Chapter 1: Rose
The sound of glass shattering always stuck with me. Not because it was uncommon, but because it never led to silence. Shouts would follow, sharp and biting, cutting through the walls of our crumbling house like knives. I'd count the seconds between the crash and the inevitable slam of a door. Two seconds tonight. A good night.
I hated how normal it felt.
You sit on the edge of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the peeling wallpaper. It's floral, faded yellow and brown, a relic of someone's idea of "home." But it doesn't match the tension that lives in the air here, a tension so thick you can taste it, like stale smoke and regret. You'd wonder why you were born into this. You don't have an answer, and you're not sure you want one.
My mom's voice comes through the walls, muffled but unmistakable. "Please, David. Not tonight."
"Don't tell me what to do in my house," my stepdad barks back, the venom in his voice making my stomach twist. His words aren't for her. Not really. They're for the past, for the war, for the ghosts that cling to him like a second skin. But she's the one here to take them.
They always told me I had my father's eyes. Not David's—my real father. I didn't know him. My mother never talked about him, except when David was in one of his moods and threw it in her face. "That bastard kid," he'd call me, like I was some stain he couldn't scrub out. My brothers, Jamie and Luke, weren't stains. They were blood. His real sons.
I would press my hands over my ears when it became too much, trying to drown out the words, but they always found their way in, they cut me deep. Words like those crawl inside you and plant roots. You try to rip them out, but they're always there, growing, twisting, forming into something bigger and harder to get rid of. They tell you what you're worth... What you'll never be worth.
Jamie and Luke didn't get the brunt of it. They were golden boys, untouchable in their father's eyes. Jamie was the oldest, well in his eyes at least, the leader, and Luke was the baby, too small and sweet to be anything but loved. Me? I was the space between. The one that didn't fit, like a missing puzzle piece that got swapped with something from a different box. Even though I was the oldest, nobody really cared or respected me.
"Get down here and clean this up, Rose!" My mom's voice cuts through my thoughts, snapping me back to reality. Rose. Not my full name. Not Rosie. Just Rose. It sounds wrong in her mouth, like she's saying it to someone else.
I drag myself off the bed and make my way to the kitchen, where broken glass sparkles under the harsh overhead light. A bottle. Of course, it's always a bottle. David's hand trembles as he leans against the counter, the veins in his forehead bulging, his face red with anger and something else I can't quite place. My mom stands a few feet away, her arms crossed, her face set in that neutral mask she wears when she's pretending everything is fine when it's really not.
"Sorry," I mutter as I grab the broom. I'm not sure if it's for the mess or for being in the way.
"Don't apologize to me, girl. Just do what you're told," David snaps, his voice loud enough to make my ears ring, it pisses me off but I bottle it up. I focus on the glass, sweeping it into a pile, each piece catching the light like tiny fragments of a life that's been shattered one too many times.
In the corner of my eye, I catch Jamie and Luke watching from the hallway. Jamie's arms are crossed, his face unreadable, but Luke's eyes are wide and wet. I want to tell him to go back to bed, to stop watching, but I know better. He'll just sneak out later and watch anyway. Kids like us don't learn by being told. We learn by seeing, by feeling, by surviving.
"You're too soft on her," David growls, turning to my mom. "That's why she's like this. Like her father."
The words sting, but they don't burn. Not anymore. I've heard them too many times.
"David, just let it go," my mom says, her voice low and tired. She looks at me for a moment, just long enough for me to see the guilt flicker in her eyes before she looks away.
You'll survive this. You always do. You keep your head down, you play the part, and you survive. That's all there is.
I sweep the glass into the dustpan and toss it in the trash. The sound of it falling into the bag feels heavier than it should, like it's not just glass but something more. Something broken that can't be fixed, I feel a strange feeling of empathy, I can relate.
Later, in the darkness and somewhat comforting quiet of my room, I stare at the ceiling and think about the way David's voice trembled tonight. It wasn't just anger. It was pain. A pain he doesn't know how to hold, so he throws it at us instead.
It doesn't make it okay. It never will. But it's there, beneath the surface, like cracks in a wall you can't see until it's too late.
You don't choose the hand you're dealt. You just play the cards and hope for the best. Or maybe you cheat. Maybe you fold. Maybe you find a way to win that no one sees coming. That's the trick, isn't it? Finding a way out. Or through.
But for now, I'll stay in the game. Because what else is there?