I tighten my grip on the scrub brush and attack the bathroom floor. The lemon-scented cleaner burns my nose and stinks up my hair and clothes. My hands throb, my back aches, and I sympathize with Cinderella. Not that I've got a wicked stepmother or awful step-sisters—just Father.
I may not have Cinderella's little animals to help me clean, either, but the acoustics in the tiny bathroom are amazing. My voice sounds deeper and more resonant, and I lose myself in the magic of music as I sing.
"Roonie Hill!" Father's angry voice thunders across the house, jolting me back to reality. "You stop that racket and get downstairs. Now!"
I flinch.
The scrub blush clatters to the floor as I jump to my feet. My onyx pendant smacks against my collarbone, and I squeeze the cold, heart-shaped stone as my own heart pounds wildly in my chest.
Why is Father home so early? He doesn't get back on Fridays until—I glance at my phone, which I left by the sink—eight o'clock!
The blood drains from my face. I should have had dinner ready for him ten minutes ago. I should be in the kitchen, ladle in hand. I should not, under any circumstances, still be upstairs. And I definitely should not be singing.
"Roonie!" Father bellows.
I break into a run. I don't have time to wash my hands, so I wipe my dirty palms on my jeans as I skid to a stop in the kitchen doorway.
Father is seated at the table in his sweaty, gray Bulldogs hoodie and navy-blue sweatpants. He takes one look at me and scowls. "You're a mess. A filthy mess."
He's right!
My faded pink sweater is drenched in sweat, and my jeans are torn and dirty from cleaning. What if we'd had company? Or Prince Charming finally decided to rescue me? It's not like my Fairy Godmother's suddenly going to pop up with a gown and slippers.
"I'm hungry, Roonie." Father takes a healthy swig of beer and slams the bottle on the table.
I flinch. My palms start to sweat.
Why doesn't he ever get up and serve himself? I left an empty bowl on the table and the stew is simmering on the stove. Its delicious aroma fills the kitchen and makes my mouth water. I haven't eaten all day.
I stare down at my feet. "I'm really sorry, Father. I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean... didn't mean..." he mocks. "Why am I not eating?"
I can think of several reasons, none of which I dare voice aloud. I snatch up his empty bowl, not missing his narrowed eyes or the frown lines marring his forehead. Those, coupled with the glazed look in his eyes, make my stomach roll.
I grab the metal lid covering the pot of stew and let go with a yelp. Too hot. Too hot. Too hot!
The lid crashes back down onto the pot with a loud clang that echoes through the kitchen.
"You can't do anything right!" Father shouts as I cradle my burned palm against my chest. "You're a mess. Never got into college. Can't even get a job."
I fight back tears. Crying will only make things worse, but I can barely think through the pain.
"You're wasting your time making up stupid songs." Father chugs down some beer and gestures at me with the bottle. "Where's my dinner?"
I try to ignore the sting from my burnt palm—and his constant criticism—as I grab a towel. I use it to lift the scalding-hot lid off the pot. Steam rolls out and hits me in the face, but I don't dare react. A single sound could set Father off again.
I ladle heaps of delicious stew and set the full bowl in front of Father. He stares at me for a long second that seems to stretch into eternity. I hold my breath until he finally picks up his spoon.
"How hard is it to have dinner ready on time?" he grumbles, sending stew-laced spit across the table.
I want to tell him to get his own stew and to stop talking with his mouth full, but self-preservation wins every time. I've had enough pain for one day—maybe for a lifetime.
I should say something to placate him, but what? He hates when I make excuses. Like, absolutely, positively hates it. Telling him I lost track of time because I was singing is out of the question. He can't stand the sound of my voice. It's too high-pitched and too whiny—too much like my mom's.
"Roonie!" Father snaps.
I jump. "Yes?"
Was I humming? I have this awful tendency to hum while I think. I don't even notice I'm doing it, and it drives Father nuts. It used to bug the hell out of my classmates and teachers, too. You'd think I would have learned not to do it by now, but no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to stop.
Father holds up his beer and raises one eyebrow in annoyance. Taking the hint, I recycle the empty bottle and get him a cold one from the fridge.
Father opens it, takes a healthy swig, and lets out a contented sigh. "Sit. Eat. Keep your old man company."
"Yes, Father." I grab a bowl of stew and sit down across from him. I'm still tense, but he seems happier now. Maybe he won't hit me tonight.
I start to eat and mentally go over the lyrics of the song I just wrote. In the first verse, Cinderella arrives at the ball, only to find out that Prince Charming has already left. Her heart starts to sink, but then a different prince asks her to dance, and another, and another.
Surrounded by my princes
The music shall play on
Midnight's hour shall come and go
But we'll still dance 'til dawn...
I can almost see her twirling around and around in her beautiful blue gown. Her face filled with joy as she dances the night away.
It's my best song yet, and when I reach the chorus, I start to smile.
"Stop that." Father slams his fist on the table.
"Sorry." I duck my head and squeeze my lips shut so no sound can escape.
I have to consciously focus on staying quiet—on not humming the tune still echoing in my head. I just can't help myself when it comes to music,
"Is there dessert?" Father spits droplets of stew across the table. "I want some goddamn dessert."
Even though I've barely had a chance to eat, I jump to my feet. "I got apple pie."
I bought it ready-made this morning so all I have to do now is heat up a slice and add a scoop of ice cream. It's a lot safer than actually baking, especially after last time. I'd had the pie in the oven when I came up with an awesome idea for a song about a Fairy Godmother. I only got distracted for a second and then...
"Stop humming!" Father shouts. "And get me some pie."
"Right away!" I rush to the fridge.
"This is why you're not married," Father grumbles as I take out the bakery box. "No husband would ever put up with you, and I'll drink to that."
My heart sinks, but he's right. What's the point of daydreaming about handsome princes when I can't even get one regular guy? Scratch that, any guy... even some pimply college freshman?
No guy has ever asked me out. I'm too skinny, and my face is plain and covered with freckles—something Father loves to complain about. And I inherited his mousy, brown hair and brown eyes, too.
I could have still gotten a pity date—maybe—if I wasn't the coach's precious daughter. But no guy was ever willing to anger Father just to go out with someone like me.
"You're a screw-up," Father mutters as I set the slice of apple pie in front of him. "An ugly screw-up. Can't do anything right."
His words hurt almost as much as his physical blows, and the excuses just bubble out. "But I finished the laundry, I got groceries, and I made dinner. I'm almost done scrubbing the bathroom floor and—"
"Do you ever shut up?" Father white-knuckles his spoon.
I gulp and quickly lower my gaze.
"And since when is almost good enough?" he booms, like he does on the field when addressing his team.
"Sorry, Father." My body tenses with fear.
"Sorry?" Father takes a swig of beer and slams the bottle on the table so hard the dishes rattle. "Is that all you have to say for yourself? Sorry?!"
His chair scrapes across the ceramic tiled floor as he gets to his feet. I instinctively back away at the familiar sound. The man may be drunk—and he may no longer look like the quarterback he once was—but he's fast on his feet.
He stumbles forward, swings his arm back, and slaps me across the face. The sharp sound echoes through the small kitchen while pain shoots down my jaw and tiny needles prickle across my skin.
"I'm sorry," I cry, gripping my stinging cheek.
"No, you're not!" Father curls his fingers around my heart-shaped pendant.
"No, please. Father, don't!"
"I wish you were never born," he shouts, yanking hard. The chain snaps. I grab for it, but Father shoves me with enough force to knock me to the floor.
I slam onto the hard ceramic tiles. Father takes a step forward, and I know what comes next. "Please, Father. I promise I won't do it again!"
He stares at me with cruel, glazed eyes. Then he sways a little, and my necklace slips from his fingers. It clatters to the floor, and I feel a sliver of hope.
Then he slams his sneakered foot on top of the priceless heirloom. "Useless!" he shouts. "Just. Like. Your. Mother!" Each word is punctuated with a hard stomp on my onyx pendant.
"No!" I cry.
I know I should stay back and wait for Father's anger to pass. If I do, I'll be safe. But what good is safe when he's destroying the one thing I cherish most?
Mom slipped the pendant into my hand in the hospital, minutes before she died. Nothing else matters. Nothing.
With a pained cry, I lunge forward.
***
A/N: Hope you're enjoying the story so far. I'll update again next Friday!
If you want to read ahead, I'm up to chapter 10 on Patreon (link in bio).