The kitchen floor felt colder than usual that evening. I sat there, knees pulled close, my breath mingling with the chill. The room was dim, shadows casting long lines across the tiles.
I heard the familiar shuffle of his feet before he entered—he never bothered to announce himself.
His footsteps stopped near the fridge, a looming presence casting a shadow over me. I could feel the tension in the air, thicker than the silence that usually filled our home.
I didn’t look up. Keeping my gaze fixed on a crack in the tile, I counted the seconds, hoping he’d just walk past.
But then came the sharp intake of breath, a signal I knew too well.
His fist met my ribs with a force that expelled air from my lungs. I folded over, the pain sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t new, yet somehow it felt like the first time, every time.
I stayed down for a moment, gathering my resolve, feeling the ache settle into a familiar throb. But this time, something shifted within me, a quiet defiance born out of years of silence.
I pushed myself up, my movements slow but deliberate. My eyes met his, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before his expression hardened.
“…”
I didn’t know what words I could possibly say that would change anything. So, I said nothing.
My actions spoke for me as I turned and walked toward the door, my heart pounding louder than his voice ever could.
The air outside was cold, biting against the fresh bruises. Each step away from the building felt like a break from invisible chains, yet the weight of what I left behind tugged at me, heavy and persistent.
I was seventeen, and this was my first step into the unknown. Not a fiery rebellion, just a quiet exit, a decision that felt both terrifying and inevitable.
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