Scarlet
The sound of pacing had become a rhythm—heel to toe, wood to wood, a steady, nervous cadence that bounced off the walls of the house like a ticking bomb.
My mother’s steps were tight, contained, full of restrained fury. My father, on the other hand, had no interest in keeping it subtle. He stomped like a bull about to charge, muttering things under his breath that I couldn’t quite catch but didn’t need to.
I sat curled up on the couch, knees to my chest, a blanket wrapped around me like it could somehow protect me from everything crashing outside. I wasn’t cold. Not physically, anyway. But something inside me refused to warm up, like my soul had gone into hibernation and locked the door behind it.
The scene from last time didn’t stop playing in my mind. It was becoming more and
