Chapter three: The house that hates me
928 Words
The walls remember every scream,
Each echo folded in a dream.
A door that creaks like whispered sin,
A home that keeps the darkness in.
The air is thick with ghosts unspoken,
With promises bruised and words left broken.
And still she walks — through pain, through dread,
A living soul among the dead.
The floors sigh low beneath her tread,
Reciting names the silence fed.
Each corner hums a sorrowed tune,
Each shadow shaped by loss too soon.
The windows weep their secret tears,
For years that bled through countless years.
And in the dust, her footprints bloom,
Brief testaments of fleeting gloom.
The house, it knows her heartbeat’s ache,
The trembling breath it helps to break.
It feeds on fear, on muffled cries,
On hopes that wilt but never die.
Yet still she moves, though torn, though small,
A ghost that will not fade at all.
For even hate must bow in shame,
Before the heart that bears its name.
........
The house came into view—a crumbling shadow at the end of the street, its windows like hollow eyes that had watched too much pain.
Each step I took toward it felt like walking into the mouth of a beast I already knew too well.
My mind flickered between two monsters—the man in the black BMW and the one waiting behind these walls.
Different faces. Same dread.
No matter how slowly I walked, I couldn’t delay the inevitable.
Some storms don’t pass until they’ve broken everything in their path.
The door hung slightly open, an invitation from hell itself.
I pushed it gently. The parlor was drenched in darkness.
I crept up the stairs, counting under my breath—
One, two, three…
Then a light flared behind me.
“Where are you hurrying to?”
His voice cut through the silence. My heart plummeted.
God, not tonight…
He sat half-shadowed by a flickering bulb, eyes gleaming with that familiar fury.
A bottle rested beside him—his oldest companion.
“Nowhere,” I murmured. “Just going to my room.”
“And the money?”
“I… I don’t get paid until Friday.”
Then silence.
Not peace. The kind that hums before thunder.
“Come here.”
I didn’t move. My throat locked.
His chair scraped sharply as he stood.
“Did you not hear me?”
I ran.
Please, God—just let me reach my room.
But I didn’t.
Pain ripped through my scalp as his hand caught a fistful of my hair, yanking me backward.
“Arghh!” The walls swallowed my scream.
My vision blurred as he slammed me against the wall.
“You useless child!” — slap.
“You think you can disobey me?” — slap.
Blood filled my mouth, hot and metallic. Tears burned down my cheeks.
I tried to fight, kicked out in desperation—
But he caught my leg, twisted it until I heard something crack.
I fell, my body trembling, pain screaming through my ankle.
“Stop screaming, you b***h!” he roared.
“You’re disturbing the neighborhood!”
His voice dripped venom, his face twisted in disgust.
He dragged me toward the staircase like I was trash.
“This is what you get for defying me,” he spat.
“Next time will be worse.”
Then—a shove.
The world tilted.
The stairs became a blur of shadow and pain.
I tumbled, hitting each step until stillness claimed me.
The air fled my lungs. The ceiling spun.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was dead.
And then I almost wished I was.
Why this life… why this father… why me?
Those thoughts echoed softly as darkness took me.
….
Cold water shocked me awake.
I gasped, coughing, blinking through the blur.
He was already walking away.
No apology. No glance back.
Just silence.
Pain consumed me.
My ribs throbbed. My ankle hung at a strange angle.
Even breathing hurt.
I dragged myself to the banister and began the climb—one trembling step at a time.
When I reached my room, I locked the door and collapsed.
The room spun.
My stomach ached. Hunger had become another form of pain.
6:15 a.m. blinked faintly on my nightstand.
Few hours before class.
I couldn’t stay here—not on this floor, not broken like this.
He didn’t deserve to see me fall apart.
The shower greeted me with lukewarm water, tracing every bruise, every mark of his rage.
I stood there, letting it wash away the smell of beer and blood, letting it cleanse what little hope I had left.
When I stepped out, the mirror waited—merciless.
Handprints bloomed across my skin.
My face, a map of survival.
I looked like her.
My mother.
And that’s why he hated me.
Every flicker of resemblance was a curse he couldn’t forgive.
That’s why I hid in baggy clothes or leggings.
Why I stayed quiet.
Why I never let the world see me shine.
I pulled on my black leggings and loose top.
Old sandals.
A mask of foundation over the bruises.
Enough to look “fine.”
In the kitchen—emptiness.
The fridge groaned, bare.
Of course it was.
Then I saw it.
A single apple on the table.
Lonely. Forgotten.
“This will do,” I whispered, biting into something sweet for once.
Stepping outside, the morning air bit at my bruises.
The sky was pale, the world silent.
I told myself one thing as I limped toward the bus stop:
Survive. Just survive.
- Writer
