Ariana's (POV)
It took every ounce of courage I had left, but I finally forced myself up. I staggered to my room, locked the door, and desperately searched for a bandage. The pain radiating from my arm was new, a high, excruciating pitch that screamed broken.
Did we even own a bandage in this house? No. Trauma here was self-treated, self-ignored.
I grabbed a discarded piece of white cloth, wrapped it tight around my injured arm, and sat down hard. I looked at my reflection in the mirror: unkempt hair, a bruised, unwashed face, and a crudely bandaged arm. I looked horrible. I hated myself. I looked like I'd been through a war, but I hadn't.
Or had I?
Yes. It was a one-sided war. Dad fought, and I begged. Funny, right? I could easily overpower that old man, yet I chose to beg. Why? Why
