"NOAH … PLEASE STOP, I BEG YOU, PLEASEEE …. YOU'RE HURTING ME!"
The words came out of me, half scream, half breath. My throat burned. The room smelled like metal and dirt, and the only light came from the flickering bulb above us.
I could taste blood, mine, I think. His shadow moved closer, slow and calm, like this was nothing new to him.
I kicked, but the rope around my ankle cut deeper.
I wanted to look at his face, to see if any part of him still loved me, but I couldn't. My eyes were too full of tears.
He said nothing. He just breathed. Steady.
And I knew I was done for.
You're probably wondering how I got into this situation.
Honestly, sometimes I wonder the same thing.
I mean I wasn't the best you know but it wasn't my fault honestly
Let me start from the beginning, back when I still believed people who said "family comes first."
My name is or may I say was Amara Lewis, and I never had what you'd call a happy childhood.
I grew up in a small house that always smelled like alcohol, old smoke, and shouting. I know you can't smell shouting, but at this point I have heard it so much that I can smell it. Don't even question it.
Our walls were thin, the food was never enough, and the only thing louder than the TV was my mother's temper.
"U little piece of nothing but shit, give me my fucking sandwich!" she'd yell, even if the sandwich wasn't hers.
I'd hand it over anyway. It was easier to be hungry than to be hit.
My father sat on the couch every night with his can of beer, his belly spilling over his jeans, eyes fixed on the screen. If the world ended, he probably wouldn't notice unless the noise blocked his show.
I had three older siblings. Daniel, Marcus, and Sophie. The boys barely spoke to me unless they needed someone to blame.
I was eight the first time one of my brothers blamed me for something I didn't do.
Daniel had broken Mom's favorite glass vase while showing off to Marcus. When the crash echoed through the house, he looked straight at me.
"It was Amara," he said, like it was nothing.
Before I could even open my mouth, Mom stormed in, her face red.
"You again?" she shouted. "You ruin everything in this house!"
I tried to explain, but her hand came faster than the words.
The slap stung so bad my ears rang.
Daniel just stood there, eyes wide but saying nothing.
I remember thinking the silence after the hit hurt worse than the slap itself.
But Sophie, my oldest sister, was different.
She would sneak into my room late at night with a tiny flashlight and whisper, "Here, I saved you something." Usually a crust of bread or a few chips she hid from dinner.
Those moments were everything to me. Her presence felt like I wasn't alone. Sometimes.
Still, even Sophie had limits. When she got tired, she snapped too. Once she threw a hairbrush at me and then cried for an hour because she swore she was becoming like Mom.
I hugged her and told her she wasn't. I lied. We both knew it.
School wasn't an escape either.
Teachers didn't notice me. Friends laughed at jokes I didn't understand.
People said I was "pretty" but they didn't mean it kindly. I felt it was more like, How dare someone like you look like that?
I'd eat lunch alone most days, pretending I liked the quietness.. Sometimes I'd imagine what it would feel like to have someone actually sit beside me and not need anything in return.
At home, the shouting never stopped. Plates broke. Doors slammed. I learned to move quietly, to disappear before someone saw that I existed.
There were nights I'd lie awake listening to my parents argue downstairs.
"You think I wanted this stupid useless life?" my mother would scream.
Then my father's voice,deep and hateful, "Shut up, you filthy bitch."
Glass shattered. Then silence.
And me? I'd just pull the blanket over my head and whisper, "This is normal." Because in my house, it was.
That's the part that hurts the most, how normal it all felt at the time
I remember one afternoon when I was nine. I was sitting on the floor drawing little flowers on my math notebook. Sophie came in, her face red from crying. She looked older than a fifteen year old should ever look.
"Don't ever fall in love, Amara," she said out of nowhere. "Promise me."
I laughed because what did I know about love? But she didn't smile.
"Promise me," she repeated.
I nodded.
I didn't understand then, but maybe she already knew what kind of world waited for us.
Years passed.
Nothing really changed, just the faces around me got older, colder.
Mom's hands shook more.
Dad drank faster.
Sometimes they'd forget I existed for a whole day.
Unfortunately those were my favorite days.
Sophie worked two jobs and still managed to bring home small gifts. She told me to study hard so I could leave that house one day. I told her I would.
But deep down, I didn't believe I could. People like us didn't leave; we just survived.
I don't remember the first time I realized I was angry at them.
Maybe it was the night I heard my father call me useless.
Or the morning I watched my mother pass out at the table, the plate of eggs sliding to the floor.
Maybe it was every time Sophie tried to protect me and got hit instead.
I used to stare at the cracks on my bedroom ceiling and imagine the house falling down while we slept.
Not to die, just to end the noise.
If you met me now, you'd probably never guess any of this.
I learned to smile, to hide the bruises under long sleeves, to say "I'm fine" like it was my favorite sentence.
But back then, all I wanted was for someone, anyone to see me.
That's the thing about loneliness. It doesn't kill you fast.
It eats you slow, like rust.
Sometimes, when I think back on those years, I still hear my father's voice echoing in my head:
"Shut your disgraceful mouth up, you bring nothing but disappointment to this family."
He said it so often that it stopped sounding like an insult and started sounding like my name.
And that's where my story really begins.
With a girl who learned that silence keeps you safe,
but it also keeps you trapped.