The dark wraps around me like a cool blanket.
The pounding doesn’t stop.
Boom. Boom.
Like fists on my chest.
A woman’s voice cuts through the walls—sharp, fast, angry.
She’s speaking Baba’s language.
I haven’t seen Baba in a long time. Not since the yelling started. Not since Mama cried in the kitchen and told me not to ask.
I know when Mama puts me in the closet, it’s to be safe.
She says it’s a game. A secret.
But the woman is loud.
And Mama sounds scared.
So I peek.
I don’t see mama.
Just a woman, brown hair, angry eyes.
She disappears.
A thud sounds.
A thud—like when something heavy falls and no one picks it back up.
I freeze.
My heart is loud. Too loud. I press my hand over my mouth. Something wet splashes. I don’t know what it is.
I don’t want to know.
Another thud.
Harder.
The walls shake.
Mama makes a sound. Not a word. Not a scream. Just a sound.
I crawl deeper into the closet. My knees hit shoes. Coats.
I pull them over me like they can hide me better.
More noise.
Fast. Angry.
Too much.
Then—Nothing.
