Chapter 1

Ethan

I headed downstairs to the kitchen, the stairs creaking quietly under the soles of my Adidas, dressed in torn jeans, an old ripped t-shirt, my usual attire for school. I was welcomed by a couple of new broken tiles on the wall above the sink, matching the dozens of semi-cracked tiles beside the window, a toppled chair, the dining table only a fraction out of place that had a drop or two of blood smeared across the corner and the scent of burnt omelette with a hidden dash of salt and metal. I have lived in this house too long to not be able to identify the metallic stench of blood teasing my senses.
My mother pattered her way into the crippled kitchen through the open living room door. I swung my back pack across the table and seated myself down on the chair that was still upright.
“I’m sorry, Ethan, I’m sorry,” she shook her head, troubled, as with one hand she waved the smoke away from the pan and the other she lifted it and slipped it on the plate lying next to the stove. “I was– well, tidying up, as a mother does,” she said matter-of-factly.
She placed my breakfast below my chin and the burnt smell floated up my nose. I cringed. “It’s all right mum.” Taking the fork and knife that lay cluttered on top of each other in a deformed X shape, I restrained myself from muttering, “But a mother doesn’t tidy up the mess she caused with her husband due to a fight this morning. Normal mothers usually don’t, as far as I’m concerned.”
Poking about at the crispy edges of my omelette, I nibbled my first bite and instantly knew this was going to result in a number of bathroom breaks before second period. Instead, I waited for my mum to leave the room until I shoved it in the bin nearby.
I had heard their argument this morning – it was over dad forgetting to collect something or rather from the shop or laundry.
“It’s not my fault,” he always claims. It’s never your fault, dad, like it’s never my mother’s fault when she misplaces his car keys. Whoever it is that is to be blamed, there will always be a blue or purple shaded area somewhere on their skin.
I got up, not in the least bit bothered to say goodbye to my mother or my father who I am sure is out already, banging illegal women that linger on the streets or swaying upon a stool in some discreet bar where no one could recognise him or find him. The only reason I have the knowledge of this piece of invaluable information was when I was about ten or eleven at the time and I had stalked my dad without him realising. Afraid but determined, he led the way to a door concealed by haunting shadows. He had opened it and before I could imagine what place it was, the strong poisonous smell of beer escaped and I caught a glimpse of dull orange lights and a long, elegant leg wrapped in black tights that looked similar to lattice, leading from a pair of suffocating tight shorts down to a black shoe with a heel sharp enough to carve stone. That night, sitting in the living room, on the warm itchy carpet, shuddering from the icy atmosphere and the memory of a buried hell of sins and poison, my dad unlocked the front door and stepped in.
Surprised to see me, his eyes widened and for several moments he stared - stared as though he'd been caught doing a crime.
"Where's your mother?" He asked cautiously.
I shrugged. Another minute of watching each other, waiting for the other to confess.
"Where did you go?" I blinked up at his uncertain blue eyes - the ones I inherited.
He shut the door, shutting out the serenading crickets and humming night air. Cold silence vacated the space between us.
"I was at work."
"After that."
I waited but his mouth remained frozen. He didn't want to admit the truth nor did he want to lie to me.
"I saw you. I saw you going to that place, near the alley. It was so far away dad, why did you go so far away? Why didn't you come straight home? What-"
"Were you following me?" His eyes no longer were uncertain. They burned like the blue flame. The cold silence melted and dissolved. Raging heat illuminated the atmosphere.
"Yes," I murmured. I didn't move. I didn't want to. I was afraid he could merely kill me if he stared hard enough.
"Why? Did your mother send you?"
"No," I gasped inwardly, "I was worried. I saw you and I wanted to know where you were going."
He strode towards me, fury firing from his ice blue eyes. I trembled. He slapped the back of my head. My neck cracked, bent over the floor. I started to shake. What happened to the colours of the carpet? They were swimming in front of my eyes.
"Don't follow me. You have no right to be in my business. I have work to do, I have to keep you alive. I do keep you alive. That's all that should matter to you, not where I go or what I do. Stay away from me."
I dared not look up until the sound of his deep steady breathing quieted and the sound of his footsteps didn't echo in the claustrophobic room.
I walked out the door now, haunted by the same memory every day for the past six years.
I hated him. I hated him then and there and haven't stopped since. He hurts mother, he hurt me. I hate mother too. I hate them both. He doesn't keep us alive. He lied. He lies. He is murdering us. He is murdering me. My heart beats without reason but for my body to live. Though my body carries on, my soul died sometime that night. Until the day I dreamt again, for the first time in so long. My soul was revived because of an anonymous girl that I dreamt of.

Madison

I can hear him doing it again. He's making her scream and weep and making me cry and my heart peel painfully. I want him to stop. She wants him to stop.
Stop! "God please, do something," I pray. My eyes close and my body stills when it goes quiet next door. "Please."

I must have been seven when I saw a scene between my mother and father that tainted my vision and poisoned my dreams. I had come back from school and scurried up the stairs, beaming about a picture I coloured. I had to show my mum. She would be so proud. Dad would be happy if I was happy.
I learnt that day he cared if I was happy, but not if mum was happy.
Hearing a thump, I stopped in the middle of the stairs. I frowned and tip toed upstairs. What was that?
I continued on to see my parents' bedroom door a little open. I peeked inside. I hoped there wasn't anyone hitting anyone. I swallowed so hard I thought I'd choke.
They were on the bed, naked. Their eyes squeezed shut, my dad was on top of my mum, upright. He was sitting on her stomach. Mum was crying, I thought back then it was because dad was hopping about like a rabbit but a couple of years later I saw the truth. The image was so vivid, the emotions were so tangible. My mum was wailing, "Stop!" Her hands were grasped around the wooden bars at the head of the bed, her knuckles painted a white. "Stop, please! Please!" Every word was broken and as I listened, my heart broke, piece by piece.
Dad was hurting mum. Dads don't hurt mums, dads help mums and smile at them and kiss them when they want to show how much they love them. That's what dad does when I am around.
I raised my hand to push the door open and prevent my dad from hurting my mum anymore until I saw his own hand raise. Within a flash, it whipped across her face and she screamed.
"Shut up, bitch! Don't say anything!" He shouted. His face was redder than the curtains that were closed behind him.
I stepped back. I couldn't move and when they finished, I stayed in my spot. Terrified to breathe, I watched my dad slide of my mum and head for the bathroom. Mum sobbed and her breasts heaved up and down. She looked so pale while I felt my face go pale.
My feet dragged me away from the scene and I sat on my bed, unable to think or move. I could only breathe staggered breaths and allow the images of the incident to repeat themselves in my mind like a scratched disc that forever plays endless verses of songs. I creep mindlessly under my blanket, my uniform crumpling beneath my skin, sweat trickling down my neck, my room stuffy and cramped. I couldn't close my eyes but I eventually fell asleep. I wished I had slept for eternity and more and never woke up. I wished the nightmares wouldn't pester me night after night. When would they leave me alone? When would I dream again?

I turned 16 on the 11th of October. Normal teenagers would feel excited or delighted to be 16 - I am no normal teenager. I knew that 16 was the legal age. Would my dad start abusing me the way he does with mum?
"Happy Birthday!" They said in unison as I stepped into the kitchen to find a decent yellow cheesecake and my parents with smiles curving their lips. For the first time in nine years, my heart warmed at the image. My parents looked normal, I looked normal, even the cake looked normal. I felt normal. I strode towards them and admired the cake. It looked simple but delicious.
"Thank you," I looked up to find my mum's eyes glimmering in accomplishment and happiness, meant for me. I looked to my dad and found a reflection of my mum's emotions in his eyes too. I smiled. I smiled for my dad, for my mum and for me. We sat down and devoured the cake and when we felt bloated and sick, my dad left for half a minute and returned with a delicate thin chain dangling from his fingers. My mum stood and he wrapped his other arm around her. He handed me the necklace and said, "From your mother and me. It's a replica of the ring we got you for your thirteenth. We hope you like it."
"I love it," I whispered. The chain was silver but the shell pendant was white gold, shimmering in the kitchen fluorescent lighting. I put it on and thanked them again. "It's the most wonderful gift." I insisted I washed up and when they finally gave in, I collected the plates and brought them to the sink.
My happiness was short lived because the second I turned on the tap, I could hear my dad's comment in my mum's ear, twisted with a tone too sweet to be innocent, "Time for your gift."
Looking out from the corner of my eye, I saw my mum's smile falter and dad's grin beside her head widen. My heart stopped as my hands continued to scrub away the cake's crumbs.
That night was when I really listened. I would hear them every night, struggling to block out the cries and gasps. The night of my birthday, I listened - I needed to know every detail so I knew for sure what I had been trying so hard to shut out.
Lying in my bed with my fingers clawing at my chipped nails, I took notice of every word, every whimper, every intake of breath and every sigh. My mum's helpless sounds conflicted with my dad's controlling, sick sounds.
I thought I lost everything that night - my mum's power, my dad's affection, my soul. Until I had a dream of a boy. My first dream in years. My first dream of a boy. I had someone to turn to in my slumber now. God finally answered my prayers when I had given up on asking for my dad to stop and began begging to dream once again...