ARIA
I was back at that night again.
The one I could never let myself think about, the night everything cracked and bled.
I stood in the hallway of our old house, the walls still stained with the echoes of screams and the metallic scent of fear. The floor beneath my feet was cold, but my hands burned as I pushed open the door to the living room. He was at it again... my father, hunched over my mother, fists raining down without mercy. Her cries were thin. Olivia was curled up in the corner, sobbing. And I… I wasn't frozen this time.
I was moving.
I was already on him, fists flying, teeth gritted, every ounce of 13-year-old fury and helplessness flooding out of me. The vase in my hand was shaking as I held it high above my head, straddling him as he thrashed underneath me.
"STOP!" I screamed. But it wasn't just to him.
It was to the world. To the pain. To the way he made me feel like my voice never mattered. That my body was just a container for fear.
