Eva's pov
Morning comes too quickly.
It always does.
The sky outside my window is still pale and gray when my eyes open. For a moment, I lie there in silence, staring at the ceiling as the dull ache in my stomach reminds me that I went to bed hungry.
My body feels heavy.
But if I don't get up now, things will be worse.
I push the blanket back slowly and sit up. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that only exists before everyone wakes up.
This is the safest time of day.
No voices.
No footsteps.
Just the faint hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall.
I pull on yesterday's sweater and quietly leave my room.
The hallway floor creaks beneath my steps, and I freeze instinctively, listening.
Nothing. No one woke up.
I exhale softly and continue toward the kitchen.
The air is cool as I flick on the light. The yellow bulb flickers once before settling.
If I make breakfast before anyone wakes up, Celeste won't complain.
At least… not as much.
I open the refrigerator and take out the eggs carefully, cradling the carton like it might break in my hands.
The pan goes on the stove and the flame clicks to life.
Soon the quiet kitchen fills with the soft sizzle of eggs hitting hot oil.
The sound is oddly comforting and
Predictable.
I watch the edges of the eggs turn white before turning to the counter.
I grab three plates from the cupboard, forks and glasses.
My movements are automatic, practiced from years of repetition.
I place the plates carefully on the table, adjusting them until they're perfectly straight.
The eggs continue to cook behind me.
I reach for the bread and start laying slices onto a plate.
Then the butter.
The napkins.
Everything has to look right and has to be neat.
Because if it isn't—
The smell hits me first.
Sharp, bitter and burning.
My head snaps toward the stove. I watch as the smoke curls upward from the pan.
My heart jumps into my throat.
I rush toward it, grabbing the pan handle.
Too late.
Flames suddenly lick up the side of the pan with a loud whoosh.
I stumble back in shock, my breath catching soundlessly in my chest.
The fire climbs quickly, orange tongues reaching toward the cabinet above.
Panic slams into me.
My hands move instinctively, uselessly, searching for something—anything.
The smoke thickens, filling the small kitchen.
Then footsteps thunder down the hallway.
"What the hell—?!"
Celeste bursts into the kitchen.
Her eyes widen when she sees the flames.
"Oh my God!"
She spins toward me, her face twisting with rage.
"What did you do?!"
I shake my head quickly, my hands rising automatically.
I didn't mean to
But she's already shouting.
"Luke!" she screams. "Get in here! She's burning the house down!"
Heavy footsteps pound toward us.
My father appears seconds later, his expression darkening the moment he sees the fire.
"Move!" he barks.
I stumble backward as he grabs the fire extinguisher and puts off the fire.
The kitchen falls into tense silence except for the faint crackle of burnt food.
My heart is racing so hard it feels like it might tear out of my chest.
Celeste turns toward me slowly.
Her face is pale with fury.
"You stupid bitch."
The words come out low and venomous.
I take a step back instinctively.
"I leave you alone for five minutes," she continues, advancing toward me, "and you try to burn my entire house down?"
I shake my head desperately.
No.
No.
It was an accident.
My hands move quickly.
I forgot the pan. I was setting the table. I'm sorry.
Celeste stares at my moving hands with pure disgust.
"Oh, spare me that nonsense."
Her hand suddenly grabs my wrist.
Hard.
Pain shoots up my arm.
"You think you can just stand there and pretend you didn't almost kill us?" she snaps.
I try to pull away.
Big mistake.
Her palm slams across my face before I can react.
The sound cracks loudly in the kitchen.
My head snaps to the side, pain exploding across my cheek.
I don't make a sound.
I never do.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" she screams.
Another slap follows immediately.
My vision blurs.
"Celeste," my father mutters from the stove.
But he doesn't stop her.
He never does.
"You want to destroy this house?" she continues, shaking me violently by the arm. "You ungrateful little brat!"
Her fist drives into my shoulder.
Pain blooms instantly.
Then another hit.
And another.
My body stumbles backward under the force.
The chair behind me crashes to the floor as I lose my balance.
Tears spill down my cheeks silently.
My hands come up to shield my face.
It only makes her angrier.
"Oh, now you're crying?" Celeste sneers.
Her foot kicks into my side.
Air rushes painfully from my lungs.
Still no sound leaves my throat.
Just silent gasps.
"Stop pretending you didn't try to kill us!" she shouts. "You did this on purpose!"
I curl slightly on the floor, trying to protect myself.
Her blows rain down anyway.
My arms.
My back.
My ribs.
Each impact sends a fresh wave of pain through my body.
Finally my father steps forward, grabbing her arm.
"That's enough," he says flatly.
Celeste jerks away from him, breathing heavily.
Her hair is messy now, her eyes wild with anger.
She points down at me where I'm curled on the kitchen floor.
"If she tries something like this again," she spits, "I swear I'll throw her out myself."
The kitchen smells strongly of burnt eggs and smoke.
My cheek throbs.
My ribs ache.
Tears continue sliding quietly down my temples into my hair.