MY FATE IS IN MY HANDS

I could not stay

PHOEBE

I sat on the edge of my mattress, staring at the wall.

The room was quiet in a way that felt unnatural, as though the house itself was holding its breath. The single bulb above my head flickered faintly, casting weak shadows across the peeling walls. The shelf that once held my books was gone. In its place were pale outlines where the wood had rested dust-free marks that felt like mockery.

I hugged my knees to my chest.

My thoughts moved slowly, as if wading through thick water. I replayed the fire in the yard again and again the sound of pages crackling, the smell of burning paper, Irish’s indifferent voice, Patricia’s sharp dismissal. I tried to understand how something so small to them could feel so devastating to me.

They were just books, they had said.

But to me, they were proof. Proof that I had once been someone worth investing in, proof that my mind had mattered, even if my family insisted I did not.

I swallowed hard and pressed my forehead against my knees.

Maybe if I had spoken up earlier, maybe if I had shouted, maybe if I had begged.

But I already knew how that would have ended.

A sudden knock on the door made me flinch.

Before I could respond, it creaked open.

Josh stepped inside.

He filled the doorway with his presence, his face dark, his jaw tight. The faint smell of cigarette smoke clung to his clothes. He closed the door behind him slowly, deliberately.

“So,” he said, folding his arms. “You think you can disrespect this house now?”

I lifted my head slowly. “Sir....”

“Don’t sir me,” he snapped. “I heard everything. You embarrassed your mother and your sister.”

My heart began to pound. “I didn’t challenge anyone,” I said quietly. “I only asked why my books were burned.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “Books?” He shook his head. “You’re making trouble over useless paper?”

“They were my school books,” I said, my voice trembling despite my effort to steady it. “They mattered to me.”

He stepped closer. “That’s the problem,” he said sharply. “You always think about yourself.”

I rose slowly to my feet. “I wasn’t trying to fight anyone. I just wanted to understand. If there was a problem with space, I would have moved them.”

His eyes narrowed. “So now you’re calling your mother a liar?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’m just saying I wasn’t informed.”

He didn’t let me finish.

The first slap came so suddenly that my head snapped to the side. Pain exploded across my cheek, hot and blinding. I staggered backward, hitting the edge of the bed.

“Shut your mouth,” he barked. “You think you can talk back now?”

I tasted blood. I raised a hand to my face instinctively, my heart racing.

“I wasn’t talking back,” I whispered.

He grabbed my arm and yanked me upright. “You think you’re better than this family because you once went to school?”

I shook my head, tears burning in my eyes. “No, I never said that.”

He shoved me away. I stumbled, barely keeping my balance.

“You’ve always been ungrateful,” he continued, his voice rising. “We feed you, we house you, and you’re here making drama over books when your sister needs space to grow.”

Another blow landed against my shoulder, then another. I cried out, curling inward as best as I could. I tried to shield my head, my ribs, anywhere that already ached from the day’s exhaustion. Each strike felt heavier than the last, as if it carried years of resentment.

“Stop,” I pleaded. “Please.”

He didn’t listen.

“You think life owes you something,” he shouted. “You think education makes you special.”

I fell to the floor, my knees hitting the hard cement. Pain shot through my legs. I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking.

“I just wanted to keep my books,” I sobbed.

He stood over me, breathing hard. “You should be grateful you’re even allowed in this house.”

He kicked the side of the mattress, making it scrape loudly against the wall. “Your mother and sister have been patient with you. I myself have been patient with you. But you keep pushing.”

My tears soaked into the floor. I felt small and smaller than I ever had.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” I said weakly. “I brought the money home. I brought the oranges.”

He scoffed. “And you dropped them on the ground like a spoiled child.”

“They burned my books,” I said, my voice breaking. “They were all I had.”

His face hardened.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said.

He leaned down, his voice low and cold. “You don’t have anything.”

The words sank deep.

He straightened and gave me one final shove with his foot, sending me sliding across the floor. Then he turned toward the door.

“Clean yourself up,” he said over his shoulder. “And don’t let me hear another complaint from you.”

The door slammed shut.

I lay there for a long time.

The room felt smaller now, as if the walls were closing in. Every part of my body hurt. My cheek throbbed. My arms ached. My chest felt tight, like something heavy was pressing down on it.

Slowly, I pushed myself up and crawled onto the mattress.

I lay on my side, facing the bare wall where my books used to be. The pale outlines stared back at me, silent and accusing. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images wouldn’t leave, flames, laughter, indifference.

I realized then that it wasn’t just my books they had burned.

It was the last reminder of who I used to be.

My breathing gradually slowed, though my body still trembled. Somewhere in the house, voices murmured. Life went on, untouched by what had just happened to me.

I opened my eyes.

Something inside me had shifted.

Not of anger but of clarity, yes.

I understood now that explanations meant nothing here. That silence was not safety. That staying small would never make them gentle.

I turned my face toward the window, where a thin strip of moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtain.

I did not know how or when.

But I knew one thing with quiet certainty that I could not stay, And that thought settled into my chest steady and unyielding as I lay there in the darkness, gathering what little strength I had left.