Scarlett Mila Rodriguez

The house feels like it's shrinking around me the second I step inside. I'm late...only by twenty minutes, but I know that's enough. My heart is pounding as I slip off my shoes, trying to be as quiet as possible, praying no one is waiting for me.

But I already know he is.

The living room lights are still on, and there's a faint sound of the TV playing in the background. My father is sitting on the couch, one hand resting on his knee, the other loosely holding a glass of whiskey.
His dark eyes are already locked on me before I even get a chance to make an excuse.

"You're late."

The words are calm, but it's the kind of calm that makes my skin crawl. I don't say anything at first. Maybe if I don't move, he won't do anything. Maybe.

"I asked you a question Scarlett." He says his voice sharper now.

"I...I lost track of time." I managed, my voice tight. "I'm sorry." I add.
I fucking hate him. I hate apologizing to him even more, because he's never right.

He stands up calmly then in just a second he throws his glass at me. I move to the side, quickly, to not get hit by it. The glass shatters on the floor.
My heart races, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"Do you think I care about your apologies?" He says now standing in front of me. His hand moves before I even realize it, grabbing me roughly by the arm. His grip is tight...too tight. His fingers digging painfully into my skin.

"You think you can come and go as you please? After everything I've done for you?" His voice rises, his grip tightening with each word.
"I've given you everything, and this is how you repay me? By running around with those idiots instead of respecting the rules of this house?" He says.

"I'm sorry." I say again, wincing as the pain in my arm worsens. His nails biting into my skin.

"Sorry is not good enough!" He yells. For a second I brace myself for the blow I know is coming. Until a voice breaks through.

"Dad! Stop!" Judie yells from the stairs. Her face is pale but determined. Her eyes are locked on dad, but there's a fire in them, the kind I've only seen when she's standing up for me.

"Leave her alone." She says stepping forward, her shoulders squared like she's ready to fight him if she has to.

"She's a few minutes late, that's all. This doesn't have to go any further." She says.

Dad's grip loosens slightly, his eyes going from me to Judie. For a moment, I think he might actually let go, that maybe he'll back off. But then his jaw tightens, and he lets out a low, dangerous chuckle.

"You think you can tell me how to run my house?" he growls, but there's something different in his voice now, a hesitation, like Judie's presence is enough to keep him from going any further. Maybe it's because he likes Judie more than me, or because Judie is married to a stronger man than my father.

"Hurting her won't change anything. It never has." She says. There's a long, awful silence. Dad stares at her for a moment longer, then finally lets go of my arm. Shoving me back a step as if I'm something disgusting he's tired of holding.
My skin throbs from where his fingers were, the bruises already forming beneath the surface.

"Get out of my sight, before I change my mind." He spits turning away from us.

I don't need to be told twice. I bolt upstairs, my heart still pounding, my arm aching with every step.
When we reach our room, Judie shuts the door behind us, her expression softening as she looks at me.

"Are you okay?" she asks quietly, her voice careful, but I can hear the worry underneath.

I nod, but it's a lie. I'm not okay. Not even close.

Judie reaches out and touches my arm gently, her fingertips brushing over the tender skin. "Let me get some ice."

"I'm fine." I say, but my voice is shaky, and I hate how small it sounds. I hate that I needed her to step in, that I couldn't stand up for myself.

"You're not," Judie says softly, her eyes full of sympathy. "But you will be."

I bite my lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. I won't cry. Not now.

"Thank you." I whisper instead, my voice barely above a whisper.

Judie pulls me into a gentle hug, and for a moment, I let myself relax against her, letting her warmth and strength wash over me.

"We'll get through this," she murmurs, her voice steady. "We always do."

But as I stand there, bruised and shaken, I wonder how many more times we'll have to get through it before it finally breaks us.

I'm broken, and he's the reason for it. He's responsible for every scar on my body.
My fucking dad is a monster and I can't do anything about it. I've never killed anyone and I won't do it. I can't be like him. I'm better.

I will be better.

I'm fine.

I keep telling myself, when I'm really not...