Her Breaking Point

The blood is dry now. That’s what bothers me most. I mused about my childhood as I sat in the kitchen chair staring at the counter. I remembered my tenth birthday. The sound of my mother’s singing echoing off the walls. I watched her frost the cake for hours, only to have my brother smash my face into the cake after singing Happy Birthday. I was angry, remembering I chased him screaming bloody murder.

Pain pulls at my skin when I shift, stiff and cracking, thesound grating my ears, like I’ve been dipped in something and left to harden. My shirt clings to my ribs where it soaked through hours ago, dark and sticky…disgusting. I sighed as I watched the clock, not long now. It wasn’t time for dinner yet, I need to shower. I pondered the time it would take to wash everything away before he got home…not enough.

I looked down at the fabric of my shirt, heavy, littered with holes and browned at the edges, almost black in certain places. I stood ignoring the scream of pain in my body, I didn’t have time to shower, but Icould try and clean up a little before he got here. Not that it would help much. I dragged a damp cloth across my arms, my stomach, my neck, but all it did was smear everything wider, turn my skin raw and pink. Great. I stopped trying. I sit back on the kitchen chair and stare down at myself like I’m looking at something spoiled.

My thighs are layered in bruises… deep purple bleeding into yellow and green, swollen in some places, sunken in others. Finger-shaped marks ring my upper arms, too deliberate to be accidental. My knees are scabbed and split, one still leaking faintly. There’s a cut along my side that burns everytime I breathe, open and angry, already deciding how ugly it wants to become. I would need to clean it and wrap it before any infection sets in.

My back aches constantly. I don’t need to see it to know what it looks like… thick, raised scars stacked over older ones, skin warped and uneven like it forgot how to heal right. The marks of a monster. Some spotsitch. Some throb. Some are numb.

I hate this body. I hate the way my skin hangs loose over bone, the way my stomach caves inward, the way my chest barely moves when I breathe. I hate the smell of dried blood clinging to me, metallic and sour, like it’s soaked into my pores… I look disgusting. The house grew deathly still, as if it forgot how to breathe. I stiffened, knowing what that meant.The front door opened. The sound lands heavy in my chest… Charles is home.

His footsteps move through the house with purpose, each one deliberate, like he’s already decided what he’s going to do. My heart starts torace, too fast, too loud. My body tightens even more, every muscle bracing. He’s going to hurt me. He’s already decided, there was nothing I could do but brace it and pray if he couldn’t stop, it was quick. I stand too quickly and the room tilts, dizziness washing over me in a thick wave. I catch myselfon the wall, breathing shallow, waiting.

“Haven,” he calls. “Get out here.”

I step into the hallway. His eyes land on me- and drag. Slow. Assessing. Taking inventory. His mouth twists, not with concern, but disgust.

“What the hell is this?” he snaps, anger folding into histone. “I told you to clean yourself up.” Shame crawls hot and heavy up myspine. I curl inward without meaning to, shoulders folding, trying to make myself smaller.

“You’re bleeding all over my house,” he continues, irritation sharpening his voice. “You look like an animal.” He turns toward thekitchen and I can hear the drawer slides open. Metal shifts against metalcausing my pulse to roar in my ears.

“I don’t tolerate messes,” he says calmly. “Especially notfrom you.” He comes back holding the knife. Not raised. Not rushed. He stepscloser, eyes cold, already choosing where to start. My stomach twists painfullyas dread pooled in my stomach. I know this look. He’s only worn it twice, andboth times, he almost killed me. Doctor Stevenson would be by my bed in themorning. His voice sent slimy shivers down my spine.

His exams always came at a price, and it was one I hatedpaying. He held no sympathy, it didn’t matter how injured I was. I prayed hard,please no.

“You think you can walk around like this?” he says. “Coveredin blood?” He grabs my arm, fingers digging straight into a bruise. Pain bloomssharp and immediate, burning the nerves. I always envied the people whocouldn’t feel pain…more so now.

“Maybe I need to remind you how to behave.”

The doorbell rings. Sharp. Loud. Wrong. Charles freezes. Sodo I.

“Haven?” a voice calls through the door. “It’s me.” Paul.The sound of my brother’s voice detonates inside me. Panic floods my body sofast it’s dizzying, racing down my spine, curling into my toes until they ache.My instincts scream at me to move. I rip free and bolt for the door. Running isdangerous. Running and getting caught means the basement... that god awfulplace flashes in my mind, harrowing, a monster within itself. If this house wasalive, it was the darkest part. I swear, when the house is quiet, I could hearmy old screams echoing against the walls.

I don’t stop- I can’t…not now, my fingers brush thedoorknob. Charles is on me instantly. His arm locks around my chest, crushingmy back against his chest. The knife flashes up, cold and real as it pressesbeneath my chin. My body goes completely still, terror snapping me into place.The pressure proved one move and I’d be dead.

“Don’t,” he murmurs into my ear. “You ruin this, and I’llfinish it.” The door opens and Paul stands there. For half a second, his faceis familiar. Easy. Expectant. Then his eyes go to Charles, to the knife, andfinally they land on me. And everything changes at once.

His face drains of color. His breath leaves him in a sharp,broken sound. “Haven…” His voice cracks. “Charles?” he says next-disbelief bleeding into horror. “What the hell are you doing?”

Charles tightens his hold and Paul’s posture shiftsimmediately. It’s subtle, but unmistakable- shoulders square, feet plant, onehand lifting slowly, palm out. The other moves to his hip, restrained,controlled. He draws his gun slowly pointing it at Charles, his face set,angry.

“Step away from her,” Paul says. His voice is flat now.Deadly calm. “Remove the knife from her neck.”

“This is a family matter,” Charles snaps. “You don’t belonghere.”

Paul doesn’t look at him. He looks at me. Reallylooks. The bruises layered over my skin. At the dried blood. At the way my eyesdon’t focus right, the way I’m not fighting, not crying- just empty. Somethingin him fractures.

“Haven,” he says quietly, voice shaking just barely beforehe forces it steady. “I see you. You’re doing great. Just stay calm”

“She doesn’t care what you have to say.” Charles’ tone isdark, mocking. It took everything I had not to wince when he tightened his gripon my arm. My hands still placed on his forearm, begging silently. Please.

Paul’s jaw clenches hard. “Charles,” he says, fury threadedthrough the calm. “I know exactly who you are, you don't want to do this.” Iknew what he was doing, he was trying to empathize with him. I felt bad forhim, you can’t empathize with a psychopath. “Charles, you’re committing felonyassault with a deadly weapon. Drop the knife. Now.”

Charles laughs, sharp and ugly. “You think you can tell mehow to discipline my kid?” the word sounded foreign coming from his mouth.

Paul’s breathing turns shallow for one dangerous second.“This is wrong,” he says. “And if you don’t let her go, this ends very badlyfor you.”

The knife presses harder. My pulse jumps wildly beneath it.One move and it’s over.

“Please-” I could hear the venom in Charles’ voice.

“Charles- I will not tell you again drop the weapon”Paul shoved his gun and took a half step forward. The game of chicken wasCharles' favorite, who would falter first. Complete domination andsubmission.