The coarse screams echoed through the empty house, startling the very inner-core of her soul.

They were at it again.

Shouts and curses passed through the forlorn walls of the antique house, their words travelling through the hollow wood and into her ears.

She wanted them to stop.

Her mother’s shrill voice cut across the air, piercing her ears with words that she should not ever have heard, whilst her father’s booming one sent shivers of fear down her spine.

She was afraid.

There were crashes of breaking glass and great bangs of furniture being overturned. Even though she could not see them, the scene was so well rehearsed that it played clearly in her head. Word for word, she mouthed them out, as she covered her ears. It was the same routine, the same fights, the same reasons, the same hatred and to her, the same fear.

Almost right on time, there was a slam of the front door, and the house went eerily still. The silence was deafening.

The girl strained her ears, trying to listen pass the deceiving silence and to see who was left in the house, because if it were her father, then it was safe. But if it were her mother, then she would rather go through hell and back 10 times before facing her again.

She sat there, huddled in her little corner for what felt like hours, every fibre of her being cried out in pain for being so still for so long. But she couldn’t move, she was frozen with anticipation while she prayed with whatever she had that it was her mother that left the house. As long as it was her mother, everything would be alright… But she had no such luck.

Footsteps could be heard trudging up the staircase, the ancient steps moaned and groaned under the dead weight. From the sounds of the creaking wood she could tell how much the person walking up had weight, and by god it was definitely not the weight of a man.

The fear slammed through her like a truck, her body trembled with such ferocity that it look like she was having a fit. She bit her lip, hard, to contain the whimpers and cries, for she knew, that even crying would not help her now.

The footsteps stopped right outside her room, and from the slurry voice that called out to her, she knew that this was one of her mother’s worst days, for she surely have drunk a lot more than usual to get to that state. The girl drew herself to an even tighter ball and closed her eyes. Giving herself false hope that maybe she could just disappear into the darkness of the corner. But there was nothing she could do, there was no way she could avoid it. It was a routine, it was expected, and it was hell.

Her mother burst through the door, armed with a bottle of wine and every single curse word available on her lips. The girl winced and bit down a whimper as her mother screamed out words that should only be uttered by the devil himself. But still, the worst had yet to come.

Sometimes, when her mother was being kind, she would use only her fists and occasionally her slippers, on her worse days she sometimes would bring out the belt. Today, however, her father must have said something else, something different, because this time, something was terribly wrong.

Her eyes, she could see it in her eyes. Beyond the pitch-black pit of fiery torment, there was something different. A different spark, and this spark ignited an even deeper fear within her.

Her gaze travelled to wine bottle that her mother had gripped tightly within her hand. Her eyes widened as she let out a gasp.

The wine bottle, it was broken.

She knew, she understood what this meant. Already, before her mother could lay a hand on her, she started sobbing uncontrollably, there was no escape and she could not run away.

Her mother was furious, cussing and cursing. She hated being ignored and she hated the sounds of crying even more. She screamed at her daughter to keep quiet and to listen but she just cried even harder. And so she did it.

She brought the bottle down, again and again and again, till her arms were tired and were straining to even hold the bottle up. She tossed it to the side of the room, still swearing, she stumbled out of the door, leaving the broken and battered body on the floor.

Pain oozed out of every pore and she was choking in her own pool of blood. The colour of red covered nearly all of the four walls of her room, she could not tell whether it was her blood or the wine. Every breathe she took felt like she was breathing in broken glass. Slowly, the welcoming darkness took over her and her world turned black.

When she regained consciousness she couldn’t move. Every sliver of her screamed in protest as she tried to, she then managed to slowly open her eyes.

It took her a few seconds to realise where she was. She was lying on her bed with white bandages covering nearly her entire body, places that had not needed to be covered showed her black and blue skin. She looked around and saw that the four walls the previously had been covered in red had been scrubbed clean and even the floor had no evidence of the beatings she took only a while ago. However, the stench of the bleach could not cover up the metallic bitter smell of the blood. That, her mother had not successfully erased.

She moved her eyes towards her lower body where her mother was on her knees, gently wrapping her leg with the bandage. She tried to say something. She wanted her mother to know that she forgave her and that she did not hate her at all. She wanted to tell her mother that she still loved her and that there was no harm done. But she was too weak to talk, too exhausted, she could not even utter a sound. She fought the oncoming darkness, trying to get the words out, but gradually, she just allowed it to overcome her.

Floating between the land of the living and the dead, she knew she could not blame her mother for the things that had been done. It was her own fault after all, her fault for being born. For years and years and years her parents had been screaming at her, shouting at her, beating her, always, always blaming her for the troubles they had. She was the reason for their misery, so she allowed them to do as they saw fit. She was after all, the guilty one. So incompetent she was not worth mentioning, not worth calling, not worth life.

Thus to them, she was just an ‘It’.