happened next felt as if I was living in a world I was no longer a part of. There was a thin glass between me and the rest of the people in that room. I was separated from them—disconnected.
None of them noticed me, frozen at the front of the stairs. In return, I did my best to not notice them. I focused on one person, and that was Rio. I observed him, watching the life slowly fade out of his face. His lips smacked together repeatedly as his eyes blinked slowly.
