"Chara?" I lift my head.
"Yeah?" I ask, my eyes barely open, words slurring out of tiredness. The voice sighs deeply.
"Try to eat something."
"I am trying, dad," I say, quivering slightly as I reach for my spoon, staring despondently into a small china bowl filled with a smooth vegetable soup, "I'm tired, please just give me a moment-,"
"Well," he cuts me off, "I don't slave away clothing and feeding you for you to be too tired to eat the food I put in front of you, now come on and eat." My throat convulses as it throws another helping of soup down my gullet.
"The soup is good, Dad." I say, trying to stay awake, salvaging what little is left of the exchange.
"Then eat it, girl." My fingers tighten around the spoon, the skin on my fingers whitening, my knuckles growing against the skin as if to pierce it. I hold for a few seconds. Close my eyes. And release. I take another spoonful.
"So…," I ask, drumming the table with the fingers of my free hand, "Is work coming along okay?"
Don't try to change the subject, Chara." He snaps almost before I finish.
"I'm sorry-,"
"Don't be sorry." He snaps again. I choose to ignore him, thinking whatever I say won't turn out well. I turn to my soup and swallow another mouthful, ignoring how it scalds my throat.
"I'm going to bed." I say.
"You should." He says, quickly. I get up to leave, taking my bowl to the sink and scraping remnants of diced carrots into the drain. "And actually sleep, this time." I swallow, deeply.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Dad." I say, pressing my nails into my palms, feeling the uppermost bones in my fingers wanting to bend and shatter.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." He says, standing up. Oh God. I start walking for my room, but he takes me by the shoulder. "And you won't, this time, will you?" He says. I shake too much to speak, hoping that if I say nothing he'll let me go. He kneels down and whispers in my ear. "Will you?"
"N-," I stammer, before he takes me by the ear, "N-no," I blurt out, "Please-," a brutal weight slams the back of my head sending me to the floor where I ball up, my hands clutching the back of my head. "Please-," I say, "Please, please, please let me go." I can't hear any movements. I stay deadly still, my lips quaking, struggling to stay as a straight line. The footsteps walk away. I breathe out like wind rushing into a cave before standing up and bolting into my room a few feet away. Slamming the door behind me, I bury myself in the bedclothes, bringing my knees up and burying my eyes in them. I hold them there for as long as I can, clenching my eyes as tightly as I can, before I release. My body stretches out, populating as much of the bed as it can. My breathing goes from rapid and tense, gradually going down, and down, until I breathe calmly again. I sit up, holding my legs close to my chest. I look out of the window to my right, peering through the rain. The golden flowers are still there, glistening in the falling water. The rain is falling gently, almost. The raindrops don't even seem to cause the flowers to recoil or fall downward. They just stand fast, holding themselves high against the blows from above.
I rest my elbows on the windowsill, and rest my head on the backs of my hands, looking around at the other tiny, single-floor houses, made of the same white stone brick that seems almost to be decaying every day. The roads that have more potholes than not, the infrequent, muddy grass. I tear my eyes away from my surroundings and hold them on the flowers. I hold there for what seems like hours, as the flowers hold fast against the rain. Eventually, I lean back, as the sky becomes too dark to make the outside out. I take of my green and yellow striped jumper and my brown trousers, leaving just my undershirt and shorts. I pull the white, stained sheet up and press it to my chest, tightening it over my body ridden in goose bumps, as I curl up, pressing my knees against my forehead. My eyes close. I reach behind me, burying my hand beneath the mattress. I feel the coarse, calico-wrapped handle, before I feel my way upwards, and feel the deadly sharp, steel, blade. Someday, I tell myself.