The dust motes danced in the slanted afternoon light, each tiny particle a prisoner to the sunbeams cutting through the grimy windowpane.
I tried to follow one, to lose myself in its meaningless journey, but the words on the page of my book were a safer anchor.
'Pride and Prejudice'
The irony was a bitter pill I swallowed daily.
A story about love and misunderstandings, a world away from the stark, uncomplicated hatred that furnished this house.
I held the book tightly, the quiet rustle of
paper the only sound I was allowed.
No video games. No smartphone.
"Gaming is too loud"
he'd sneered once, as if any joy was too loud for this tomb.
The door didn't just open; it exploded inward, slamming against the wall with a crack that echoed in my bones.
Lucian filled the frame, his large body blocking the light,
his face a mask of pure contempt.
The smell of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes preceded him.
"What's that useless book you're wasting time on?"
he snarled, his voice grating like gravel.
"Should be cleaning the damn house instead of sitting around like a lazy brat."
Before I could react, his hand shot out.
He snatched the book from my grasp, his fingers brushing mine with a revulsion that was palpable.
He didn't just drop it; he tossed it with a casual cruelty, sending it skidding across the floorboards to land under the bed, a small death.
"Sorry..."
The word was a reflex, a pathetic puff of air.
I stood up, my body moving on autopilot, and reached for the broom leaning in the corner.
He scoffed, crossing his thick arms over his chest.
His eyes, the same shade of cold grey as mine, watched me with undisguised loathing.
"About damn time. And don't think I didn't notice that pathetic apology-weak, just like you."
He punctuated the insult by kicking the broom
handle toward me, the force of it stinging my shins.
I bent and picked it up.
'Just clean. Don't think'.
The floor was a mess of crumbs and tracked-in dirt-'his' mess.
He lived here like a storm, destroying order wherever he went, and I was the permanent cleanup crew.
His lip curled as I began to sweep.
"Pathetic. Can't even clean properly—no wonder you'll never amount to anything."
He took a deliberate step forward, his elbow
knocking a cheap porcelain vase from the rickety side table.
It shattered on the floor, a thousand white shards
scattering like broken teeth.
"Clean that up too, boy."
The ache in my chest intensified.
I just nodded, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
I fetched the dustpan, the scrape of brittle ceramic the only sound as I knelt to gather the pieces.
Each fragment felt like a piece of my own composure.
Then, a sound salvation: a knock at the front door.
Lucian's face darkened, irritation twisting his features.
"Who the hell is bothering us now?"
He shoved past me, his shoulder knocking me off-balance.
"Probably another disappointment, just like you,"
he muttered, the words meant for my ears alone.
His hand gripped the tarnished brass doorknob, yanking the door open with enough force to make the whole wall shudder.
His attention was fully on the door.
I dared a glance.
Standing on the porch was a woman, one of his
'friends.'
She was smiling, holding a bottle of wine, dressed in a bright floral print that looked alien against our drab house.
The transformation in Lucian was instant and
nauseating.
The rage evaporated from his face, replaced
by a wide, plastic smile that didn't touch his eyes.
He stepped aside, his posture opening up.
"Ah, come in, come in!"
His voice was now sickeningly sweet, syrup poured over poison.
As she stepped past him, he shot me a warning glare so sharp it felt physical.
'Disappear.'
I flinched, my body obeying before my mind could process it.
I scurried down the hall and into my bedroom, the dustpan still clutched in my hand.
He was right behind me.
He didn't enter, just slammed the door shut, his voice a harsh, whiskey-soaked whisper through the thin wood.
"Stay in there and don't you dare embarrass me, you little failure."
A beat of silence, then the sickly sweet tone returned, directed back down the hall.
"So good to see you, darling!"
The handle of the dustpan was digging into my palm.
I let it drop to the floor with a soft clatter.
I moved to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
The world outside was continuing.
Cars passed.
A neighbor mowed their lawn.
Live.
Downstairs, his laughter boomed-loud, fake, a performance.
'To tired of this bullshit to cry.'
The tears were there, a hot pressure behind my eyes, but they refused to fall.
I was drained, hollowed out.
His voice floated up, clear and carrying.
"Oh, him? Just my useless son— pay him no mind."
The sound of glasses clinking, a crisp, social sound, made my stomach twist.
He was pouring drinks, playing the perfect host while I rotted in this silent, twelve-by-twelve prison.
I exhaled, a shivery, ragged breath that fogged the glass.
I turned and slowly sat on the edge of my bed.
The old springs groaned in protest, a sound instantly swallowed.
by another peal of his manufactured laughter from
below.
"Such a shame I didn't have a daughter— you'd adore her."
His voice was a theatrical sigh now, playing for sympathy.
The unspoken insult sliced through the
floorboards and buried itself deep in my chest.
'I'm right here.'
I shivered slightly, my fists clenching the worn, thin fabric of the bedspread.
'Hating myself everyday more when he says that.'
His words were carving knives, whittling me away bit by bit.
"Boys are so... difficult,"
he sighed dramatically downstairs.
A woman's voice—her voice-answered with a sympathetic coo.
The betrayal was a physical sting.
He was rewriting history, painting himself as a tragic figure, while I suffocated in the real version, the one where I was the original sin.
My gaze drifted across the room, landing on the closet.
The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, I could see them.
A row of dresses.
Frilly, pink, floral, lace.
Ghosts of the daughter he'd wanted.
Purchases made in a fit of hopeful delusion before I was born, now kept like relics of a saint, a constant, taunting reminder of my failure.
His voice rose, saccharine and mocking.
"I bought all these lovely dresses, hoping one day..."
A bitter, self-pitying laugh.
"Wasted."
The word echoed in the silent room.
I stood up and walked to the closet, shoving the hangers aside.
They rattled on the metal bar, a jangling, angry sound.
Each empty dress was a monument to his disappointment.
"I don't want to be a girl..."
I muttered to the hollow fabrics, the confession tasting like ash.
"But maybe he gets kind to me... when I start acting like one."
My whisper was immediately drowned out by his sudden roar of laughter from downstairs.
"Imagine if he wore them!"
The cruelty in the joke, delivered for his guest's amusement, made my stomach lurch.
The dresses swayed slightly from my touch, the empty sleeves seeming to mock my desperate, shameful thought.
I stood there, just listening.
The clink of wine glasses, the murmur of conversation.
His voice, clear again, laced with a false sadness that made me want to scream.
"A father's love should be cherished... but what's there to cherish in that disappointment?"
Her murmured agreement was the final, gentle twist of the knife.
The house felt smaller, the walls pressing in, the air thick and unbreathable.
Enough.
A strange calm descended.
I moved quickly, quietly.
I pulled my backpack from under the bed.
A few items of clothing, the money I'd managed to hide from odd jobs, the battered copy of
'Pride and Prejudice'.
The essentials.
My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs.
I went to the window, my fingers fumbling with the rusty latch.
It creaked softly as I pushed it open.
The sound was swallowed by his voice from below. He was making a toast.
"To dreams that never were!"
The night air hit my face, cold and clean, a shocking
contrast to the stale atmosphere of my room.
It smelled of damp earth and freedom.
I gripped the windowsill, the rough wood biting into my palms.
One leg swung over, into the void.
The ground looked a mile away.
Freedom was a heartbeat away, a single, terrifying
movement.
And then, the fear hit.
A dizzying, primal vertigo.
The height wasn't just high; it was swallowing.
My courage evaporated, leaving only a cold, stark terror.
"Fucking hell..."
I shivered heavily, my entire body trembling.
I scrambled back inside, landing on the floor with a thud, and slammed the window shut, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The sound must have carried.
His voice cut through the house, suddenly closer, sharp and suspicious.
"What the hell was that?"
Heavy, uneven footsteps pounded on the stairs.
My blood ran cold.
Even my fear wasn't allowed to be private.
"Nothing, I—"
I stammered, backing away from the window.
The door burst open before I could finish.
He filled the doorway again, his face twisted, the pleasant host mask completely gone.
His eyes were bloodshot.
"Liar."
His gaze darted from my terrified face to the window i slammed so hard it slightly fell open again, then to the bulging backpack on my back.
Understanding dawned, and his lip curled into a snarl of pure fury.
"Planning something, were you?"
I flinched heavily, stumbling back until my shoulders hit the wall.
There was nowhere to go.
He advanced, backing me into the corner, his breath a hot, sour wave of wine.
"Ungrateful little rat."
His hand twitched at his side, clenching into a fist, and I braced for the blow.
But then, the woman's voice called his name
from downstairs, a questioning lilt.
The spell broke.
He glared at me, the promise of violence simmering in his eyes.
"This isn't over,"
he hissed, the words dripping with venom.
Then he turned and stormed out, slamming the door shut again.
I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my
knees drawn to my chest.
The floorboards creaked under my weight.
From below, his forced laughter resumed, a grotesque soundtrack to my silent unraveling.
My nails dug half-moons into my palms, the
pain a grounding anchor.
The tears finally came, hot and silent, tracing paths through the grime on my cheeks.
The party continued, a celebration of a life I wasn't part of.
In the evening, long after the front door had closed behind his guest and the house had fallen into a heavy, drunken silence, I was still there on the floor.
The only light was the cold blue glow of the moon through the window.
The only sound was the ragged rhythm of my own breathing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.