*T/W: Following chapter includes domestic violence.

I wouldn't have wished for death if I knew that my wish would come true so soon.

I heard the shouts even before I stepped into the hallway. My fingers tightened around my school bag and I stopped in front of the apartment door. He was home earlier than usual. Shouting at something. Or someone. His words were intangible—a blur of curses and profanities—but I could feel his anger. The loud pulsating emotion reverberated through the thin walls and gripped me in its cruel hold. My heart rate doubled. Sweat formed on my forehead, dribbled down my face, and disappeared into my school uniform. I raised my hand to unlock the door, but then fisted my trembling fingers. Could I really face him?

The door next to ours opened and a middle-aged couple got out of their apartment. Blood rushed to my face, and I ducked my head. It wasn't embarrassment. I wasn't ashamed. Rather, it was anger. Hot and ruthless, it engulfed me in its dizzying spell. I was angry because I couldn't hide the truth anymore. Now they would know that I didn't belong to a happy family—that my life was worse than theirs.

Perhaps it was my young foolish pride that wanted to hide this shameful part of my life. But I didn't want them to know. Not about this, not about anything. I wanted to cut it off like a rotten limb and forget that it ever existed. However, the sweetness of that alternate reality only left a bitter aftertaste. It was a futile wish. Life wasn't that easy. Even if the limb was gone, the stump would remain. And it would stand out jarringly. Everyone would see it, even if they would never talk about it.

My neighbors' steps faltered near our door, and I tensed. The shouts were loud and unmistakable. Would they question it? Would they offer help? I stole a quick glance at them. Our eyes met, and I panicked. What should I say? How should I explain? As I contemplated this, they gave me a small forced smile. I curved my lips to return it—when instead of stopping; they continued to walk away. I hid my look of surprise and snapped my gaze away. Anger clawed the insides of my stomach once again. They didn't have to say anything for me to know what they were thinking. I had been listening to those words my entire life.

Poor Tamara. Her mother married the wrong man. A drunkard for a stepfather.

Pity. They always looked at me with pity. They watched me as a person watched a wounded street dog. There was nothing to do but watch it tremble in misery. It was a life that the dog had to get used to living or die trying. Tears pooled at the corner of my eyes, and I gritted my teeth. I didn't need their pity. It solved nothing. There was no way out of this hellhole. This was my reality. And I had to face it alone.

I opened the door and stepped inside. The reek of booze and cheap tobacco smoke flooded the apartment, and I scrunched up my nose. Empty bottles, dirty dishes, and stubs of cigarettes littered the floor. A few bottles were broken—perhaps in another one of his drunken stupors—and I navigated through the shattered glass with care.

Another shout caught my attention, and I whipped my head towards my parents' bedroom. Fear coiled inside my stomach. He wasn't alone. The door was closed, but I heard him clearly this time. "Where's the money? Where did you keep it?"

Money. Of course, it was about money again. I held my breath as I walked closer. There was a soft sob, and in an even softer voice, my mother said, "I told you...there's none left."

"Bitch!"

A resounding slap echoed through the apartment. My mother screamed. I swung open the door and rushed into the bedroom. I gasped at the scene. She was on the floor, lying over broken glass, and the dirty carpet. A bright blue bruise was forming on the side of her face. He had been beating her for a while now. Her left eye swelled at a frightening pace and she struggled to keep awake—but she still saw me. She raised her arm and tried to shoo me away. "Go... go away!"

"Ma!" I flung my bag on the floor and knelt to her side. Bits of glasses stuck to my skin, and I winced as they scraped my knees. It didn't matter. The pain wasn't anything new. I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand and sniffled. "I'm here. Let's go."

My mother shook her head, desperate to get words out, but unable to speak. I tried to pick her up when a strong burly hand gripped my plait and hauled me off the floor. A painful scream escaped my throat as he pulled my hair taut. I clutched my hair and desperately dug my nails into my stepfather's thick skin. "You dimwit!" he bellowed and clawed my hands off his fist with his other hand.

"Leave me alone!" I struggled under his grip and tried to kick out. But my strength was no match for his, and he pulled me across the floor like a rag. The broken bottles crunched under my bare feet and dug into my skin. Pain assaulted my senses as blood seeped out from my wounds and dripped to the floor.

"Stop!" my mother cried in a hoarse voice. "You promised you won't touch her!"

"Did I?" He laughed and spat on the floor. "Give me the money and I'll let her go."

I shook my head furiously. Each move brought a fresh round of pain, but I didn't stop. She couldn't say yes. She couldn't agree. There was no end to my stepfather's greed. He would take the money today. And then he would ask for more tomorrow! When will this end? When will we have a single meal that was not dry bread and pickles?

My mother met my eyes. She must have seen the defiance in my eyes, the tears streaking down my cheeks, the blood seeping out of my skin, but she still said, "I'll get my salary next mon—"

"Don't give him anything!" Fourteen years of hatred filled me. Tired, I was so tired of this. This vile old pattern. I reached for the heavy side table next to the bed. My stepfather pulled me back again. I grunted, ignoring the strands of hair snapping off my scalp, and grasped the edge. With a shout, I pushed it towards him. The ugly mahogany table fell onto his foot and he howled in pain. His grip loosened, and I slumped to the ground.

"Tamara!" Her warm calloused hands caressed my cheeks. She continued to glance at my stepfather with fear in her eyes. Sprawled on the floor, he clutched his foot and shouted expletives at us.

I scrambled to a sitting position and cried, "Let's run away! Please. We can live alone, right?"

"Tam..." Tears ran down her cheeks freely and she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

"Please, ma. Just you and me." I clutched her hand in mine. My heart thudded inside my chest as I waited for her response. I meant each word I said. Even if I had to live on the streets or beg for food, I just wanted to end this misery. Until when would we tolerate this pain and hide our scars from the world? Why should we? He wasn't human. He was a monster. I looked into her eyes and whispered, "Let's start a new life."

"Where do you think you're going?" my stepfather spat out. The shadow of his heavy body loomed over my head and I smelled the stench of alcohol in his breath.

"No! Stop!" my mother screamed.

I turned my head to look at him. But it was already too late. I only caught the glimpse of the table in his hands when he whacked it onto my head. Stars exploded in front of my eyes and I fell face-first onto the floor. Air knocked out of me, and I struggled to take in even small breaths. A strange buzzing sound filled my ears. I stared blankly at the ceiling when my mother's face came into view. She was crying, but I could hear nothing. Behind her, I saw my stepfather's silhouette. He raised the table in his hands again. Panic shot through me, but before I could warn my mother, I blacked out.