Storm Before The Silence

It was a blistering summer afternoon, the kind where the air shimmered and the cicadas never stopped screaming. The birds chirped in the trees, the branches swaying lazily in the wind—but all I could hear was my father's voice roaring like a demon loosed from hell. "GET UP!" I lay sprawled on the cold cement floor of the basement, blood seeping from my split lip. My breath came in shaky gasps, like my lungs were full of glass. I was eight years old the first time I thought I might actually die in that basement, but now I was eighteen, and the memory still clung to me like smoke. That day, my tiny body trembled as I pushed myself up. I remember the sting in my limbs, the dull throbbing of bruises not yet fully formed. My father towered over me, a shadow cut from rage, his fist clenched, his teeth bared like a predator’s. His punch landed with the force of a freight train. My body hit the ground with a thud, my breath knocked clean from my lungs. The world blurred. Cold concrete pressed against my cheek. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t scream. Just silence. Just pain. He thought I passed out—maybe he hoped I had. His heavy boots stomped up the stairs, and the basement door slammed shut behind him. And in that darkness, I whispered through swollen lips, "Please... please let me survive this torture..." That was ten years ago. Now I’m eighteen. Legally an adult. A senior in high school. And some nights, I still wake up with the taste of blood in my mouth and phantom bruises on my skin. Sometimes, I wonder if it’d be easier to just vanish. No dramatic exit. Just… gone. That morning, I woke in my creaky bed with every muscle aching like I’d spent the night wrestling demons. A dull headache pulsed behind my eyes. I sat up slowly, the peeling paint on the walls greeting me like an old, mocking friend. “Oh honey!” my mother’s syrupy voice floated down the hallway. I flinched. That tone only ever meant one thing. I didn’t bother with the mirror. I already knew what I looked like—pale skin, dark circles, and eyes that had seen too much. I reached into my closet and grabbed the first thing my hand touched: baggy sweats, an old hoodie that hung off my narrow frame like a blanket, and I threw my hair into a loose bun. Just another day to survive. I made my way to the kitchen, the scent of burnt toast lingering in the air. She was already there, dressed like she was going to some brunch with people who’d never know the truth. “Darling,” she said sweetly. “Ready for school?” I kept my eyes low. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” The sharp clack of her heels echoed as she stepped closer. I barely had time to brace myself. Crack. Pain exploded across my cheek. My lip tore open against my teeth, the familiar sting of fresh blood making my stomach churn. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” she hissed, all warmth gone. “Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, swallowing my pride and the taste of iron. She scoffed, tossing her coffee into the sink. “Grab an apple and get the hell out of my house, you worthless bitch.” I snatched an apple and stepped outside, the morning air like a balm against my skin. The rising sun bathed the world in gold. For a second, it almost felt like peace. I shoved my earbuds in and turned the volume up. Music was my only shield. The walk to school was short, but the dread of what waited for me always made it feel like a death march. Senior year was supposed to be freeing. One last stretch before the world opened up. But for me, it was just another cage. Only this one had fluorescent lights and lockers that slammed like gunshots. “Rosie!” I looked up to see KitKat—my only real friend—waving from across the courtyard. Her real name was Katherine, but no one called her that. She was curled up on a bench, already halfway into another supernatural romance novel. Vampires, werewolves, soulmates. Her safe place. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her bright eyes narrowing as she looked me over. “Your mom again?” I gave a half-hearted shrug. “Yeah. Same as always. She went off on me this morning.” KitKat frowned but didn’t press. Instead, she held up her book like a shield. “You really need to read this one. A vampire prince and a girl marked by fate—so dramatic!” I rolled my eyes. “Seriously? That crap again?” “Hey! It’s romantic!” she protested with a laugh. “Don’t you ever wonder what it’d be like to be loved like that? Unconditionally? Powerfully?” I didn’t respond. Because I had wondered. Many nights. But I wasn’t about to admit that. “Keep dreaming, KitKat,” I muttered, heading toward my next class. Then came the usual gauntlet—Jessi and her group of designer-clad vultures. “Oh look!” Jessi cooed, her voice thick with fake innocence. “It’s the walking trash can.” I clenched my fists. “What do you want, Jessi?” She gave a cruel smile. “Just wanted to welcome you with a gift.” She shoved me hard. I hit the pavement, my elbow scraping open, pain flaring. Laughter erupted around us. My stomach twisted in humiliation. “Break it up!” barked Mr. Grey, our history teacher. “Seats. Now!” I got up, keeping my head down. My cheeks burned. History class blurred into a fog of shame and aching muscles. When the bell rang, I gathered my things and walked quickly—too quickly. And then—wham—I tripped. Books spilled. Knees hit tile. Pain. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I said instinctively. A voice like honey and thunder replied, “Are you okay?” I looked up—and froze. He wasn’t just handsome. He was… striking. Emerald green eyes, tousled dark hair, skin like sculpted marble. And those eyes—piercing, like they could see straight through my walls. “I—I’m fine,” I stammered, cheeks blazing. He smiled, the kind that made the air around him feel warmer. “Let me help.” He bent down, gathering my books with practiced ease. “I’m Alex. Alexander Vallord, but just call me Alex.” “Rose,” I said softly, taking back my things. A strange flutter bloomed in my chest, something foreign and unwelcome. Anxiety curled in next, a wave crashing through my gut. I stepped back. “I—I gotta go. History,” I muttered, and bolted before I embarrassed myself more. But fate had other plans. When I slid into my seat in Mrs. Hex’s classroom, trying to disappear, the last thing I expected was— “Class,” Mrs. Hex beamed, “we have a new student from Ireland today! Please welcome Alexander Vallord.” I blinked. No freaking way. He walked in, gave a small wave, and headed straight for the empty seat next to me. I stared ahead, praying the earth would swallow me whole. He sat down, too close, too calm. “Hey again,” he whispered. I didn’t respond. When the bell rang, I bolted for the door—again. But I didn’t make it far. “Rose! Wait up!” I stopped. Turned slowly. There he was, jogging after me, that same calm concern in his expression. “Do you want to… walk to lunch together?” he asked. I blinked. “Why? I’m not exactly ‘friend material.’” He tilted his head, smile still soft. “Maybe I don’t want a friend.” My heart stuttered. “Then what do you want?” He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me—deeply, like he was searching for something. “Maybe I’ll tell you… when I’m sure.”