I sat there, curled up on the bed, lost in the quiet hum of my thoughts, trying to find the strength to get up. The pain was spreading—throbbing in my ribs, burning along my arm where the cuts had reopened—but it was easier to focus on the physical hurt than the storm inside me. I could manage pain. Pain had clear edges; it had a beginning, a middle, and an end. It was predictable. It was everything else that felt uncontrollable.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, staring blankly at the ceiling, willing myself to move but unable to. Eventually, the house fell into complete silence. Dad had gone out, as he always did after these outbursts, leaving behind nothing but the echoes of anger and the mess I was too tired to clean.

I thought about school again. Missing another day would only pile on more problems—questions from teachers, curious glances from classmates. Not that anyone cared enough to ask what was really going on. No one ever did. I was just a shadow that slipped through the hallways, unnoticed, unseen. And maybe that was better. If they didn’t see me, they couldn’t know how broken I really was.

But deep down, I wished someone would. Someone who would actually look at me and ask if I was okay—and mean it. Someone who might see beyond the silence and recognize the weight I was carrying. But that was just a fantasy. No one could save me from this. I had to save myself, somehow.

With a groan, I pushed myself off the bed, wincing as my bruised ribs protested. I shuffled to the mirror, forcing myself to look. The reflection staring back at me was pale, gaunt, with eyes that looked like they hadn’t seen sleep in days. I gingerly touched the side of my face, where a bruise was already starting to form. Great. I would have to cover it up before I left the house, or it would just invite more trouble from Dad later. He hated when people saw the evidence of his anger.

I rummaged through my makeup, trying to do what I could to hide the marks. I wasn’t great at it, but I’d gotten better over time. I had to. Once my face looked somewhat presentable, I wrapped my arm carefully, hiding the cuts under long sleeves. No one could see what I’d done to myself. That had to stay my secret.

I took a deep breath and grabbed my bag, stepping out into the quiet hallway. The house felt empty, lifeless, like it always did when no one was home. My brothers wouldn’t be back until later, and Dad… well, who knew when he’d return. That gave me a little relief, a brief window where I didn’t have to look over my shoulder.

As I walked outside, the cool air hit me, waking up my senses. For a moment, I closed my eyes, taking in the silence of the early morning. It felt like another world out here, away from the suffocating walls of the house. A small part of me wanted to run—just take off down the street and disappear, never looking back. But where would I go? What would I do? The weight of reality kept my feet rooted to the ground.

I started walking to school. It wasn’t far, maybe ten minutes on foot, but it felt longer today. Every step was a reminder of the pain in my side, but I forced myself to keep going. I couldn’t afford to skip. Not again.

When I finally reached the school, I slipped in through the back entrance, trying to avoid the usual crowd at the front. My heart raced, even though I knew no one would really notice me. They never did. But today felt different. Today, I didn’t want to risk it.

As I made my way down the hall, I caught sight of Ethan in the distance. He was talking to his friends, laughing about something. For a second, I thought about going over, maybe catching his attention. Maybe he’d ask why I didn’t ride with him this morning, why I seemed off. Maybe… but I quickly pushed the thought away. What would I even say? And even if I did, what could he do?

I turned away, slipping into the nearest classroom before anyone could see the hesitation in my eyes.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of dull lectures and quiet avoidance. I didn’t say much, didn’t raise my hand, didn’t make eye contact. Just surviving—getting through the hours. It was a strategy I’d perfected. I was invisible, drifting through the day like a ghost.

By the time the final bell rang, the knot of anxiety in my stomach had tightened. I knew what awaited me at home. Even if Dad wasn’t there right away, the tension would be. It always was.

I walked slower this time, dreading every step that brought me closer to the house. The sun was already sinking, casting long shadows across the street, and I found myself wishing the day would never end—anything to delay going back.

When I reached the door, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. I knew I couldn’t stay out forever. I had to face it, face him, sooner or later. With a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside.

The house was quiet. For a moment, I thought maybe Dad wasn’t home yet. Relief washed over me, and I took a tentative step forward.

But then I heard it. His voice, low and grumbling, coming from the living room. My stomach twisted. He was here.

I stood frozen in place, every instinct screaming at me to turn around, to leave, but I knew that would only make things worse. So I swallowed my fear and forced myself to move toward the kitchen, hoping he wouldn’t notice me, wouldn’t call me over.

But luck wasn’t on my side.

"Get in here," his voice growled from the living room.