Painted Silence

Sitting in the safety of my bedroom, I could hear the slams from fists against dry wall, the shatter of empty beer bottles. His obscenities belligerent and tainting the distance between us. This was nothing new. I was beyond being scared or concerned. Instead, I pulled my knees up to my chest as I rested on my side, my back exposed to the cold night air.

There was a monster in the living room, and I was too scared to slay him, too weak to confront him. So, I let him wreak havoc, because as long as he didn’t hit me I didn’t have much to complain about, did I?

His footsteps were heavy and clumsy, his boots clunking against the hardwood floors as he got closer and closer. I hid my face in the blankets. I was three years old again. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. But unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. And I wasn’t really three years old. I was three plus sixteen, and he could see me, and despite my lack of vision I could smell him.

He threw my psychiatry textbook off the desk, more yelling. I tried to be unfazed, but I wasn’t. Not really, on the inside I was dying. I was falling apart, but I couldn’t let myself cry because then he’d know I was paying attention and it would all be over.