Twisted

12 years Ago The thin plaster walls of our flat shook every night before the lights went out. I was ten years old, sitting on the cold floor of my bedroom, pulling my knees tight against my chest. Outside my door, the screaming was always the same. "Where were you until three in the morning, Dahlia?" my father roared, his voice thick with cheap gin. "Who were you with?" "Don't touch me, Arthur!" my mother screamed back. A glass shattered against the wall. "You're just a driver! A dirt-poor driver who can't even keep the lights on!" Our flat was a dark, dry box. Neither of them cared that I was sitting in the dark just five feet away. They didn't ask if I had eaten. To them, I was just extra noise in a house they both hated. My father drove for the Don, the billionaire who owned half the city. My mother spent her days staring at her reflection, buying cheap perfume, and complaining about her life. Then came the night everything fell apart. My father came home late, pale as a ghost, holding a thick envelope. "I saw her with him," Arthur whispered, his eyes wide with wild rage. "The Don. You've been sleeping with my boss, Dahlia!" My mother didn't even deny it. She just sneered. "And what are you going to do about it, Arthur?" "I'm going to make him pay," Arthur laughed. "I'm going to blackmail him." My mother cackled loudly; “You fool! Do you want to die?! Do you know what the Don does to people who blackmail him? They disappear just like that. You’d better swallow it up and accept your fate.” “You b***h. Well, the Don’s reputation is also important to him right? If his wife or the press finds out hes cheating on his wife with a married woman he’s done. Ah! I’m going to make so much money from that bastard!” He ran out the door to confront the Don. Even at that age I knew that was a foolish thing to do. At school even I had heard of Don and how ruthless he was. I sat quietly outside, my belly growling from hunger. I thought of this so called Don, a name I heard in this house even more than my own name. This stranger who was inserted in every area of our lives. I hated him, yet I also felt jealous of him. If my parents paid as much attention on me like they did the Don and…. My father came back three hours later, terrified and bleeding. He tumbled through the front door, his jacket torn, clutching his bruised head. “Dad what happened?” "He took the papers," Arthur sobbed on the kitchen floor. "He told me if I ever say his name again, he'll kill me. He's going to kill us all. I shouldnt have gone there. I’m doomed!” The next morning, the police kicked our door in. They dragged my father away in handcuffs. The Don’s lawyers had framed him for stealing millions from the company. Arthur was sentenced to twenty years in prison. The next five years were a living nightmare. My mother completely gave up. She didn't work. She just bought cheap liquor with whatever cash was left and drowned herself in bitter despair. The flat turned filthy. Every time she looked at me, her eyes burned with pure hatred. "Get out of my face, you dirty little leech!" she would scream, shoving me hard into the wall. She slapped me across the cheek, her heavy rings scratching my skin. "Look at you! You have his miserable eyes! You have his stupid face! Every time I look at you, I see that useless driver who ruined my life!" "Stop it, Mom," I whispered, keeping my eyes on the floor. "Don't call me that!" she yelled, throwing a half-empty gin bottle at my feet. It smashed, spraying glass and sour liquor over my bare ankles. "Clean that up! You're just as useless as your father. I wish you were never born!" She beat me whenever she was drunk, leaving bruises on my arms and back, taking out all her hatred for Arthur on me. I learned to stop crying. I learned to keep quiet and wait. Then came the afternoon Arthur came back. He had gotten early parole. He looked thin, dark, and insane. He kicked the door open, saw my mother passed out on the couch with a bottle, and lost his mind. He dragged her by her hair, slamming her onto the coffee table. "Where is it?!" Arthur screamed, his fists flying. "Where's the money he gave you while I was in a cell?!" "He didn't give me anything!" my mother shrieked, bleeding from her mouth. "He kicked me out!" "Liar!" Arthur screamed. He hit her again. And again. He dragged her across the floor, kicking her ribs, screaming for money that wasn't there. My mother sobbed, her fingers clawing at the dirty floorboards. "Dahlia!" she choked out, looking right at me through the cracked bedroom door. "Help me!" I stood in the dark hallway. I didn't move. I didn't call for help. Arthur grabbed a heavy brass lamp from the corner and brought it down hard on her head. Once. Twice. Then, total silence. Arthur dropped the lamp, took one look at her body, panicked, and ran out into the rain. I stepped out from the hallway and walked over to her. My mother lay still on the dirty rug, blood pooling under her head. Her eyes were blank, staring at the ceiling. I waited for the tears. I waited to feel sad or scared for the woman who had spent five years beating me just for looking like my father. Funnily enough, I felt nothing like that. The only thing in my chest was a deep, quiet relief. She was finally dead. I stepped right over her blood, walked to the sink, and washed my hands. My real life was just beginning.