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My name is Amara.

I’ve been living in this hell of a house for almost nine years.

If you’re wondering what I mean by that, my mother died when I was nine years old. Before that, life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. I had a mother who loved me, a father who adored me, and memories that sometimes feel like they belong to someone else.

After she died, everything changed.

My father couldn’t handle losing her. He turned to alcohol, drugs, gambling—anything that could help him forget.

Unfortunately, he never forgot.

Instead, he took all of that pain and poured it onto me.

One day, when I was eleven, he came home stumbling drunk and saw some of my school papers left on the table.

He looked at me and shouted,

“When are you going to grow up and start cleaning after yourself?”

I remember running toward the table to grab my papers before he could get angrier.

I never made it.

He lunged at me and started beating me until I heard something crack.

For weeks afterward, every breath hurt.

That was the first time.

It wasn’t the last.

After that day, it became normal.

He would come home reeking of alcohol and find an excuse—any excuse—to hurt me.

Sometimes it was because dinner wasn’t ready.

Sometimes it was because I looked at him the wrong way.

Sometimes it was because he simply felt like it.

He would kick, slap, punch, and beat me until he was satisfied. Even drunk, he was smart enough not to leave marks where people could easily see them.

For a long time, I made excuses for him.

He just lost his wife.

He’s still grieving.

He doesn’t mean it.

I wanted to believe those things because the alternative was admitting that my own father hated me.

The hardest part wasn’t the abuse.

It was remembering who he used to be.

Before my mother died, he was the kind of father who read me bedtime stories.

The kind who snuck me candy before dinner when Mom wasn’t looking.

The kind who carried me to bed when I fell asleep on the couch.

Sometimes I still remember his laugh.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t.

I lost my mother when I was nine.

Before that, I lost my brother.

At least, that’s what everyone told me.

The memories are blurry now. More feeling than fact.

I remember a laugh.

A nickname.

A hand holding mine.

Then nothing.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt like someone was missing.

Maybe it’s just another thing grief stole from me.

Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore.

In two days, I’ll graduate from high school.

In two days, I’ll turn eighteen.

And in two days, I’ll finally leave this house behind.

For the first time in years, I can almost see freedom.

I just have to survive a little longer.