Guarded Hearts

Kim Pov. I sit in the middle of the bed, pressed against the wall, knees drawn to my chest and arms wrapped around them, trying to quell my shaking. The blanket is bunched at my feet, abandoned when I woke up drenched in sweat. My breathing is uneven, shallow, like my lungs have forgotten how to work. The darkness of the room doesn’t hide me from the nightmare that replays in my mind over and over again. I had a dream… No, not a dream. A nightmare. But my whole life is a nightmare. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't help. The images are still there, imprinted behind my eyelids. My mother’s voice echoes in my head, though I can’t remember the last time I heard it in reality. She had a soft voice, a kind voice—so different from his. But she's gone. And he’s still here. Dark thoughts creep in like a suffocating fog, slipping into my mind before I can stop them. Maybe it would be easier to give in to the darkness. To disappear. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel anything anymore. No pain. No fear. No humiliation. A muffled noise freezes my blood in my veins. Heavy steps. My body locks up, my muscles tight and rigid like a puppet on tangled strings. I know who it is. The monster that bears my father’s face. The air in the room changes, thickening like a storm rolling in. My pulse pounds in my ears as my gaze darts frantically around the room. I need to find something—anything—to defend myself. But there’s nothing. Just shadows and silence, waiting for him to come. The door suddenly slams open, crashing against the wall with a thunderous bang. I jolt violently, my breath hitching in my throat. My body screams at me to move, to get up, to do something. I try. I force my legs to work, but they refuse to listen. When I push myself off the bed, I don’t stand—I fall. My hands barely catch me before my face meets the floor. My heartbeat is erratic, my entire body trembling as I lift my head. He’s there. Looming. Staring at me with bloodshot eyes and that sneer—the one that means tonight will be worse than usual. His breath stinks of alcohol, sharp and nauseating. His fists clench at his sides, the tendons in his neck taut with rage. “Why are you still alive?” he spits, his voice dripping with something that feels like poison. His lip curls as he takes another step forward. “Why don’t you just die already?” I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer. He moves fast—too fast. His hand shoots out, tangling in my hair, yanking my head back until I let out a strangled cry. Then he slams my skull against the wooden frame of the bed. A sharp, blinding pain explodes in my head. My vision darkens at the edges, and something warm and sticky slides down my cheek. Blood. “I can’t stand you anymore!” he bellows, his breath hot against my face. “Thank heaven your mother is dead! I couldn’t stand either of you!” The words hit harder than his hands ever could. My chest tightens, an unbearable ache blooming deep inside me. I try to fight, try to push him away, but he’s stronger. He always has been. His grip tightens as he drags me toward the door. The wooden floor scrapes against my bare legs, burning my skin. A low, cruel laugh rumbles from his throat. “Die,” he whispers. Then he shoves me. The world tilts violently. My stomach drops as my body is thrown forward. The railing disappears beneath me, and suddenly, I’m falling. The air rushes past my ears, the descent stretching into eternity—until it doesn’t. The impact is brutal. My body slams against the ground floor with a sickening thud. The pain comes a second later, radiating from my ribs, my back, my arm. I can’t breathe. For a moment, there’s nothing but darkness and silence. Then I hear him. Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Dread coils in my stomach, squeezing the air from my lungs. He’s coming. I force my eyes open. The first thing I see is his shoes. Black. Scuffed. Moving toward me with terrifying certainty. Then comes the sound—the sharp, unmistakable jingle of a belt unbuckling. Something inside me snaps. The fear curdles into something else—something dark. Something angry. My fingers brush against something hard. A vase. An old, forgotten vase on the table beside me, filled with dried, brittle flowers. My grip tightens around it. He takes another step. I lunge. With every ounce of strength left in me, I swing the vase into his head. The porcelain shatters on impact, a sharp, piercing crack filling the air. He lets out a strangled grunt, stumbling back, eyes wide with shock. I don’t stop. I throw myself at him, knocking him off balance. We crash onto the stairs, a tangle of limbs and rage. My hands find his hair, yanking it back, slamming his head against the steps. Once. Twice. Three times. The world narrows to this moment. To this single, desperate act. His body jerks, then goes still. Silence. I freeze, my chest heaving, my hands trembling. My fingers unclench from his hair. He’s not moving. Oh God. I stumble back, my legs shaking so badly I can barely keep myself upright. My arm throbs, pain slicing through the haze of adrenaline. I press my hand to my ribs, trying to ground myself, trying to think. What have I done? I look at him—at his still, motionless form. My breath stutters. What if I killed him? Panic claws at my throat. My mind races. I can’t think straight. I need help. I need… I don’t know what I need. With shaking fingers, I reach for the phone. The numbers blur as I punch them in. The dial tone barely rings before someone answers. “Good evening. Emergency dispatcher. How can I help you?” “I think…” My voice breaks. My throat is raw, my breath hitching on every syllable. “I think I killed my father.” The words hang in the air, heavy and irreversible. And for the first time in my life, I don’t know if I should feel terrified… or relieved.