Blood of the Solaris

Clara's pov “Clara!” My uncle’s voice cut through the house like a sharp blade. The plate shattered before I even realized I had dropped it. I flinched, though nothing had touched me yet. My hands were trembling, my breath catching as my heart raced. I froze instead of running. My fingers tightened instinctively around the edge of the table, knuckles turning white, but the plate had already slipped from my grip. Silence followed, heavy and suffocating. Footsteps approached slowly. Heavy. Familiar. Measured. My heart pounded against my ribs as I stared at the jagged shards on the floor. “What did you do this time?” Jeff snapped. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. I knew what came next; it was always like this. No answer would ever be enough to save me. The shards lay scattered across the cracked tile, sharp against the dull floor that had been worn thin from my years of scrubbing. The walls looked old, the once-white paint now a tired yellow. The air smelled of dust and something bitter. My eyes flickered around the room, desperately searching for an escape that didn't exist. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked slowly. Loud. Unforgiving. Each second stretched the silence thinner. Pale sunlight slipped weakly through the thin curtains, but the room still felt heavy against my skin. The footsteps stopped just behind me. Then, silence. I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. I just stood there, looking down at the mess while a shadow stretched over the broken pieces on the floor. “Is this how you repay me?” Jeff finally said. “You can’t do anything right. Look at what you’ve done.” I swallowed again. “It slipped.” Smack! The slap followed immediately. I fell to the floor, speechless and trembling. My head turned sharply from the impact, but I didn’t cry out. My shoulders had already tensed before his hand even moved. “Of course it did. I told you to be careful,” he said, even though he hadn't spoken a word to me until now. I pressed my lips together, swallowing the sob that threatened to break through. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “Clean it up,” he said flatly. “And don’t make me repeat myself. You can’t even hold a plate properly.” I blinked, staring at the floor, my vision slightly blurred. Don’t cry, I told myself. Don't make it worse. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. For a moment, everything felt quiet. My throat tightened, but I forced the feeling down. Crying only made him angrier, yet a few stray tears found their way out anyway. I couldn't control them. “Sorry doesn't fix anything,” he muttered, finally leaving the kitchen. “Clean it. Now,” his voice drifted back, as if nothing had happened. I nodded quickly, already kneeling, my hands moving before my mind could catch up. I had no choice, no one to run to. It was always easier this way, to do what I was told, to agree, to keep things calm, even when it hurt. Maybe I really was the problem. Maybe I should have been more careful. I just wanted one day without the tension. Just one. Sometimes, I wondered what it would feel like to not be afraid. I gathered the broken pieces with careful hands. Don’t rush, I warned myself. Rushing makes things worse. I exhaled slowly. I didn’t wait to be told what to do next; I already knew the routine. I hoped tomorrow would be better, but tomorrow usually brought the same shadows. My fingers trembled, but I kept moving, eyes fixed on the floor. A small piece slipped from my grip. I froze. I waited for the shout, the hit, the shame. Nothing came. Slowly, I picked it up again. I was fine. I just needed to finish and stay quiet. That was how I stayed safe. But somewhere, deep and quiet, a thought pressed against the surface: What if it never changes? Mornings were always the same. Wake up before the sun, clean what needs cleaning, stay quiet, and speak only when necessary. Don’t make mistakes. And somehow, I still did. If it wasn't the plates, it was the laundry. There was always something. To Jeff, every breath I took was a potential offense. The room fell quiet once I finished. Too quiet. I pushed myself to my feet and exhaled. That was when I noticed it. The cabinet in the corner. I hesitated, my hand hovering just inches from the wood. It had always been there,old, wooden, barely touched. But today, something felt different. My heart pounded unevenly. I didn't understand why I felt like the house was waiting for me to act. For the first time, I didn't step away. I moved closer. I frowned, my gaze lingering on the surface. The carved patterns along the wood seemed deeper somehow, like they hadn't been there before. Or maybe I had just never truly looked. My chest tightened. For a brief moment, it felt like the room was holding its breath. “Clara, are you done cleaning those messes?” I stepped back immediately, my pulse skyrocketing. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. It was nothing. It had to be nothing. I stood perfectly still, hoping he wouldn't come back in.