Ten years later,
The ceiling fan creaks overhead, spinning in lazy circles, casting shifting shadows across my bedroom walls. My bed is unmade, blankets tangled from restless sleep. The air is heavy with the scent of old books and faded perfume, a reminder of how long I've been here—too long. I shut my eyes as the memory resurfaces, clear as day.
A door slams. My father's door. The impact shakes the walls, reverberating like a gunshot. If it were me, my parents would have stormed in, demanding an explanation, calling me ungrateful. But for him, the house remains silent, complicit.
I sit up slowly, reaching for my phone. The screen glows in the dim light, displaying the dating app. My thumb hovers over profiles of older men, strangers who feel safer than the man down the hall. Conversations blur together—some empty, some unsettling. A new message pops up:
What do you ask from 'your daddy'?
Revulsion coils in my stomach. I toss my phone onto the cluttered nightstand. A part of me, deep down, knows this isn't right. My body knows before my mind does.
My bedroom door swings open, slamming against the wall. My mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression tight with irritation.
"Why aren't you dressed yet? We have errands to run!"
Her voice grates against my already frayed nerves. It's always me. My siblings, her favorites, remain comfortably at home, untouched by obligation. I am the default. The errand girl. The reliable one. The one who must always comply.
I change quickly, throwing on a simple outfit. Dressing up is pointless. My siblings get to be admired, complimented on their beauty. I get to haul groceries.
The grocery store is a symphony of beeping registers, murmuring voices, and the hum of refrigerators lining the aisles. The air is sharp with the scent of fresh produce and disinfectant. The fluorescent lights cast everything in a sterile glow, too bright, too artificial.
I struggle to yank a stuck trolley free from its place. The metal handle is cold under my fingers, my arms straining as I pull. Before I can curse under my breath, a man appears beside me.
"Here, let me help."
His voice is smooth, polite. He untangles the carts with ease, offering me a small smile. My chest tightens. Was I pretty today? Pretty enough to be noticed? My classmates never noticed me—except to laugh. I never understood the joke.
I grip the cart's handle, pushing forward as my mother walks ahead, oblivious. She rambles about my father, her complaints predictable, looping like a broken record. She despises him. Yet she stays.
"Text your father and ask what he wants for lunch."
My fingers curl into a fist before I unclench them, forcing myself to comply. She never texts him herself. This woman who brags about enduring his abuse as though it's a badge of honor—yet she can't even send him a message.
I take a deep breath and type the words. My stomach churns. Every interaction with him leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I have to leave. Not just this town. Not just this state. This country. I studied in another state, yet they still find ways to reach me, to control me. I've applied to jobs in secret, praying for an escape. So far, nothing. Just one application left. I've heard it's a toxic workplace, but something about it pulls me in. Maybe a bad environment is better than this one.
"Get the expensive ramen for your siblings," my mother orders, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I reach for the brightly colored packaging, my movements robotic. She never hesitates to buy them what they want. Meanwhile, I was always told to consider the cost, to be grateful for less. My silence is the only protest I can afford.
Maybe soon, I'll be gone. Maybe then, I'll finally be free.