In the deep of night, memories blurred with sleep, creating a dream-like reality as though it were all happening anew. Once again, I was in that bare, white room where the only decorations were a meager cot and stains of my own blood adorning the walls and floor. Crouching in one sterile corner, my eyes never wavered from the door which he would enter from. The minutes seeped into hours as my apprehension grew, knowing the later it got, the sooner he would arrive. My muscles had long ceased their protests, already bitingly numb. Nevertheless, I dared not stir, feeling as though if I stayed completely still, it might prevent his appearance. The slow, deliberate footfalls descending the stairs made me start in surprise, casting a futile look around the room, as though I could wish an escape to appear. Briefly I entertained the notion of hiding beneath the scant cot, but quickly dismissed that notion. If anything, the beatings would be worse as soon as I were found. Now the
footsteps were in front of the door. A whimper escaped my throat, raw from hours of screaming in pain and misery. The deadbolts slid out of place with a sound resonating impending doom. My father had arrived.