I was lying on the same cold, wooden floor. Tears streaming from my eyes and blood dripping from my fresh cuts. I was staring at the old, worn out ceiling that has almost been covered in molds since it's been months or years since this empty room has been cleaned.
I drifted my head to my side, to see the broom stick that's been thrown besides me. This has been used to hit me multiple times by both my father and my mother, countless times have I received those blows without making a single noise since I have grown accustomed to it's sensation.
Without realizing, I developed a fear towards broom sticks, but I couldn't make myself to throw it away so that hopefully the beating woud stop, because I know that they'll use another hard object to hit me.
The room I was at was completely empty,
