SILENT NIGHT BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER TWO

ARIELLA [AGE 10]

My father says a girl shouldn’t be weak.

He says it every time his fist slams into my stomach, every time my knees hit the floor, every time I stay down longer than he wants.

“Again,” he growls, tossing the worn-out gloves at me.

My hands shake when I slip them on. They’re too big for me—he bought them second-hand from a drunk neighbor, the leather stiff, the inside smelling like sweat and cigarettes. My fingers barely reach the end.

I raise my arms anyway.

His shadow looms over me, huge and angry. “Guard your face. I told you that yesterday.”

I do.

He still hits me. Hard.

My ears ring, stars flicker behind my eyes, and my breath stutters out of me. I don’t cry. Crying makes him angrier. Crying means no food. Crying means he’ll say I’m weak and should’ve been born a boy.

So I swallow it.

Swallow everything.

When training is over—if you can call being beaten bloody ‘training’—he pushes me against the wall and spits, “You keep making mistakes. No dinner.”

My stomach twists painfully, but I nod. I don’t argue. It never helps.

A moment later, his friends call from outside, laughing loudly, talking about gambling, cheap beer, and the money they swear they’ll win tonight.

He leaves with them, slamming the door behind him.

As soon as his footsteps fade, I drop the gloves, shove my shoes on, and rush outside.

Because today is Christmas.

And Christmas means charity.

And charity means… him.

The boy with the beautiful eyes.

I scan the crowded street, weaving through people, searching faces. The volunteers are handing out bags of food and toys. Kids are laughing. Music is playing from an old speaker. It should make me excited.

It doesn’t.

Because he’s not here.

My chest sinks. A small sadness spreads inside me, one I don’t understand but feel anyway.

“He comes every year,” I whisper to myself. “Why not today?”

I force a smile when the lady with the red hat hands me a box. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

I murmur a thank-you before tearing the bread open and eating fast. I haven’t eaten since morning. The food warms my stomach, fills the emptiness just a little, and for a moment I imagine him again—him laughing with me, chasing me around the tents, handing me chocolate like I’m someone worth noticing.

But he’s still not here.

Maybe he forgot me.

Maybe I’m forgettable.

When the sky turns dark, I sneak back home—quietly, carefully—because my father never comes back this early.

Except tonight… he does.

He’s standing in the living room.

A belt in his hand.

My heart drops.

“Where were you?” he asks, voice calm in a way that scares me more than the yelling.

“I—I just—”

The belt cracks through the air before I finish.

Pain blooms across my back. My legs. My arms.

He hits me again and again, each strike harder than the last.

I don’t scream.

I don’t cry.

I bite my lip until I taste blood.

Crying makes him crueler.

When he finally gets tired, he throws the belt aside and mutters, “You better learn faster. Useless girl.”

He goes to bed.

I curl on the cold floor, muscles throbbing, skin burning, breaths shallow.

I stare at the ceiling until my eyes blur.

“It’s okay,” I whisper to myself.

“Next year… maybe he’ll come next year.”

The boy with the beautiful eyes.

The only part of Christmas that ever felt like magic.

I fall asleep clutching that memory like a lifeline, even as my whole body aches.