Dysfunctional Family Breakfast
“Ella, wake the fuck up right now, you useless slut, and make me and your mother breakfast!”
The voice slices through my sleep like a blade. My father’s spit lands on my face as my eyes fly open, heart hammering. For a moment, I’m disoriented — the world blurry, my breath shallow. Then I see the cracked clock on my nightstand glowing 6:30 a.m. in dim red numbers.
Great. Another long day in hell.
I push the sheets off and stand, my body aching before I even move. Every breath reminds me of last night — the dull, throbbing pain under my ribs, the sting along my arms. My skin feels like paper stretched over bruises. I try not to look in the mirror as I grab a clean pair of jeans and a white long-sleeve shirt from the floor. My father’s heavy footsteps thud down the hallway. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be next on his list again.
I dart into the bathroom and twist the shower handle. The water sputters to life, hot and sharp against my skin. I flinch as it hits the welts on my sides. For a second, I watch the water turn faintly pink before swirling down the drain.
What did I ever do to make them hate me this much?
The thought burns through my head as I reach for my strawberry shampoo — the only thing I own that smells remotely like comfort. I close my eyes and breathe it in, pretending for just a few seconds that I’m somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Then I rinse quickly, dry off, and pull my clothes on, wincing as denim rubs against bruises. My reflection stares back from the fogged mirror — swollen lip, shadowed eye, split skin near my temple. I sigh, wipe the mirror with my sleeve, and look away.
By the time I make it downstairs, the house feels too quiet. That’s never a good sign. I start cracking eggs, trying to stay invisible. Then I hear it — low, breathy sounds from the living room. I freeze. Of course. My parents are at it again, shameless and loud, like it’s a game to remind me I’m nothing but a maid in my own home.
I focus on the sizzle of bacon, the click of the stove. Anything but the noise behind me. By the time breakfast is done, my hands are shaking. I set their plates on the counter, grab my backpack, and slip out the back door before either of them can remember I exist.
The early morning air hits me — cool, quiet, mercifully still. The sky is pale pink, and for a moment, I can almost pretend I’m just another college student on her way to class. Not the broken, bruised girl running from a house full of ghosts.
I start walking toward my favorite café a few blocks from campus. The warm smell of coffee greets me before I even step inside. The bell over the door jingles softly, and behind the counter is Claire — my best friend, my lifeline, my secret keeper.
“Oh my God, Claire! I didn’t know you were working this early!” I call, forcing a small smile.
She looks up, her eyes lighting with relief. “Ella? You’re early. Everything okay?” She comes around the counter and pulls me into a hug. Her arms feel safe, but the pressure makes me wince before I can stop myself.
“Same old, same old,” I mumble into her shoulder, pulling back before she can notice. “I’m fine, promise.”
Claire’s eyes soften, but she doesn’t press. “Go use the employee bathroom, hon. Fix yourself up a bit. I’ll get your usual started.”
“Thanks, Claire,” I whisper. My throat tightens. She’s the only person who knows. The only one who’s seen what my parents really are.
I rush into the small bathroom, shutting the door behind me. The harsh fluorescent light flickers, exposing every cut, every bruise. My black eye, the purple shadows along my jaw. I sigh and dig through my backpack for my makeup bag — my armor.
CRAP. I forgot to brush my hair or cover my face before I left. I grab a hairbrush and tug it through the tangles, biting back a hiss every time it snags. My phone buzzes — 8:07 a.m. I still have over an hour before class. Plenty of time to put the mask back on.
As I start blending concealer over my face, a memory flashes like a knife through my mind.
Thirteen Hours Earlier
The door slammed so hard the frame shook.“Ella! Where the fuck were you?” My mother’s slurred voice echoed from the kitchen. “No doubt spreading your legs for every man in town!”
“I was at—” My words barely left my mouth before the sting of her hand cracked across my cheek. My skin burned hot.
“I don’t give a f-f-fuck what you think you were doing,” she slurred, words tripping over each other. “You were supposed to have dinner ready.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll start on—” My apology ended in a gasp as she shoved me hard. My back hit the tile, pain sparking up my spine.
Then I heard it. My father’s laugh — low, cruel, the sound of someone who enjoyed this too much. He stepped into the kitchen, belt dangling from his fist, eyes glazed and red.“Ah, look who’s home,” he sneered. “Our useless little slut.”
He kicked me once — hard — right in the ribs. I tried to curl up, but another blow landed. Then another. My mother joined in, shrieking something about disappointment and shame. The sound blurred until all I could hear was my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
They didn’t stop until I couldn’t even cry anymore. When they finally stumbled away, laughing, I stayed on the floor for a while. Just breathing. Just existing.
I remember staring at the ceiling, thinking, I have to get out. I don’t care how.Whether it’s in a body bag or on my own — I can’t stay here.
Back to the Present
I blink hard and force the memory away. I focus on the brush in my hand, on the way foundation blends over my cheekbones, how concealer dulls the purple under my eye. Layer by layer, I erase the evidence. I swipe mascara over my lashes, blush over my cheekbones, and smile at my reflection until I almost look like a normal girl.
Almost.
It’s not vanity. It’s survival. Makeup became my secret weapon back in freshman year — the only thing that could hide what went on behind closed doors. Concealer became my silence. Foundation became my lies.
As I finish, I stare at myself in the mirror. My smile looks practiced, hollow. My reflection doesn’t even feel like me anymore.
I tuck my makeup bag back into my backpack and whisper to the girl in the mirror, “Just get through today. Then maybe tomorrow, you can finally leave.”
I step out of the bathroom, the smell of espresso and baked pastries wrapping around me like a blanket. Claire slides my coffee across the counter with a warm smile. For a moment, I feel safe again. But even as I take my first sip, I know the peace won’t last.
Because peace never lasts in my world.
