Behind the curtains.
1166 Words
Ariana’s POV
A soft knock echoed on my door, pulling me from sleep. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting golden lines across my bed. The knocking came again.
“I’m up!” I called, rubbing my eyes.
I sat up, stretched, and forced myself out of bed. After making my bed, I dragged myself to the bathroom — brushed my teeth, washed my face, combed my long brown hair straight — then slipped into a pair of jeans and a plain white shirt. I slung my bag over my shoulder and went to the kitchen.
Dad was there, humming softly as he flipped something on the stove. When he turned, he smiled. “Good morning, princess.”
Princess? Did he just call me that?
“Sit down,” he said, his voice oddly gentle. “I’ll dish you a plate.”
I sat, watching him carefully. Something felt off. He was… nice. That’s not normal. Was he sick or something?
He set a plate in front of me, then one for himself. Taking off his apron, he sat down and smiled again. “Eat, dear.”
I just nodded, staring at the food. Did he poison it? If he did, maybe that’s fine. Maybe it’s a win-win. I picked up my fork and took a bite. It tasted normal—actually delicious. For a second, I almost forgot to be scared.
Before Mom ran away, Dad was a well-known chef in Denmark. He owned a restaurant, famous for its food and warmth. But everything fell apart in one night. The restaurant burned down. His older brother died in the fire. People blamed Dad for it.
He started drinking. Then one morning, Mom was gone too. All he found was a letter saying she’d run away and wasn’t coming back.
After that, my world ended. He became violent, angry at everything. I was seven when my childhood ended.
A normal seven-year-old learns how to ride a bike or has their first sleepover. I learned where to hide from my drunk father.
He used to come home late, shouting and breaking things, calling me names that still echo in my head. One night, he said, “I wish you weren’t my daughter. Everything went wrong the day you were born.”
He wasn’t wrong about one thing—my birth was never meant for me. I was born to save my older brother. He had leukemia, and they hoped my bone marrow would cure him. But he died the day I was born.
My parents never celebrated my birthday after that. I guess it was a day of death for them, not life.
“Ariana!” Dad’s voice pulled me back. I blinked—the chair across from me was empty. He was already in the kitchen, washing dishes.
“If you’re done, hand me your plate,” he said. “We have to leave soon.”
I glanced down. My plate was empty. I’d finished eating without realizing it.
I passed it to him quietly. After cleaning up, he said, “Let’s go.”
I followed him outside, confused. He started the car and drove. But when we passed my school, my heart started to pound.
Where is he taking me?
The car stopped in front of a tall building. People were walking in and out, some coughing, others holding papers.
“Let’s go,” he said.
I stepped out and followed him. Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant. Posters about health covered the walls. We sat down after he spoke to the receptionist.
A hospital. Why were we in a hospital?
Soon, a nurse called our names. We entered a small office where a female doctor smiled at us.
“Good morning,” she said kindly. “Which one of you is my patient?”
“My daughter,” Dad said.
Me? I’m not sick.
She looked at me gently. “What seems to be the problem, dear?”
I stayed silent. I had no idea why I was here. Dad never brought me to doctors, not even when I was bleeding or sick.
“My daughter can’t speak,” Dad said smoothly. “She’s mute. I’ll explain.”
Mute? He made me that way.
The doctor nodded and took out a pen. “Go on.”
“Yesterday, she came home from school,” Dad said, pretending to sound worried. “While she was changing, I saw wounds on her body. She wouldn’t tell me how it happened. Last night, I heard her crying in her room. I think she’s in pain. Please check her—she’s my baby, and I can’t see her suffer.”
Your baby? I wanted to laugh—or cry.
The doctor’s eyes softened. She came closer, taking my hand. “Who did this to you, dear?” she asked softly, lifting my shirt.
“She said students at school bully her,” Dad interrupted quickly.
The doctor frowned. “Sir, please wait outside.”
“I’ll stay,” he said sharply.
She didn’t argue. Instead, she pulled me to a corner and closed a curtain between us.
“Take off your shirt, sweetheart,” she whispered. I obeyed quietly. She pressed lightly on my wounds. I nodded when it hurt.
She whispered again, “Is that man really your dad?”
I glanced at him through the curtain. He was scrolling through his phone. I nodded.
She sighed. “Alright,” she said louder. “Privacy is privacy, even for a father.” She drew the curtain fully and turned back to me. “Can you take your pants off? I need to check the bruises.”
I froze. She knelt, her voice gentle. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m like your mom.”
That didn’t comfort me. But I obeyed slowly. When she saw the marks, she gasped, covering her mouth. Her hands trembled as she applied cream on my bruises.
“Some of these scars are old,” she whispered. “Is your dad hurting you?”
I shook my head quickly.
She looked heartbroken. “If you tell me, I can protect you. If you don’t… he might do this again.”
I shook my head again, tears burning my eyes.
Dad’s voice cut through the curtain. “Doctor! Enough whispering. Give me my daughter back.”
The doctor sighed, stood up, and opened the curtain. She walked to her desk, her eyes wet but calm.
“She’ll need these,” she said, writing something down. “Painkillers and a healing cream. Apply it after she bathes. Tell her school about the bullying. No child deserves to look like this—her skin is all purple and green.”
Dad smiled politely. “Thank you, Doctor.”
We left the room. The hallway felt colder than before. I didn’t look back, but I could feel the doctor’s eyes on me—like she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
And maybe, deep down, I wished she would.
- Writer
