A/N: Trigger warning for Domestic Violence (verbal and physical), mental illness, etc. Proceed at your own risk.

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-Bennett-

I was eleven years old when I tried to slit my father's throat.

Nowadays, it's difficult to recall what exactly had pushed me to that edge. I thought about it sometimes when I couldn't fall asleep, on the nights when the exhaustion seeped down to my bones and left me aching and restless. When my mind was so thoroughly muddled by the haze of a long day, that was the rare chance when I allowed myself to consider what could have happened had I been strong enough. If I would have been able to breathe without feeling the aching, tightness in my chest.

It had made sense during the heat of the moment, even if my mind had glazed so carelessly over the severity of all the potential repercussions. No punishment had felt as daunting as his presence.

I liked to pretend that I didn't feel that way anymore.

It was easier to convince myself in the morning... when there was nowhere for the darkness to hide. I peered up at the streaks of sunlight as they peeked through my curtains and felt myself grow anew.

But whenever I found myself barely conscious in the middle of the night, the darkness enveloped so tightly around my flesh, it almost felt like I'd been dragged back to that night. I could still vividly remember the coldness of my bare feet against the wooden floor as I wandered into the kitchen at three in the morning, nothing but the street light looming outside the kitchen windows to illuminate my path.

It cast dim streaks of light across the countertops, just enough light to guide my path.

I could still recall the shape of the knife's handle as I held it with both hands, my grip shaky with uncertainty. And part of me still clung onto the desperation with which I turned towards the stairs on that fateful night, my eyes growing wide and stinging with unshed tears just as they had back then. I hadn't slept at all, afraid that if I closed my eyes all the rage coiled up within me would abandon me once more.

And then I'd have nothing left.

There were scorching tears spilling from my eyes as I took hesitant steps towards the staircase, a chilling rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins at the realization that those grim, intrusive thoughts that I'd always tried to ignore were finally puppeteering my limbs forward. I was letting them crowd along the forefront of my mind, willingly humoring rancor that I couldn't quite fathom.

It was everything I wanted.

It was everything I feared.

All I knew at that moment was that my father hated us. I knew he did. I'd never known anything but the violent ire in his eyes. It was all-consuming.

It was pure misery to wake up and remember that he would be there when I made my way downstairs for breakfast. That I would have to sit there and quietly listen to him berating me once more, criticizing every aspect of my body and mind until the moment he left for work. Once again, I would ignore the helplessness that crept within me when his hands lingered too long on my arms, my shoulders, my chin... yanking it up to force me to meet his gaze.

I'd gulp down the familiar bile, pushing down the nauseating anxiousness that bubbled up with every graze of his calloused fingertips across my skin.

But it felt even worse to remember that I wasn't meant to feel that way. I'd tried ignoring the anger for as long as I could recall its existence, desperately trying to keep some semblance of peace; my mother always looked so disappointed when I glared at him.

It had been enraging then. And it still ached when I remembered the detachment in her eyes whenever his voice pierced through the air... how she would recede into a refuge of her mind where she knew I couldn't follow. At the first sign of trouble, her eyes would dim and there would be nothing left but the hollow, husk of a person.

And then there was just me.

But my fury was not enough. It wasn't as unbearable as his, no matter how bitterly I bawled my eyes out every time he wrecked another piece of my sanity. I knew that already. I did. And yet...

Back then, on that devastating night, my mother had found me curled up at the bottom of the stairs a few hours later, her eyes widening as she noticed the knife lying on the floor beside me. It was still within reach, but my arms were numb at my sides. She hesitantly made her way downstairs and sat beside my shivering body, wrapping her arms around me before I could think of an excuse.

I'd failed her once more. She didn't have to say it aloud.

She broke down just as I had, quietly sobbing into my shoulder while muttering that she was fine. Everything was fine. There was no need for me to cry. Nothing was going to happen to her. She was fine. She was. I had to believe her.

I hadn't even realized I was crying again, an indescribable frustration coursing through me at the realization that her words weren't comforting me. That they weren't actually meant to comfort me, really.

That it wasn't about me at all.

"Don't you hate him?" I'd asked her then, holding my breath when she pulled away and stubbornly shook her head in response.

"He doesn't mean it," she assured me. "You know how your dad is. He just gets angry sometimes. But he... he means well. He loves us."

"But he's always—mom, he's always so—" I muttered indignantly, taken aback by the way she hushed me in response. She pressed her hands over my mouth, pulling me closer as if to share a secret.

"He's all we have." She whispered it softly, like a mantra. "And he's still your dad. He'll always be your dad."

Of course. She wouldn't despise him, despite the quiver in her tone. In the morning, she would give him a kiss goodbye before he headed off to work. And she would mean it when she smiled at him, despite the glimmer of anguish in her eyes. She would wait for him to return, too, just as she always did.

It was at that moment, while looking at her somber expression, that I realized there was nothing I could say. That this was the hill she'd chosen as her final resting place.

I grew quiet, tiredly listening to her wavering voice.

A part of me feared that she'd never understood my misery, no matter how many times I tried to make her understand. That her blood would someday spill across the floor, but that nobody would notice because it would match the redness of the cherry wood tiles.

So, I detested him for the both of us.

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A few hours had passed since he'd retreated back downstairs and carried on watching the game, yet the air felt just as suffocating. In that time, I'd mindlessly stared off into the distance, desperately hoping for my mind to stop racing.

I sat there, numbly gazing at the closed door. I couldn't look away, even once the television turned off and his heavy footsteps trailed off into the master bedroom.

I could hardly breathe. I just wanted it to be over.

"You're alright," I muttered under my breath after what felt like hours, forcing myself to stand up and head towards the wall to inspect the mess he'd left behind. There were so many shattered pieces of fake porcelain all over the floor, which I began to pick up and cradle in my left hand. I picked them up from amongst the food, feeling the sharp edges pressing softly against the palm of my hand.

I fetched the cleaning supplies while my hand was still full, tossing the shards into the trash bag before heading back into my room. I spared a single glance at the kitchen, warily following the street lights' glow as it reflected across the countertops in dim streaks. By the time the wall and floor in my room were finally free of any food residue, the house was completely still.

I hadn't been expecting my mother to check on me. I knew she wouldn't.

But I sat back down, glancing at the door in the hopes that she would. My eyes grew heavier, but I fought sleep for as long as I could, hunched over with my arms on my knees. I knew better. I did. But it didn't matter any more than it had that night all those years ago.

Nothing changed.

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A/N: Thank you for reading.