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I sweep my long, obsidian hair behind my ears and gingerly wipe the crimson evidence of my split lip, wincing in pain as I do so. My once sparkling emerald eyes, now swollen and bruised, bore deeply into my father's rich, chocolate-brown gaze. 'Please,' I beg, my voice shaky with both physical and emotional agony, 'Mum wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to hurt me like this.'
His voice, consumed with anger, causes me to tremble as he bellows, 'You should have thought about that before you killed your mother!'
Tears stream down my cheeks as I sob, my voice breaking with guilt and despair. 'Please, Dad! You know it was an accident. I didn't mean for her to die!'
We lock eyes, an icy silence enveloping us. Desperation fills my voice as I whisper, 'If I could bring Mum back, if I could go back and save her, I would. Please, please forgive me.'
My father's eyes, filled with burning rage, shift into a malevolent smirk. 'Oh, Astrid,' he drawls with a chilling nonchalance, 'you're no daughter of mine. You never were. Your mother told me your birth father died while she was pregnant with you. But I loved your mother so much that I was willing to pretend to be your father.'
My head shook vehemently. 'No! That can't be true! Mum would never keep something like that from me!' I shout, my disbelief echoing through the room.
He advances, closing the distance between us. 'Your mother didn't want you to discover the truth until you turned eighteen,' he reveals, his voice dripping with a cruel satisfaction. 'She wanted you to lead a normal life. She said you would find out your true identity once you were eighteen. I didn't understand what she meant then. But I guess she planned to reveal the secret of your biological father to you at that age,' he says, smiling and tapping his foot on the wooden floor. 'Well, I guess you'll never find out who he is now.' He laughs, then turns and leaves my room, the ominous click of the lock sealing my isolation.
As the darkness of my room swallows me whole, I'm left alone with the shattering revelation that everything I had known about my identity had been a carefully constructed lie. The weight of my mother's secret and my father's sinister revelation bore down on me. I wonder if I'll ever be free of this nightmare, of his torment and abuse. My eyes dart towards the window, and I look out at the evening sky at the twinkling stars, and I know the odds are against me.
My sanctuary, my broom, is a room of simplicity. Its walls are plain cream-colour, while a lone, modest square window allows slivers of daylight to sneak through. The centrepiece is my trusty, weather wooden bed. Its age is obvious in the creaks it emits, yet it remains very comfortable, allowing me a good night's rest each night.
Opposite the bed are matching old drawers filled with well-worn clothing. The stubbornly broken bottom drawer had chosen a solitary path of defiance, but the others offer ample refuge for the rest of my modest wardrobe.
Above the drawers, a floating shelf is attached to the wall, a repository of cherished trinkets and dog-ear books. Nothing here was extravagant or ostentatious; it was just a plain old broom, which I've always been content with. In the days when my mother's laughter still filled our home, toys and fanciful things never held sway over my heart.
Our world was the great outdoors, where mud became art, the woods were a racetrack for our adventures, and the dams welcomed our gleeful splashes. Even when Dad wasn't toiling away at work, he was our playmate and the best father a child could have. Back then, he was kindness incarnate, and his love was boundless.
Piggyback rides were a daily occurrence, and he'd transform a simple tyre into a swing, suspending it from a sturdy tree branch near our cherished dam. Each day, he pushed me higher on the swing until I fell off, splashing into the dam. We laughed so hard as I doggy paddled to the water's edge. Those were the days of innocence and joyous togetherness, and the memory of that swing squeaking in the breeze remains in my heart long after my mother's untimely departure and my father's heartbreak turned him cruel.
In the vast, unforgiving expanse of the woods that surrounded our house and the adventures that would await us each day, old clothes were perfect for our daily explorations. But since Mum's tragic departure, I had outgrown my clothes, and my father refused to spend a dime on me, so I started wearing my mother's old clothes that now fit me, and me now seventeen years old.
My mother would always refer to me as her twin. My dad agreed that I inherited all my mother's looks. Her green eyes, light olive skin, dark hair, and my nose—she would always tap it and call it the cutest nose ever.
Unable to sit up any longer from the pain, I lie back sprawled on the floor, agony coursing through my bruised body. My gaze drifts towards my bed, and my mind plays tricks, warping my view and making the bed look much further away than it is. At this moment, I yearn for my knight in shining armour to burst through the door, scoop me up, and, with tenderness, place me on my soft bed. Yet I know my world is far from a fairy tale, and Prince Charming remains mythical.
With a resigned sigh, I summon my willpower. Drawing a shaky breath, I muster the strength to drag my battered form across the wooden floor. Each movement sends bolts of pain shooting through me. Finally, I heave myself onto my bed, the relief of its soft embrace washing over me; the softness is the only gentleness I've received today.
As I nestle onto my side, I groan from the unbearable pain of my broken ribs. Tears well up, cascading down my cheeks, as I grapple with the incomprehensible transformation of the man who once loved and nurtured me.
In the recesses of my mind, memories of happier times flicker like a slide show. I recall the warmth of my father's lap and the crackling fire casting shadows upon us. My mother, leaning gracefully in the doorframe, gazed upon our bonding moments with an adoring smile.
As I lay there in the moonlit room, tucked snugly under the soft, worn blankets and quilt, I can't help but drift into the comforting recollections of my mother's love. I close my eyes and let my mind wander back to cherished memories from my childhood. She whispers stories of her childhood adventures to me. My eyelids grow heavy, and my mother's words gradually become a distant murmur as the memory lulls me to sleep.
With a sharp intake of breath, I gingerly sit up, hissing through clenched teeth as I press my hand against my aching ribs. My eyes immediately fall on the clock, reminding me of work today. Panic begins to creep in. I can't afford to be late again. I need to get ready, no matter the pain.
Awkwardly, I pull on my work uniform, each movement careful to minimise the searing discomfort throughout my body. Silently, I creep down the worn wooden staircase, each creak causing me to pause and hold my breath in fear.
As I continue descending the stairs, there, in the dim light, I find my father slumbering in a stupor induced by alcohol. Seeing him brings me relief and sadness, but at least he's not conscious to make my morning any more unbearable.
The bathroom's aged faucet is turned on low, a deliberate act to muffle any sound as I wash away the dried blood from my face. Gazing into the mirror, I can't help but cringe at the sight of my black eye, swollen and half-shut. Regret and anger course through me as I remember the confrontation that led to this painful reminder.
Pulling my hoodie over my head, I conceal the bruises as best as possible. With cautious steps, I exit the front door and turn to look at our dilapidated home.
With years of neglect and hardship, a once-white two-story house now stands grey and worn. Rotten patches mar its exterior, and the missing planks on the porch force me to jump to avoid getting my foot stuck. The landscape is equally unassuming; native bushes and trees dominate, devoid of the vibrant colours of rose bushes or fancy flowers. It's a stark reflection of the life we live—simple and basic.
I turn and resume walking to Jim's diner, where I work, and walk around a lizard, casually sunbaking. I used to go to school, but my teachers had grown concerned, their eyes catching the fresh bruises along my arms each day. They had summoned my father to the principal's office, a move I had greatly pleaded against. I'd tried to convince them I was naturally clumsy and that my frequent tumbles down the stairs were my own doing. They hadn't believed me, and my father's vehement denial only fuelled their suspicion. It was a battle I had lost, and my father ensured I never returned to school, thrusting me into employment.
My job as a kitchen hand and waitress at Jim's diner lay about a thirty-minute walk from our decaying home, a lonely but content journey that marks my daily escape from the horrors of my home.
Continuing my walk to work, I can't shake the unsettling feeling that something is amiss. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the presence of a sleek black Mercedes trailing conspicuously behind me. This wasn't the first time I had spotted that ominous car shadowing my movements. It has been following me for several months now.
Instincts honed by months of uncertainty kick in, and I trust my gut. With a swift turn, I veer off the main road, choosing the longer, winding route through the woods. My heart races as I wonder why someone might be keeping an eye on me. The truth is, I hardly knew anyone beyond my father and Jim from the diner.
My interactions with the diner's regular customers are brief and distant, not allowing room for friendship. I had mastered the art of avoiding conversation, reluctant to let anyone in on my harrowing secret of the regular abuse I endured. Experience had taught me that confiding in friends or authorities in the past had only exacerbated my predicament with my father. It was a twisted cycle where every attempt to seek help backfired, leaving me worse off than before.
Despite the shadows that cling to my life, I take comfort in my job. My role at the diner is a lifeline, a chance to escape the horrors of home, even if only for a few hours some days and half days on other days. If only I could work more hours to avoid the inevitable confrontations with my father.
Jim, my boss, has always been good to me in a world that has been unkind. His charm and warmth make the diner feel like a sanctuary. Strangely, he has an uncanny ability to sense when something is awry and sees beyond the façade I present to the world. Jim knows, without words, that I bore the scars of a tumultuous existence, the physical and emotional wounds of a hidden nightmare.
His support is profound, and he is always ready to offer help without prying or pushing. He has even offered me to stay in the spare room of his house, an offer I couldn't bring myself to accept. The thought of burdening him weighs heavily on my conscience, and I know my father would never allow it. My father's capacity for violence is boundless, and I couldn't bear the thought of Jim getting hurt because of me. My father wouldn't hesitate to show up at Jim's house and harm him.
The diner's door chimes as I push it open, my gaze trained downward. I navigate past a scattering of early morning customers, determined to reach the haven of the kitchen. My bag finds its familiar place on a hook against the wall, a part of my daily routine.
Glancing at the receipts, I take note of the latest orders. A quick, thorough handwashing follows as I ready myself to prepare salads and other dishes Jim will finish cooking and preparing.
With a sigh, I approach the spot where my bag rests. Carefully, I remove my hoodie, revealing the evidence of my ordeal beneath. I fold it, place it inside the bag, and return to cutting the vegetables.
Minutes tick by like heavy footsteps, and finally, Jim enters through the swinging door leading from the back of the diner. He busies himself with the first orders I have prepared. His normally composed demeanour is replaced by an unexpected growl that sounds more like a wild beast on the brink of savagery.
Startled, I look up from my tasks to find Jim, his blonde hair tousled and streaked with hints of grey. He would have to be in his late forties, but I've never asked his age, as I felt it never mattered to know. He must have been running late for work today, as he has stubble instead of his usual clean-shaven face. His piercing blue eyes, usually calm and warm, now glint with anger as they settle on the battered state of my face.