The man I used to call my dad pulls me from my now too-small cage and tosses me to the floor. I lock eyes with him, noticing the green is nearly invisible, and I already know what it means. My body instinctively locks up, but I force my muscles to relax.
It hurts worse if I’m tense.
But not as badly as seeing my mother step out from behind him, her face just as emotionless, her eyes just as black. Even after all these years of enduring this exact sequence of events, it still hurts.
I may be ten, an old ten, but I’m still a child. Stilltheirchild. It doesn’t matter, though. Not now, not when they’re like this.
Not ever.
They’re high.
They’re always high these days.
Probably drunk, too.
My days consist of reading. Not books like I wish they did, but emotions, moods, mannerisms. Good day, bad day, or the kind of day that makes me wish they’d just kill me already.
Which day?
Which version ofthemwill I get?
Sometimes, they throw parties for their friends, making sure they stay in the only furnished parts of our huge, skeletal home, pretending to be something they no longer are. My parents exist in a world of crime and opulence, yet they’ve become nothing more than the dredges of society they used to prey upon.
Sometimes, they disappear for days, even weeks. Those are my favorite times. I’ve learned how to pick any lock, my empty bedroom, my cage, the basement door. I can escape when they leave, and when I do, I pretend to be whole.
Even when I’m broken.
I keep my eyes locked on my father’s as he strikes out, kicking my gut.
I don’t blink or look away when she starts in with him, slapping my cheek.
I don’t cry like I used to. I don’t beg or plead for a mercy that will never come.
I stay silent, and I let them see how much I hate them.
Hit after hit lands until I’m a ball on the floor, bleeding and watching them stumble toward their room, leaving a pile of clothes in their wake because they’re just sick enough to get off on this shit. On beating their child.
I pretend to be passed out until the sounds start. I remain unmoving, clinging to the pain, letting it keep me present. My ribs throb, and I embrace the burn. If I’m burning, I’m still breathing.
I wait and wait and wait. Until the sound of him fucking her stops. Until she stops screaming. Until they start fighting about being out of drugs. Even when the bedroom door opens, then the garage door, I still don’t move.
And when they finally speed away, I say a silent prayer that this is the time they OD and don’t come home, then I move.
Hours later, I’m sitting in my favorite place, the only place I feel safe: my treehouse. In the darkness, I let myself cry. I let the night sky see how sad I am, promising that when the sun starts to rise, I’ll pretend I’m okay again.
My crying is loud. My heart is loud. My hurt is loud.
Everything is so loud, and I want to scream into the world, to tell it to shut up. My mouth falls open to do just that, but then I hear it, and for the first time, everything goes quiet.
Everything except her.
“Are you okay?”
“Mi Cielo?” My voice cracks, barely a whisper, swallowed by the sterile air. Silence stretches out, mocking me.
I strain my eyes, desperate for a sign, a glimmer of familiarity. But all I see is ugly white. No blue. No green. No dark chocolate hair. No warm, sweet smile in the middle of an adorably freckled face. Just…nothing.
Memories crash through the fog in fragments. Laughter, the comforting warmth of her presence, nights in the treehouse, and days in a cage. Then... darkness. Fear snakes its way through my veins, tightening its grip, but I push that away too.
