Stuck with Me

Chapter 1

ZARA IFECHI

"What do you mean she wants to move out?" My father's voice booms, reverberating through the corridors of our home.

Each word carries the weight of his anger and frustration, slicing through the air like a sharp blade.

Even from the confines of my room, situated at the far end of the second floor, I can feel the intensity of his rage.

As his words penetrate my ears, a surge of emotions floods my being.

I am torn between the urge to hide away and the instinct to confront the situation head-on.

The image of him slapping her flashes in my mind, igniting a mix of anger, fear, and helplessness.

It is a haunting sight that refuses to fade.

In an attempt to gather my thoughts and summon the courage to face the impending storm, I close the book I was pretending to read.

Its pages close with a soft sigh, echoing the heaviness in my heart. Slowly, I make my way downstairs, each step echoing in sync with the chaos brewing within me.

Reaching the landing, I position myself strategically near the staircase, hidden from view. I dare not make my presence known, for the fear of becoming the target of my father's wrath is overpowering.

From this vantage point, I cast my eyes upon the sitting room, where the tension hangs thick in the air.

My father paces back and forth, his agitated steps punctuating the silence like thunderclaps.

His face etched with lines of anger, he seems on the verge of exploding.

The storm looms, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash its fury.

My mother, with a glare of determination etched upon her face, stands her ground in the face of adversity.

"He hadn't slapped her yet, but it feels inevitable," I silently acknowledge, my heart sinking further with each passing second.

The atmosphere is suffocating, the anticipation of violence mingling with the raw emotions swirling within me.

In the midst of this turmoil, my father directs his attention towards my mother, his voice dripping with accusation.

"Are you supporting this, Laurel?" His question is a trap, designed to manipulate her into a corner.

Her response is measured, her words laced with the strength she musters in the face of adversity.

"She confided in me, asked me not to tell you, but I'm your wife. I had to inform you," she explains, her voice steady, though tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

The room hangs in suspended silence, the tension palpable.

My father's thick African accent emerges, heightening the intensity of his words as he struggles to contain his anger.

"And you support her?" he interrogates, his voice both accusatory and desperate.

In the face of his rage, my mother maintains her composure, defending the autonomy of our sister.

"She's a grown-up, she can do whatever she wants," she asserts, her voice firm yet tinged with weariness.

"Laurel, don't test me!" my father erupts, his voice reverberating through the room like a thunderous clap.

The force of his anger sends tremors through the air, causing my mother to flinch involuntarily, a physical manifestation of the emotional toll she bears.