And again.
And again.
And again.
I ripped apart anything I could find. I had to destroy the most fragile things. Fuck him. My father wouldn’t even notice. He never went into the parlor—no one did anymore, not since my mother had passed away. She’d left, and in doing so, she had left us in the hands of the beast, to be molded as he saw fit.
I dropped the last teacup, and it shattered on the ground, the handle only a few inches away. The floral design that was engraved into its side and on the bottom of the cup was unrecognizable. I brought my arms to the mess I’d made and held my breath, waiting for someone to enter the room. The house was still. There was not so much as a footstep.
I knew I’d have to clean.
The anger I felt toward my father had subsided, and I’d done the very thing that he would have. I’d reacted. I’d only destroyed the items that had made my mother happy. They were relics that had been left to gather dust in a room that no one used. I lowered myself to my knees and began to pick up the pieces.
The last thing I wanted to do was to incur my father’s wrath. All it would take was for him to see the devastation I’d caused. He wouldn’t forgive me, not that he would notice if the items were missing. No one would notice their disappearance.
I doubted I’d even remember them in the future.
