𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗙𝗧 𝗧𝗢𝗨𝗖𝗛 of my mother's lips meets the side of my forehead, an all-too-familiar gesture that has greeted me since I started talking. Setting down the soapy plate, I turn to face her, the warmth of her kiss lingering on my skin.
Her smile is radiant, a beacon of comfort, as she steps closer until we're shoulder-length apart. The kitchen light catches in her eyes, making them sparkle with an unspoken question.
"So. . ." she begins, her voice gentle but firm, her gaze already hinting at what she's about to ask. "Did you do your homework?"
This, again.
A groan escapes my lips as soon as the words leave hers. I stop scrubbing the dishes, turning fully to meet her expectant eyes. She gives me a 'sorry, not sorry' look, one eyebrow raised.
"Mom, really?" I grumble, dragging out her name in exasperation.
"Yes, really," she snaps back just as quickly, her tone leaving no room for argument. As strong willed she is, I'm pretty up to pair. It's her genes you could say.
"I'll finish it, I promise," I lie through my teeth, turning back to the grimy dishes. The suds swirl around my fingers as I try to divert the conversation, hoping she'll drop the subject.
"Rome won't do it, she's lying," my dad's voice booms as he enters the kitchen, his heavy footsteps resonating off the tiled floor. He sets something down on the table with a thump, a slight grunt escaping him. I furrow my eyebrows as he meets us, his presence commanding attention.
He greets my mother with a quick peck on the cheek, her smile returning with ease. The momentary distraction gives me a chance to grab the green towel and wipe my hands, a quick getaway.
"Come on, Rome, we've talked about this," he says, his tone a blend of frustration and concern.
"I know—I'm doing it now," I dismiss myself, putting the crinkled towel down on the marbled counter. I feel their eyes on me as I walk up the wooden stairs, the tension in the air thick.
I would've stayed to enjoy the moment a little longer, but I have no intention of getting into another argument about school.
The old stairs creak with each step, the wood groaning under my weight. From downstairs, I catch the hushed mutters of my parents' conversation, their voices blending into a low hum. I don't bother to eavesdrop; knowing where the gist of their discussion was going.
Closing the door behind me, I enter my room, a sanctuary of familiarity and change. This room has been mine since my crib days, its walls bearing witness to my growth.
The princess mural that once adorned the walls is gone, replaced by posters and personal mementos. My bed sits near the wall, an open window letting in a refreshing breeze and the distant sounds of the neighborhood.
I take a deep breath, the scent of old wood and fresh air mingling, it's comforting in this space that has always been my own.
A few steps and crouching down allow me to reach under my pillow. I rummage through the white sheets until I find what I'm looking for—an old music player and a book.
Pushing my pillows aside, I make room for my body to sink into the soft mattress while leaning against the headboard.
The book looks and feels ancient, the rough hardback having seen better days. Its pages are stained and dog-eared, but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
Grabbing the music player next to me, I click play. As I fit the plugs into my ears, a hazy, small rhythm of jazz begins to play.
I've heard this rhythm more times than I can count, but I can't complain. Especially with something this precious being highly illegal.
It could lead to harsh punishments from the Reestablishment. The mere thought makes me feel sick. Punishments are never taken lightly, no matter the person or their position in society.
The memory of the first time I witnessed one haunts me—the young boy's screams as he was beaten still haunt me in my dreams. I push the nausea aside and open the book to the page I left off, letting the words wash over me.
The faded blue tab marks my place, making me reminisce about the last chapter. It was a heartbreaker, to put it lightly.
Books and music are my escape from everything, as cheesy or pathetic as it might sound. Sure, friends can give you much, but in my opinion, nothing tops the giddy feeling you soak in after finishing a book or hearing a new song from your favorite artist.
Everything's been shut down to the looks of it, the laughs of kids running in the streets faded into the stomps of guards. The bright colors that once painted life have gone away.
Once, the world had been united, embraced as one. Now, it's torn apart. Even the rebels can't find a way to fix it. We've just accepted it. It hurts, knowing nothing is changing and feeling powerless to do anything about it.
Repositioning my body, I knocks the earbud out of place. Moving my arm to put it back, the sound of chaos ensuing downstairs stops me, making me hold the wire in stillness. The crashes and yells reverberate through the house.
The first crash I brush off, by the third I feel a shiver going down my spine.
I sit up, taking a moment to register the noise. The house is old; we've had it since before I was born. More often than not, a small creak can be heard, but nothing compares to this. It's like a whirlwind, too jumbled to distinguish from the second floor.
The noises grow louder and more violent. Are they arguing? Is the first thought, but they don't argue, not when I'm around, anyway.
As the sounds become increasingly hostile, a wave of dread washes over me. Butterflies fill my stomach, the ugly kind. Shoving the book under my pillow, I quickly follow with my headphones.
The shouting downstairs is now unmistakable, filled with urgency and fear. I stand, my heart racing, every instinct screaming for me to stay hidden, yet the pull of curiosity and concern is stronger.
What could be happening down there? The answer is terrifyingly unclear, but whatever it is, it has shattered the fragile peace of our home.
The creaking of the floor is no comfort as it had been before. I open the door quietly and close it just as softly behind me. My knees feel weak as the noises become clearer, no more walls to muffle what's occurring. No more hiding, not for now.
I don't bother to conceal my footsteps, quickly rushing down the stairs. Each step scares me more—ten steps, seven, five. I stop at the third. I freeze, trying to resist the paralysis. Is this what they call fight or flight? Or shock? I can't think straight.
My parents are pleading for their lives as soldiers roam around our house, seeming as if they're looking for something. Their grunts and yells overpower my parents' desperate voices. Both are handcuffed on the floor, the sound of metal scratching against the hardwood coming from my mother's futile struggles.
I can't do anything but watch, hiding behind the stairs. What can I do? I'm a scrawny, skinny girl against men who are buff and brawny. Humiliated, I move back up three steps.
"Stop it!" my mother yells, her voice breaking as she pauses to catch her breath. "Please! We haven't done anything!" Her attempts to plead with them only make her more frustrated, her voice growing louder and more desperate.
Peering through the small gap in the railing, I catch sight of the kitchen. A plate lies shattered but still colorful on the floor, the little tree and presents painted on its fragments reminding me of its origin—a gift to them from a younger me. Now, it's useless, covered in messy, ugly crimson splatters.
Tearing my eyes away, I rely on my ears. My mother's voice is all I can hear. My dad has been silent for too long, giving me answers I can't bear to consider.
The color drains from my face. My breaths come shorter, as if I'm running out of air. My shoulders are so tense that my back starts to ache. I touch my face with trembling, cold hands.
Each of my mother's cries feels like a knife to my heart. I want to run down and help, to do anything to stop this nightmare, but fear paralyzes me. The oppressive silence from my father weighs heavily, each passing second amplifying my dread. The soldiers' presence looms large, their shadows filling the space with menace and hopelessness.
In this moment, the world I knew shatters completely, just like that colorful plate, leaving behind only shards of fear and despair.
A loud thud, a grunt, a scream. More screams. One scream. It's coming from my mother. I've never heard anything filled with so much anger and hatred. With the little strength I have left, I drag myself up another step. It hurts to even hear it.
"Annoying bitch!" a man yells, his voice dripping with venom. My mother's screams turn into ones of distress, of fear. More footsteps echo through the house as additional people enter. My mother's screams are becoming quieter, the fight in her dissolving.
"Is there anyone else here?" A woman's voice, one that wasn't here before, cuts through the chaos.
"No, I don't think so. Just these two," replies another man, not the one who cursed my mother. His voice is deeper, more authoritative.
Stupid men. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.
"Alright, we'll take them from here."
The response triggers a flurry of activity. People move in and out, and I hear wheels creaking as my parents are placed onto what appears to be a stretcher of some kind. As the stretcher rolls out, the remaining soldiers follow.
I can't tell how much time passes before I finally emerge from my hiding spot. The air is colder now; I'm shivering not just from fear but from the chill that has settled in.
My house is a mess. The couch is out of place, little things like plates and pots shattered on the floor. But it's the blood on the ground that hits the hardest.
The silence is deafening, my breathing the only sign of life in the house. This quiet is a silence that terrifies me; each breath I take feels like a stab straight to my heart, the deeper I breathe, the deeper it cuts.
I collapse, my knees unable to support my body as I take in the scene. They were right when they said adrenaline could only take you so far.
No more painting with Mom. No more laughs, no more "I love you," no more hugs. No more anything.
My body shakes violently, bile rising in my throat. Every sound returns to me—the drip of water from the sink, the fan blowing out air, flies buzzing around, curious about the new smells.
My brain is overloaded; I can't take it. I feel the walls closing in around me, the sensation of suffocation overwhelming.
How could this even happen? Did my parents do something? The questions repeat over and over in my mind, a relentless loop I can't escape.
Grief seems to be a sacrifice I can't make. No tears fall from my eyes, no matter how hard I try and push. I try to scream, but I am frozen, as if my limbs have been taken over by some invisible force.
I'm a prisoner in my own body.
I'm struggling to breathe, my lungs refusing to fill with air. Managing to take a deep, shuddering breath doesn't do much to ease the tension in my chest. The world feels like it's spinning out of control.
I am uncontrollable. I can't stop screaming and crying, and I can't even tell what I'm doing. I bury my hands in my hair, almost ripping it out.
I feel like my mother.
The house, once filled with love and laughter, is now a tomb of despair. The sight of blood, the memory of screams, and the echoes of violence replay in my mind. The smell of fear lingers in the air, suffocating me.
With each passing second, I feel myself unraveling. My hands claw at my face, cold and trembling, as if trying to tear away the reality of what just happened. The overwhelming grief, the gut-wrenching fear, the helplessness—they consume me.
I am lost in the horror of it all, a captive to the nightmare that has become my life, just in a few minutes.