The night was dark again. 

 

It wasn't as cold as it usually was; in fact, it was a warm night for February. A few months ago it was piercing cold in the house, but now you could leave a window open and not chatter your teeth out. At present you had two of them open, the back ones, and with the wind floating through it was a nice feeling. You father had been gone before you had woken, surely trying to hammer out the details of his job. Some jobs he was gone for days, and you were grateful. The house was yours, and you could pretend there wasn't anything wrong. 

 

He had been gone for two days now. You used these as an opportunity to make dinners for yourself and finish up on the books you had borrowed. You had watched the DVDs six times already; it was bringing back memories you didn't know if you wanted. 

 

 

He was holding your cheek.

 

His thin fingers felt strong against your jaw, but it wasn't a strength you were afraid of.  

 

"Did he do this?" he whispered, gently, slowly, rubbing his thumb over the bruised area. You looked down at your hands. They twisted in your lap. Trying not to cry, you sniffled. 

 

"Yah...." Your voice had come out childlike and you inwardly cursed. He was getting so mature, why couldn't you? His thumb stilled and he sighed.

 

"I hate him so much." His voice was deeper now, and you almost soaked in it, trying to hold onto your feelings. 

 

"Sometimes I do too." 

 

He let his hand fall, grabbing your own, "Sometimes? He's evil, he's mean, he doesn't care about you!" He was mad, you knew, but even this didn't scare you. 

 

"He doesn't somewhat, I know, it was like it was with Mumma." You tightened your eyes at the memory of your mumma, a sweet woman. The only barrier.

 

She died a few years back, some said from sadness. You knew she just got sick. Very sick. 

 

Myun had been there for it all, silently offering you his hand to hold, or his shoulder to cry on. The beatings had gotten worse after that, his aggression only on you now. And you had learned to keep quiet. Except to Myun. He had a way of getting you to tell him anything. 

 

"Run away with me."  He said it so suddenly you weren't sure you'd heard him. 

 

"What? We're fourteen. We'll never get anywhere." You shook your head before he stopped you-

 

"Anywhere is better than here, for you." 

 

You nodded, tucking your hair behind your ear. "But we wouldn't get anywhere." 

 

He lowered his head, his long bangs covering his eyes, his fingers tightening around yours. 

 

"And you’re doing really well with your singing..." A smile came through to your face, even through the pain of your makeup covered skin. 

 

His voice was so smooth, so sweet it sent chills down your spine. 

 

"...I know...but I can't see you hurting and do nothing about it." His thumb rubbed across your skin, "I don't like it."

 

The bell interrupted your next words and he slowly eased up, not letting go of your hand. 

 

"Let's go to class." 

 

 

In the end, obviously, you didn't go anywhere with him, and you had regretted it ever since...among the other things you'd done. 

 

You lay down on your bed to stare at the ceiling, twisting the blanket in your hands. It was hard to think about it. You held your forehead, rubbing your eyes with your palms. 

 

Your eyes hurt from the TV, taking advantage of the fact that he wasn't here to watch a little of the news. You wanted to get away from here. After all, you were eighteen and should have been out. 

 

Your father wouldn't let you leave an inch out that door unless it was something for him. He would be gone for a while this time. Switching from casing a joint to drinking himself stupid. 

 

Well, stupider. 

 

Shutting off the TV you started to straighten the house, pushing your hair out of your face. You knew your calm would be ruined soon; he would be home. He always was after three days. He normally just got lucky in stealing from somewhere, but you figured that one day someone would get wise and send you both to jail. 

 

As you closed the last window, you heard the gravel crunching on the road to your house, the blaring of country music flooding the late afternoon. You squeezed your eyes tightly, and lay your head on the paper thin wall. He was here. Soon the stench of spirits would flood the house from your open air.

 

Retreating to your room as the beat up truck rounded the corner, you laid on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. Hoping against hope he'd just pass out on the couch. The car door slammed and you held yourself, hearing the thick soled boots slapping on the ground. The door banging open wildly and the loud belch announcing he was home, and you felt your eyes fill. Why couldn't he have just been run off the road? Why couldn't he have just drunk himself to death? Were you just not wishing hard enough? 

 

You heard your name being called loudly, and you smacked your head against the pillow, wishing you could ignore it.

 

But you knew if you did there would be hell to pay...

 

Your own feet dragged slowly as you crossed your room again, slowly easing open the door to greet your fate.