The familiar crunch of gravel beneath my tires slows as I pull into the driveway, and an unwelcome heaviness settles in my chest. The house ahead is glowing with light—too many lights—and a knot of dread coils tighter in my gut.
I switch off the car and push open the door, stepping out into the chill evening air. Maybe, just maybe, they won’t be angry tonight. Maybe they forgot to turn the lights off before drifting off to sleep. A small, foolish hope blossoms, fragile against the harsh reality I know waits inside.
Wishing, for a fleeting moment, that I could be somewhere else—anywhere else—like talking to that strange, quiet guy I met earlier, instead of stepping back into the storm I've always called home.
With tentative steps, I ease the front door open, trying to be as quiet as possible. A sharp cough rings out from the kitchen, breaking the silence and tightening the grip of my heart.
There they are. My parents, standing amid the cluttered counters, clutching beer cans, some full, others empty and scattered like broken promises across the worn surfaces.
"Took your sweet time," my father’s voice is low, edged with irritation, making my pulse quicken. I keep my gaze fixed on the floor, swallowing hard.
My mother’s slurred voice follows, echoing off the high ceiling with a cruel mockery, "Where’s the moonshine?"
"I... I don’t have it," I say quietly, refusing to meet their eyes. It’s the truth, but not the whole truth.
"Why the hell not?" my father demands, his patience thinning like smoke.
"I gave the money to a homeless man," I lie without hesitation. It's easier than explaining, easier than facing the wrath I know is coming.
I hear the metallic click as my father loosens his belt. Panic rises in me like a tidal wave, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tears not to fall.
When he drinks, the man who should protect me becomes a stranger—a dangerous shadow looming over my fragile world.
His heavy footsteps drag across the floor as he moves closer. Summoning what little courage I have left, I try to run, desperate to escape the nightmare unfolding in slow motion.
But he’s quicker. The belt lashes out, striking my back with a searing sting that burns through my skin and bones. I crumble to one knee, a soft whimper escaping my lips.
His large hand grips my upper arm, yanking me upright before I can even catch my breath. The bitter scent of alcohol clings to him, thick and suffocating.
He folds the belt once, preparing for another strike, and I squirm helplessly, my pleas swallowed by the night.
"Daddy, please," I whisper, my voice trembling with fear. But my words fall on deaf ears.
The belt crashes down again, sharper, more cruel. My back flares with agony, each lash marking my skin like a painful reminder of my helplessness.
He strikes once more, and I cry out silently, eyes searching the room until they find my mother’s. Her gaze holds concern, a flicker of something—maybe regret or sorrow—but no intervention follows.
He releases me abruptly, letting me fall to the cold floor. I clutch my back, straightening carefully to dull the relentless throb pulsing beneath my skin.
"When we tell you to do something," he growls, seizing my chin to force my eyes upwards, "you do it. Understand?"
He shoves my face away roughly, then brings his arm up for one last savage strike—the most painful yet.
"Jack," my mother’s voice is clearer now, less slurred as she interrupts, "she’s learned her lesson. That’s enough for tonight."
I keep my head bowed, tears spilling silently down my cheeks.
It’s not just the sting of the belt that pierces me the most.
It’s the unbearable weight of what our family has become since Jake went to Heaven.
I understand why they drink, why my father’s fury consumes him. I understand because I hurt, too, even if my pain hides behind quiet tears and bruised smiles.
They take their anguish out on shattered dishes and broken bottles, on me sometimes—because I’m all they have left, and maybe because I’m the easiest to hurt.
In the depths of my heart, I blame myself for everything. That sorrow eclipses the burning agony on my back.
"You don’t get the drink, and you give away my money," my father’s voice is a sharp, angry crack that echoes in the room, my skin still aflame.
"I’m sorry," I whisper through trembling tears, finally lifting my eyes to meet his.
For a brief, fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of remorse flicker in his eyes. But it vanishes as quickly as it came. Without a word, he drops the belt beside me and storms out of the kitchen.
"Clean this up," my mother stumbles after him, her voice desperate and unsteady.
The shards of glass from earlier still litter the floor, glinting menacingly in the light. I rise slowly, careful not to stretch my aching back too much, knowing the pain will only sharpen.
I start picking up the pieces, each fragment a tiny reminder of the fractured state of our family.
I tell myself, again and again, that this is just a parent’s way of disciplining—a twisted form of punishment meant to teach. I cling to the thought like a lifeline, though deep down I know it’s a lie I tell to keep myself sane.
~~~
Later, I find myself outside, seeking refuge in the quiet corners of the local bookstore where Mr. Terrip works. I call softly, "Mr. Terrip?" hoping he isn’t hiding from me again.
Turning a corner, I nearly collide with his tall, lean frame. His signature crooked smile appears, the one that always makes me question whether he’s serious or just teasing.
"Didn’t hear you come in, Azalea," he says, with a knowing grin that tells me he’s anything but surprised.
"I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Terrip," I reply, returning his smile with one of my own.
"It’s the hearing, I’m telling you," he insists, though I’m fairly certain it’s just another one of his jokes.
We start tidying the shelves together, placing books back in their rightful places. I 'work' here, though unofficially—he refuses to hire me, claiming independence, but I know he appreciates the company and the help.
"Mr. Terrip," I say softly, wanting to bridge the awkward silence that settles between us, "thank you for being here. It makes things... easier."
He looks at me then, the usual sharpness in his eyes softened by something warmer. "Azalea, you’re stronger than you know," he says quietly. "And you don’t have to carry all this alone."
For the first time in a long while, I let the weight inside me shift just a little, feeling a flicker of hope amid the shadows.