Screams of terror raged downstairs. Muffled, until they crawled to my bedroom. I shut the lights and crawl into bed. Bed time would come early today. It always did. Downstairs a battle of voices thundered and I pulled my blanket closer.

It happened every night. Papa would go out every night and come back home, speech slurred as a piquant smell of alcohol enveloped him. He’d fall on the door when I’d watch TV and mama would tip toe up to me, pat me on my head and usher me upstairs. The pat would be my cue. My cue to run to solitude. My cue to run to safety. After I reached my room, I kneel down by the door, squeezing my eyes, pressing my ear against the door. The arguments would crescendo until all I could hear was muffled clamour. At this point I’d shut the lights and clamber to my bed, pulling my blanket over my head. Then the shouting would dip down drastically. And the next thing I’d hear is the sound of leather against flesh, piercing through the air, but hushed as it reached me. Even though I couldn’t hear it all, the pain was tactile and every time I heard that unmistakeable sound of leather against flesh, I felt the same intensity on my body. Then I’d hear a dark stomping up the stairs, gradually angling towards my mama and papa’s room. I’d hear the door shut and I heard no more. After I pushed my blanket away and I’d crawl to the door in silence and press my ear against the door, I’d hear stifled sobs slicing through my ears. My mothers. Her tears were my cue, that everything had stopped and it was going to be alright. I’d go back to sleep, my blanket over my head.

Today was the same. The arguments shattered the night’s silence. I knew that after mama gave up, I’d be next to feel papa’s wrath. The row continued and I gained reassurance from the same sounds I heard every night as trepidation ripped through me.

I know that every night would be the same. I know that every night would be silence and terror. I know that every night, I’d have to cluck onto my security blanket.