Slam.

Her heart beats faster,

Cold sweat develops on her back,

the hairs on her neck stand up,

her blood runs cold.

He's home.

Her first instinct is to hide, but it's not like that had worked before.

She has no other options.

Under the table?

In the wardrobe?

Under the bed?

Thump, thump, thump...

He's coming.

She crawls under the bed, in the furthest corner, hands hugging her knees tightly.

The door creaks open, making her shiver frantically.

Footsteps...

Step.

Step.

Step.

Then pause.

A watery glaze developed in her eyes, then a salty, delicate tear rolled down her pale cheek.

Lips trembling.

Then, as if the dam had broken down, countless tears streamed down her face.

The color had drained from it entirely, now matching the white wall behind her .

His shadow through the covers

His large, strong hand gripped the covers.

Her heart stopped.

He lifted them slowly, silently...slyly.

His head tilted under the gap at an abnormal angle to look at her.

Dead, ice-cold blue eyes staring.

They weren't the captivating, beautiful kind.

Through the crisp, intensity of those pale, circular skies, there was nothing.

Emotionless.

He didn't blink once.

The silence consumed her.

She looked at him like the pray looks at the hunter before he shoots.

Helpless, terrified, hoping and praying for a way out.

"Violet, come out of there...you won't like it if I have to make you."

His gravelly, toneless voice commanded her but she felt numb, as if she had forgotten how to move.

The covers went down.

The familiar unbuckling of the belt.

Her eyes widened, breathing became so frequent that she couldn't think clearly.

She sheltered the top of her head with her hands.

Waiting.

Suddenly, the bed flipped over her, pieces of the already damaged frame landing all over the small room.

Scream.

She tries to run, but she's only a child after all.

No match for a tall, beastly man who had lost one too many poker games for his liking.

The alcohol in his system seemed to enrage him even more, to the point where nothing could stop him.

He stumbled around, swinging the metal end of the leather weapon with great force, once or twice on the child's face.

The rest around her stomach and back, as she rolled over in agony.

Hidden.

She wasn't to blame for his loses, of course.

But the way he saw it, she was just another thing he had to waste money he didn't have on and that was enough of a reason for him.

It ended, finally.

He walked out of the room, turning the light off on his way, shutting the door calmly, as if nothing had happened.

On the floor, wounded, sobbing, bleeding in too many places to keep track of, struggling to catch her breath, was his daughter.

Her bed was broken, lying pathetically at the corner of the room.

She had not strength to move.

So she stayed on the floor, alone.

The chill of the air stung her open wounds, as did the salty tears that hadn't stopped coming for hours.

Sleep would not reach her that night.