"Go on your knees. Crawl!"
The words didn't just cut through the evening air—they shattered it. It was dusk, that in-between hour when the last smear of orange bled into the darkening sky, and shadows began to swallow the street. Even the cicadas seemed to hush. His voice carried the weight of something final, something that allowed no refusal.
I froze, every muscle locked tight, as if my body had betrayed me. The gravel beneath my feet suddenly felt sharper, crueler, as though it knew what was coming. A chill prickled my skin despite the heavy heat that clung to the night air.
He stood a few paces away, swaying slightly, his shadow stretching long under the weak glow of the streetlamp. The stink of alcohol clung to him, thick and sour, like a second skin. His bloodshot eyes glittered with the kind of rage that demanded obedience.
"Did you hear me?" he growled, stepping closer. "Or should I make you?"
My heart thundered. I bent, knees pressing into the jagged gravel. The sting shot up my legs, but I pressed my palms down and dragged myself forward.
"Faster!" he barked. His hand struck between my shoulder blades, shoving me down. My chin scraped the pavement, grit filling my mouth.
All this pain. And for what? A book. Mrs. Tracy's daughter borrowed it from me, and when I went to get it back, that was enough for to reduce me to this.
I caught fragments in the shifting silence—an old man clearing his throat and looking away, a child clutching at her mother's wrapper and whispering, "Why is she crawling?" The woman pulled the child closer, eyes darting towards him, and hushed her without a word.
Others stood stiff as stone, their hands folded, their faces turned just enough to pretend they weren't watching. Yet their eyes betrayed them. I felt them pressing into my skin, sharp and merciless, cutting deeper than the gravel tearing my knees.
One neighbor I knew, who once tucked stray braids behind my ear and called me her second daughter, lifted her hand halfway as if to reach for me, then froze, dropping it quickly to her side. The look in her eyes wasn't pity. It was fear.
A woman whispered, "Just like that night with his wife." Her companion hissed at her to hush, but I heard.
The memory cut through me—sharp, merciless, unstoppable.
I heard it again, that scream. My mother's scream. High, broken, the kind that ripped through the night and made the walls tremble. I saw her stumbling barefoot into the street, the thin white slip she wore flapping like torn wings around her body. The blade in his hand caught the dim light, a flash of steel that made the shadows stretch long across the ground.
Neighbors had peeked from half-closed windows, their faces pale squares in the darkness. No one came out. No one tried to help. Only the sound of her bare feet slapping against the wet pavement, only the sharp hitch of her breath as she ran, desperate to survive the man she called husband.
And me—rooted to the spot, frozen, my throat too tight to even cry. Watching. Helpless.
Here I was again, on the ground where he always put me, knees raw, pride broken.
I stumbled forward, palms slipping, blood smearing the stones. His shadow loomed above me, tall, merciless
I'll crush you where you stand," he sneered, his lip curling. "Pathetic, worthless little rat—lower than filth."
I clenched my jaw, scared to utter a word. Mrs. Tracy had learned that lesson the hard way. She'd once stepped between him and my mother, arms spread wide, shouting for him to stop. He never forgave her. He called her poison and banned my mother from ever seeing her again.
His hand wrenched harder in my hair, forcing my face upward. Dust streaked with blood clung to my skin.
"Look at her!" he bellowed. "This is what happens when you think you can cross me."
No one moved. Not one hand reached for me. The silence of the crowd was a cage tighter than his grip.
My lung constricted, rage clawing at the edges of my fear. In my mind, I rose to my feet, teeth bared, my hands digging into his skin until he howled in pain. I saw myself spitting in his face, the warm stream of my fury blinding him. For one wild heartbeat, I tasted freedom.
But it was only a fantasy, cruel and fleeting. My body stayed nailed to the gravel, trembling, refusing to obey the fire in my mind. I could not scream. I could not fight. Even the thought of it made everything inside me freeze, my tongue stick like stone.
Laughter—his laughter—split the night.
"Stay down there," he said, voice cold and final. "Piece of shit."
I jerked awake, breath tearing from my throat like I'd been drowning. My chest rose and fell in frantic bursts, sweat slick on my skin, soaking the edges of my nightdress. For a moment, the sting of gravel still burned against my knees, phantom cuts throbbed on my palms, and the taste of dust clung to my tongue so sharply I gagged.
The room around me blurred, shadows bending at the edges. My gaze darted to the corners, half-expecting to see his shadow still looming there. Only sunlight filtered through the curtains, spilling gold across the floorboards. It should have calmed me. It didn't.
I pressed my hands against my knees, trembling, as if to check if they were bleeding. They weren't. Not this time. But my body remembered, carried my scars intact, stitched into my skin like secrets."
Then the pounding came—sudden, playful, shattering the fragile quiet.
"Wake up, bride!" my friends sang from the corridor, their voices overlapping, teasing, relentless. "You can't sleep through your own wedding!"
Laughter bubbled outside, light and careless, a sound too bright for the darkness that still clung to me.
And then, cutting through it all, came my mother's voice. Softer. Steadier. Anchoring.
"My child," she called, warmth woven into every syllable. "The sun is up. Today is your day."