I was crouched on the ground, too terrified to make a sound as my tears flowed. Dad was holding his belt in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. “You’re useless!” He screamed at me, slashing at me with the buckle end of the belt. He had just got home from the bar, as he did each night after drowning himself in sorrow. I had been cleaning the house when he returned, and I was still in my school blouse and skirt. I regretted not changing when I had the chance. My arms bled as I tried to protect myself. I couldn’t help but wonder where my brother could be. He was usually home before Dad returned. I then scolded myself for wishing he was with me. Better me than him, I repeatedly assured myself.

It hadn’t always been like this for my family. It used to be three people; just Dad, Mum, and my brother Myungsoo. Then Mum got pregnant with me. My brother would tell me stories of how happy our parents were and how they couldn’t wait to see me. He never forgot to mention how he couldn’t wait to see his baby sister. He also told me about the day when Mum had to be sent to the hospital – my birthday. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, but one thing made it a terrible night for my family.

My mother died giving birth to me.

My brother was always sensitive on the topic, and he made sure that I always knew that it wasn’t my fault. Dad, on the other hand, hated me for it. In his eyes, I was a curse to the family. For a year my brother managed to get someone to take care of me day and night; I suppose he lied to that person and said that Dad was too busy with work to raise a newborn child. After that one year, my brother took me home. By then, Dad had been driven insane by Mum’s death and often went to the bar until very late. He’d come stumbling into the house at 2 or 3 in the morning, drunk and completely wasted. He’d make a lot of noise too, waking my brother and I up, but my brother would take care of him and tell me to go back to sleep. My brother was only five.

We used to be okay with this habit of his; we could understand him and we tried to be there for him. However, as the years passed, my father still hated me with all his heart. And due to his drinking problems, he didn’t work as well during the day, causing his pay to be deducted over and over. But he found a new job which ended earlier, and the pay was good.

Soon our lives got stuck in the same routine, day after day, even on weekends. Dad ends work in the afternoon, drinks all the alcohol he can until about 8, then he fumbles his way home, completely drunk. We’d be at home, hiding; usually I’d be clinging on to my brother in his room. When he comes home, he suddenly remembers that he has a son, and peeks into my brother’s room to check on him. Then he sees me, enters a fit of rage and starts lashing out at me. When we were still in elementary school, my brother would carry me and run out, locking me safely in my room before confronting Dad. From under my bed I could hear whimpers of pain coming from my brother on the other side of the door, and yells from Dad asking where I, the “devil child”, was, as he beat him up to make him tell the truth. But my brother never told him a word.

As we grew older, Dad’s performance at work got worse, and his boss got unhappy with him. My brother, already in high school, would tell me to lock myself in my room by 6, and if we were lucky, Dad would forget about me and go to sleep once he got home. I lived in fear every night as I did my homework, always ready to dive under the bed should my father start trying to bang my door down.

Tonight was the worst case scenario. I was cleaning the house, which was in a mess after my brother fought with Dad last night. I had lost track of time; I was so focused on cleaning up the broken bottles and empty beer cans on the floor that I didn’t notice when my dad came home. Usually my brother would have been home by then, but he was late. Dad was in an especially terrible mood. Once he entered, he rushed at me, yelling. He kicked me, hit me, and kicked me some more; all the time telling me how useless I was and how I should never have been born. About an hour later, my brother got home and he immediately kicked Dad to the ground. Picking me up like he used to when we were children, he carried me into my room and locked me inside. That night the cries from my brother were the loudest I had ever heard in the fifteen years I have lived on this earth.

After everything had quietened down, I peeked out the door to see Dad passed out on the floor. My brother, bruised and bloody, quietly carried the old man to the master bedroom. I cried when I saw this. So that’s what happened every night, what my brother does to make sure I’m safe in the morning.

I decided that I couldn’t bear to see my brother get hurt any more. He didn’t deserve it. What had he done? It was all my fault. Dad only beat him up because he wanted to kill me. I packed my bag with stuff I’d need for the next few days, and tiptoed into my brother’s room. He was sleeping soundly, and I calmed down as I listened to his gentle breathing. His bruises were terrible, and his bed had blood stains from the past ten years.

“Oppa… I’m so sorry…” I whispered to the sleeping figure, tears forming in my eyes as I his soft black hair with my finger. Outside in the living room, the clock struck midnight. If I didn’t leave then, Dad might wake up soon and I wouldn’t be able to escape. With one last longing glance at my brother, I ran out of his room and out of the house. I kept running, and not once did I look back.