The splintering of wood. A sickening thud. Then, the choked sobs. This was Ryann's alarm clock; not the shrill buzz of a digital device, but the brutal, recurring symphony of his parents' fights. He was eighteen, a gentle giant at six foot eight, with light skin and features that could launch a thousand ships – a fact utterly wasted on a life overshadowed by domestic violence. His college acceptance letter lay crumpled beside him, the promise of the future feeling a million miles away from the cramped, fear-filled apartment he called home.
He eased himself out of bed, careful not to disturb his ten-year-old sister, Ana. Even in sleep, a quiet tension clung to her small frame. Ana, with eyes that held an unsettling wisdom beyond her years, was often found curled up in her bed, a worn teddy bear clutched tight. Therapy hadn't erased the fear etched onto her face, but it had given her coping mechanisms – tools Ryann desperately wished he possessed. He knew she couldn't bear much more. The effects of their parents' fighting were already deeply affecting her.
He moved through the apartment like a ghost, the sounds of his parents' escalating argument a constant, low hum in the background. He made breakfast – toast, slightly burnt, because his hands trembled slightly. He knew the routine: the slammed doors, the raised voices, the terrifying crescendo of violence. He'd tried intervening once, but his father's rage had turned on him, leaving him bruised and shaken. Now, he focused on protecting Ana, becoming her shield against the storm.
Ana joined him at the kitchen table, her eyes downcast. He poured her a glass of milk, his touch gentle. "Ready for school, squirt?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that held more comfort than he intended.
She nodded, her gaze fixed on the chipped paint of the table. "He didn't hurt Momma too bad this time," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Ryann's heart clenched. "Bad" was a relative term in their world.
He forced a smile, a practiced mask he wore for Ana. Inside, however, a storm raged. The exhaustion was bone-deep, the constant fear a dull ache behind his eyes. He'd started clenching his jaw so hard at night his teeth ached. Sleep offered little respite; nightmares of his father's rage haunted him, leaving him drenched in sweat.
He knew he couldn't fix everything. He couldn't stop the fights, couldn't magically erase the trauma. But he could be there for Ana. He could be her unwavering support in a world that felt constantly unsteady. He could make sure she had a decent breakfast, a safe walk to school, and a comforting presence when the nightmares came. That was all he could do, and for now, it was enough. He was Ryann, the older brother, the protector, the silent guardian of his sister's fragile peace. And he would keep being that, even if it meant carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. He had to. For Ana.
But sometimes, late at night, when the apartment was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards, he would let himself break down. He'd curl up on his bed, clutching his worn basketball, letting the silent tears fall, a silent confession of the weight he carried. He knew he needed help, too, but the thought of adding another burden to his already overwhelmed family felt impossible. For now, the basketball, the court, and Ana were his only solace. He had to be strong for her. He had to.