Silent Secrets

Chapter IV

I picked myself up from the wreckage of the table, brushing off my clothes and wincing as I felt all of the splinters that had speared into my skin. My back burned from the jagged edge of a stray table leg scraping against it as I fell, yet it and the bits of wood lodged beneath my skin seemed the least of my worries. The fact that my father hadn't exploded in rage at me for breaking the table, the sinister, maniacal glint in his eyes, and the way he held himself--pretending to be a 'gentleman'--all hinted at a greater storm to come. Had he shouted at me, maybe hit me a few times more, I would be relieved. At least then I would know that no more harm was to come to me for that mishap. However, he hadn't lost control. He'd smiled coldly at me in a way that promised that the incident was not to be forgotten, but to be considered. When he came back, it wouldn't matter if the floor was spotless, dinner was perfect, and I had miraculously discovered a cache of that strange whiskey or a pot of gold in our basement. The Queen herself could visit, could randomly promote my father and move us into a ginormous mansion and it wouldn't make a difference. It didn't even matter if he wanted the table destroyed or not, because he would still find fault with me, even if it was for something so stupid as "you didn't trip right", or "the table wasn't broken correctly".

Hot, damp tracks ran down my cheeks, and I realized I'd been crying. I had sunk back down to the floor, and tucked my knees up to my chest. I wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and forget the world until my father came home, bringing the harshness of reality with him. Yet, self-preservation forced me to get moving. Yes, no matter what I did I would still be beaten. However, my choices and actions now affected how severely wounded I would be when he finally flung me into my closet and locked me away like some common animal. As if I were a dog called to do its master's bidding.

My eyes narrowed. Maybe I was trapped, and maybe I had no choice but to do what my father ordered, but I was not a dog. I hated that I was treated as such.

It occurred to me then, not for the first time, that I could run away. There was no one here to stop me, nothing here to hold me. This entire house was ash and dust to me. And yet I hesitated, as I always did whenever this thought struck me. A dark cloud of doubts assailed me, and I struggled to answer each of them, to find any valid reason to stay that I couldn't counter.

Where would you go?

My alley, I replied automatically. Where I always go.

What would you do when winter comes?

I struggled to find an answer. Suddenly, a stroke of brilliance dawned upon me. I'll go to that boy I met. He'll help me.

You don't trust him, my mind accused me. Why would you go to him now, someone you barely know? What makes you think life would be better with him?

I don't know any other human, for starters, I began, and do you have a better idea or reason not to go?

Instantly, thousands of Worst-Case-Scenarios popped up in my head. I did my best to suppress them, ignoring the clamor in my head, demanding I listen to sense. Oh, shut up. But honestly, what life could be worse than this one?

My mind was silent, which I took to mean it agreed with me. I sighed. If only running away were so simple. But, no, I knew better. He would find me. It wouldn't take long before he hunted me down and flayed me alive for my insubordination. I likely wouldn't live long after that. Not that that was such a hardship--whatever came after death surely was better than my life now. Besides, by fleeing, I would be putting the person or family who sheltered me at risk. I flashed back to the night in the alley when my father had "persuaded" that man to part with his belongings, and I shuddered.