Smack.

Crash.

Bang.

Even as I hold my hands to my ears, the sound still filters through the silver of spaces between my fingers and hits me. I was crouched by the side of my bed, shaking from sheer fear but somehow, I couldn’t find any more tears left to cry. I had wasted it over years of hearing the same symphony, again and again.

It was always the same. That monster would stumble home, his scent of vodka entering the room before he did, and immediately begin demanding for money. I ing lost today, he’d shout, did you hear me? But tomorrow’s a new day and I’ll get it all back. tons back. Just watch me. All I need is more money. My mother was fragile, weakly reminding him that we need that money for the rent, honey. We haven’t paid in months and if you take it away again, we’ll be evicted and starved to death.

Smack.

That’s the part when he swings the back of his hand, sending my mother to the floor in a heap of ragged breaths and all too familiar red marks. I said to give me money, not to ing talk back, you little . She’d pick herself up, supporting herself on her elbows as she holds on to the forming bruise on her cheek. But she’s weak, skin and bones because she’s been keeping her share of dinner for me for weeks, and falls to his feet. My mother begs, but it’s futile and it only sends him further into his blind rage.

Crash.

That’s the part where he takes the nth vase from the table and hurls it towards the ground near her, where it crumbles into a million and one too many shards. Some of it flies and lodges itself in my mother’s feet, but she shields her face quickly like a routine so that she doesn’t get too much blood on the floor. He stumbles back, but not before giving her body a final kick.

Bang.

And it ends with that lowly, unworthy father of mine grabbing her bag anyways, pocketing whatever wages she had collected for the day, before trudging through the door and swinging it closed harshly behind him.

I make sure to count to ten slowly, as I always do, before leaving the room and running to my mother’s side. I drop to my knees, and I ignore the sharp pain that blooms in my skin as I wipe away her tears with the pads of my fingers. I’m sorry, she’d whisper, my hair as I pick out the shards of glass from her feet. I keep silent until I finish, and I stay silent as I slip through the doors, knowing that she would tuck herself in and lull herself to sleep.

The swings about three blocks away are my only place of comfort. I only visit it at dusk, when night falls and the moon takes its place in the sky. Maybe it was the seven year old in me that longed for the easy path of the swing, back and forth, with the wind caressing my skin and bringing me higher off the ground; something that the fourteen year old me needed so badly. Freedom.

I sit myself down on the seat, my hands naturally moving to clutch onto the chains tightly and then I’m swinging my feet forward and backward. I build up a momentum after a while, and suddenly I’m so high up in the air I wonder if I just jump, would I break my break my arm first or snap my neck.

“Girls shouldn’t be out this late, y’know.”

I hear a voice behind me, and I turn my head around to catch a glimpse of a boy who looked no older than I was. I force my feet into the dirt, and the swing slows down until I am completely still, watching warily as the boy approaches me. He has messy black hair that looked soft, and his clothes are stark contrast from the ones I donned. While I had a dirt smudged white shirt tucked into jeans that are torn in too many places, he wore a clean maroon hoodie and intentionally ripped jean