My House of Pain: Blood Versus Beast

What the fuck can I say about my father, Liam?

He was a brilliant technologist—well educated, well spoken, well mannered. The kind of man whose polished shoes clicked against marble floors with purpose. His cologne smelled like cedar and ambition, at least in my fragmented memories.

God damn, that man loved the world in ways most couldn't comprehend. He'd wake me at dawn, his hands gentle but insistent on my shoulder, whispering, "Daylight's burning, kiddo." We'd trek through dewy forests while the rest of the neighborhood slept off their hangovers. The sunlight would filter through pine needles, painting his bearded face with gold as he crouched beside me pointing out mushroom varieties or deer tracks pressed into soft earth. "Everything speaks," he'd say, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, "if you stop long enough to listen."

His fingers would trace the jagged bark of ancient cedars, eyes closed like he was reading braille from the goddamn universe itself. "These trees remember stuff your history books forgot," he'd mutter, pressing my palm against the rough skin of a 200-year-old giant. The sap would stick between my fingers, sweet and sharp in my nostrils, a perfume no department store could bottle.

When civilization's concrete and noise became too fucking much, we'd escape to places where you could hear your own heartbeat echo against mountain walls. He taught me to drink directly from crystal streams so cold they made your teeth scream, water tasting of stone and sky and nothing man-made. "This," he'd say, wiping his dripping beard with the back of a sun-leathered hand, "is the blood of everything that matters."

Nights in the wilderness, he'd point out constellations with delicate fingers, telling stories that connected heaven and earth while our campfire sent sparks spiraling toward those same stars. "We're killing the wild places," he'd whisper, his voice breaking like he was talking about a dying friend. "And when they're gone, some essential part of being human goes with them." I'd watch tears catch in the creases around his eyes, feeling the same ache blooming in my chest—raw and unstoppable as spring meltwater.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"Come here," he'd grunt, hunched over flow diagrams scrawled on graph paper stained with coffee rings and cigarette ash. "You want to understand what's coming? Forget that bullshit they teach you in school."

I'd sit beside him, drowning in the aura of his thoughts becoming reality, watching his eyes narrow with manic focus as he'd sketch logic gates with a stub of pencil, explaining binary arithmetic like he was revealing the secrets of creation itself.

"Most idiots just accept the world as it is," he'd spit, disgust dripping from every syllable as he'd walk me through algorithms scratched onto yellow legal pads, "but we're building the fucking future." And in those moments, surrounded by technical journals and the sacred knowledge of machine language carried in his head, I felt like I was being inducted into a secret society where ones and zeros would soon reshape everything in the daylight world above.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He had this whole damn wall in the spare room, floor to fucking ceiling, crammed with books that seemed to breathe and pulse with alien life. Not just any books—dog-eared copies of Asimov and Heinlein, wedged between technical manuals thick as goddamn cinder blocks. But the crown jewel was that beat-to-hell copy of Barlowe's Guide to Extraterrestrials, its spine cracked and pages wavy from a thousand openings.

Christ, I couldn't keep my grubby little hands off that book. I'd sit there for hours, cross-legged on the cold hardwood, fingers tracing the grotesque beauty of the Ishtarians with their insectoid bodies and glittering compound eyes. The Old Galactics made my skin crawl—those tentacled horrors with intelligence burning behind alien eyes. And the Puppeteers from Niven's Known Space, with their two snake-like heads and three legs... I'd feel my heart hammering against my ribs just imagining them moving.

The pages smelled of dust and time—that sweet, acrid scent that clung to everything in his house. Sometimes I'd find him, reading glasses hanging precariously off the end of his nose, chest rising and falling under whatever cosmic horror he'd been exploring. The room would be thick with the smell of musty paper of a hundred imagined worlds.

He'd taught me that technology wasn't some sterile, cold thing—it was human fucking dreams cast in silicon and wire. And those books, those beautiful, terrible books with their bizarre creatures, were the proof. They were the bridge between what we knew and what we could imagine, and I walked that bridge until my feet bled, going back and forth, again and again, wearing a path in my mind that I follow to this day.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

When I was 11, Zoe sliced him from my life like gangrene from a wound. Clean cut. No anesthetic. Just gone. But the seeds he'd planted—that raw hunger for understanding, that bone-deep respect for both the natural world and the one we were building—they grew like weeds through concrete, unstoppable and wild.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I romanticized him to friends who rolled their eyes. "Your dad's some big shot?" Their disbelief hung in the air like cigarette smoke, acrid and suffocating. How could they believe me when he was nothing but a ghost? A phantom father.

But even then, I loved the idea of him. The shape of him. The silhouette against memory's fading light.

In the hollow spaces where a father should've been, I built a fucking monument. A shrine of pieced stories and half-remembered truths. I'd tell anyone who'd listen about his engineering genius, how his hands could coax life from dead metal, build bridges across impossible spans. The words tasted like copper pennies on my tongue—sharp and metallic—but I swallowed them down anyway.

"He's brilliant," I'd insist, voice tight as a fist. "Working on some classified shit now." The lie burned my throat raw, but the alternative—admitting I hadn't heard his voice in years—would've gutted me where I stood.

At night, I'd sometimes catch my reflection practicing his mannerisms, trying to remember the way his shoulders squared when he was thinking hard. The scent of motor oil and sandalwood that clung to his clothes. The texture of his palm against mine—rough as tree bark, warm as sunlight through leaves. These fragments I polished like precious stones, turning them over and over until they gleamed unnaturally bright.

Then came Zoe's swift retribution. The first time my jaw tensed like his—a genetic echo I couldn't control—her palm cracked against my cheek like lightning striking bone. "Don't you dare," she hissed, eyes wild with a hatred meant for him but landing on me instead. "Don't you fucking dare become him." The sting radiated through my skull, hot tears blurring my vision as I tasted blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth.

Every goddamn trace of him I carried became a target painted on my skin. The stubble that appeared at sixteen—dark and coarse just like his—earned me a beating that left bruises like ink stains beneath my shirt. She'd drag me to the bathroom, razor in hand, scraping my face raw while her fingers dug into my neck. "He doesn't get to come back," she'd spit through clenched teeth. "Not through you. Not in my house."

I learned to flinch at my own reflection, to hate the parts of me that echoed him. But in secret, alone in darkened rooms, I'd trace the shape of my jaw, the slope of my nose—searching for him in the geography of my face. Each feature became a contraband treasure I'd hide from her rage, each similarity a forbidden connection to the man who'd abandoned me but somehow still lived in the marrow of my bones, in the rhythm of my heartbeat, in the blueprint of my existence that no amount of her violence could erase.

Truth is, while I painted him as Atlas holding up worlds, he was just a man who walked away. Left me clutching at shadows.

Zoe's replacement, that miserable bastard Walt, was another goddamn story entirely.

My mother married Walt—my stepfather—a man whose soul had rotted long before I met him. He was a merciless sadistic fuck who drank like it was oxygen and collected pain like trophies.

Walt was a fisherman by hobby, and a hunter too, dragging his bloody trophies home with pride gleaming in his bloodshot eyes. The stench of death followed him—fish guts rotting in buckets by the garage, deer blood crusted under his fingernails for days. I'd hear him in the pre-dawn darkness, boots scraping across the porch, rifle cold and ready. The sound alone made my stomach twist into knots that wouldn't untangle until he was gone.

The drinking though—the drinking was the real horror show. The beer and scotch seemed to replace the blood in his veins, each breath reeking of sour mash and desperation. Every sip dragged him further into a pit that he'd drag us into right alongside him.

Despite his poisoned mind and decaying social skills, the pathetic bastard would sometimes try to connect—awkward pats on the shoulder that felt like being branded, forced conversations about school that made my skin crawl. His attempts at fatherhood were like watching a wolf try to nurture—unnatural, terrifying, and bound to end in blood. His emotional range stretched from explosive rage to cold indifference, with nothing human in between, leaving everyone around him walking on eggshells that sliced our feet to ribbons with every careful step.

Zoe used him like you'd use a hammer—when she didn't want to smash something herself. When her own hands wanted to stay clean of the brutality. But there was nothing clean about any of it—their relationship was a festering wound that wouldn't heal, oozing pain that infected everyone around them.

Belts snapped against my skin like angry vipers. The leather bit deep, leaving welts that rose like mountain ranges across my back, each one a timeline of pain that throbbed with my heartbeat. Wood planks connected with such force I could taste splinters and copper pennies in my mouth. That metallic flavor would linger for days, coating my tongue like a reminder that wouldn't wash away no matter how much water I tried and gulped down.

Walt’s fists—always closed, never open—were meat mallets tenderizing whatever flesh they found. They left constellations of purple-black galaxies blooming beneath my skin, each bruise a dark star born of violence. Whatever he felt comfortable using on me, he used without hesitation or remorse.

Walt never held back. The drink made him nightly violent, unpredictable as a rabid dog. You could chart his descent each evening by the slur in his words and the stumble in his step. The alcohol fumes wafted off him like toxic waste, burning my nostrils when he'd lean in close to whisper threats. His breath was a noxious cloud of whiskey and cigarettes that made my eyes water. Sweat gleamed on his forehead like oil on water, reflecting the dim yellow light of our shitty kitchen as he towered over me.

Zoe and Walt fought like feral cats trapped in a burlap sack. Their screams vibrated through the thin walls until my teeth ached from clenching. Dishes shattered against walls. Furniture crashed to the floor. The soundtrack of their hatred played on repeat, a broken record spinning endlessly through our sleepless nights. My siblings and I would huddle together, backs pressed against the wall, counting seconds between explosions like measuring the distance of an approaching storm.

Often she would redirect his rage toward me and my siblings. The shift was subtle but devastating—a whispered accusation, a pointed finger, a door left deliberately open when we'd been ordered to stay hidden. We were all just fucking pawns in Zoe's sick games—expendable pieces on her chessboard of manipulation. She'd sacrifice any of us without a second thought to save her own skin, throwing us to the wolf she married while she retreated to her throne to watch. And in the morning, she'd act like nothing happened, cooking breakfast with hands that had pointed out targets the night before.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

One night, during a screaming match that made the windows tremble, Walt dragged Zoe into their bedroom. The sound of his boots stomping against the floor sent tremors through the house like a freight train barreling down broken tracks. The walls seemed to inhale and exhale with each thunderous step, dust raining from the ceiling in fine sheets that caught in my eyelashes. In his drunken rage, he began to beat her. The thudding sounds mixed with her screams became a horrific symphony that crawled inside my ears and nested there, a parasite I couldn't extract.

She called out, begging for him to stop, pleading for me to save her. Her voice cracked and thinned like ice breaking over dark water. Each cry sliced through me, sharp as rusted metal, gutting whatever courage I had left after years of their bullshit. The desperation in her voice was so goddamn convincing—raw and primal, like an animal caught in a steel trap gnawing at its own leg.

I screamed for her. I begged him through the door to stop hitting her. My throat burned raw from the effort, as if I'd swallowed shards of glass. My fists pounded against the cheap hollow-core door until my knuckles split, blood smearing the white paint like some macabre artwork. Snot and tears streamed down my face, mingling at my chin in a disgusting cocktail of fear and desperation. My heart jackhammered against my ribs so hard I thought they might crack.

Through the paper-thin walls, I could hear every strike, every grunt, every whimper. The bedsprings creaked and moaned under shifting weight, a sickening metronome keeping time with the violence. The air reeked of sweat and fear and the cheap whiskey Walt had been downing all evening, the stench seeping under the door like toxic gas.

Turns out it was all just another twisted ploy—some overplayed theater to manipulate me into sympathy. Walt wasn't even seriously hitting her. Just another performance in their endless drama. When the door finally swung open, there she stood, tearstained but unbruised, her eyes glittering with that same calculating light I'd come to recognize.

Walt lurched past me with a smirk that made my stomach curdle, reeking of booze and cruel satisfaction. They'd played me like a fucking fiddle, plucking at my heartstrings until they bled, another sick game in their repertoire of psychological warfare. Their laughter followed me down the hallway, sticking to my skin like tar, impossible to wash off no matter how hard I scrubbed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The day Zoe pushed me too damn far is carved into my memory like a scar. Summer heat pressed against my skin, air thick enough to chew as sweat trickled down my spine. She'd cornered me in the kitchen, her shadow stretching across the linoleum like an oil spill.

"You hear me talking to you?" Her voice scraped like rusty nails across my eardrums. "I need that shit done now."

My jaw clenched till my teeth ached. Those familiar words—her needs, her demands, her fucking kingdom where I was nothing but a servant. But something different stirred in my chest now, a heat that wasn't fear.

"Do it yourself, bitch." I growled, the words ripping from somewhere primal inside me, dark and jagged like broken glass in my throat.

Her eyes widened—just for a heartbeat—before narrowing to slits. She wasn't used to resistance. Not from me. Her hand shot out, fingers digging into my arm with bruising force, each fingertip a point of white-hot pain against my skin.

"What did you just say to me?" Her breath hit my face, smelling of cinnamon gum and spite, hot and damp against my cheek.

Then came the slap—a crack of thunder against my face. My head snapped sideways, the world blurring into smears of color. The sting bloomed across my cheek like wildfire, blood rushing to the surface. I tasted copper where my teeth had cut into the inside of my mouth, the metallic tang mixing with the remnants of my morning coffee.

My ear rang with a high-pitched whine, and for a second, the room swayed. My face throbbed with each heartbeat, a pulsing reminder of her rage. But something else pulsed too—something new and electric in my veins.

"I said no." The word tasted like victory on my tongue, sharp and sweet. I straightened my spine, feeling vertebrae stack like armor. I didn't care about the pain anymore—it was just proof I was finally standing my ground. My cheek burned, but my resolve burned hotter.

She stepped back, her perfume suddenly suffocating in the narrow space between us. I could see the tremor in her hand, the one she'd used to strike me. For the first time, I recognized fear behind her anger, and goddamn if that didn't feel better than any painkiller. For a moment, the kitchen filled with nothing but our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Then Zoe's face twisted, ugly with rage and something else—something that looked a hell of a lot like fear.

She'd seen it in my eyes. The power. The resistance. My rebellion.

I turned my back on her—something I'd never dared before—and stormed out of that kitchen like a thundercloud. Each footstep hammered the floor, vibrations shooting up my legs. Behind me, Zoe's voice rose into a shriek, words I didn't bother to decode anymore. They couldn't touch me. Not today.

I reached my bedroom and slammed the door so hard the walls shuddered, dust dancing in the air. The bang echoed through the house like a gunshot, a declaration of war. My heart pounded against my ribs, a wild animal trying to break free. I pressed my back against the door, feeling the wood grain dig into my shoulder blades, and slid down until my ass hit the floor.

"Fuck," I whispered, the word half-laugh, half-sob. My hands trembled, but not from fear—from power. From finally standing my ground in this battlefield we called home.

You did it. You actually did it. Wendy's voice bloomed inside my head, warm and proud, filling the hollow spaces between my ribs.

I closed my eyes, and there she was—not a reflection, but a presence. The me that lived beneath my skin. Her edges were softer than mine, her smile gentler, but there was steel in her spine I'd always envied.

"She'll make me pay for it," I muttered, picking at a hangnail until it bled, the sharp pain anchoring me to reality. "You know she will."

Maybe. Probably. Wendy's presence shifted, like sunlight moving through water. But you've already paid so goddamn much, haven't you? Every time you swallowed your voice. Every time you bent your back to her will.

The truth of it burned in my throat. Years of yes-ma'am and sorry-ma'am and I'll-do-better-ma'am. Years of making myself small enough to fit in the box Zoe had built for me.

You should let me out, Wendy whispered, her voice like velvet against my raw nerves. Let me help you face her. Let me show you how strong you really are.

"It felt..." I struggled to find the words, my tongue thick and clumsy. "It felt like being alive. Really fucking alive for the first time."

Wendy's laugh tickled the inside of my skull, light as butterfly wings. That's because it was. That's what freedom tastes like. And there could be so much more of it if you'd just let me out—let me breathe through your lungs, see through your eyes.

I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Outside my door, the house had gone quiet—the dangerous kind of quiet that comes before storms.

"I'm scared," I admitted, the words barely a whisper. Not of Zoe's anger—I'd weathered that storm a thousand times. I was scared of this new feeling, this power humming in my veins like electricity. Scared of who I might become if I let it flow unchecked.

I know. Wendy's presence wrapped around me like a blanket, her voice carrying a tenderness no one else had ever shown me. But scared isn't the same as weak. And you're not alone in this—we're in this body together, remember? Let me help you carry this weight.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until colors exploded behind my eyelids. "Why are you always stronger?"

I'm not, she said, and I could feel her sadness. I just don't have anything to lose. You're the one who has to walk through the world wearing a skin that doesn't fit. You're the one who has to face Zoe's bullshit day after day.

My throat tightened. Wendy understood me in ways no one else could—the constant ache of being seen as something I wasn't, the exhaustion of playing a role I never auditioned for. Because Wendy was the real me.

The air in my lungs felt too heavy, too hot. We both knew it was impossible—Wendy lived in the shadow-spaces, in the moments between heartbeats. She was my truth, but a truth I couldn’t accept.

Always, Wendy promised. I'm always here. Even when you can't hear me, I'm fighting beside you. Just remember—I'm getting stronger too. One day, if you let me, I could be more than just a voice.

Outside, footsteps creaked on the stairs—Zoe, coming to continue the battle. But for once, I didn't feel the familiar cold dread in my gut. Instead, I rose to my feet, steady and strong.

Whatever came next, I wasn't facing it alone.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

She sent Walt to my room like you'd send a missile to an enemy camp. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, each one a countdown to detonation. The floorboards groaned under his weight like they were trying to warn me.

Be careful, Wendy cautioned. He's drunk and dangerous. Remember what happened last time?

Walt confronted me, his alcohol-soaked breath hitting my face like a humid slap. The stench of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes made my eyes water, my stomach churn with revulsion. His pupils were pinpricks in bloodshot eyes, his face a twisted mask of rage.

"You don't talk to your mother that way," he slurred, swaying slightly in the doorway. A vein pulsed in his forehead like a worm trying to escape.

“Go fuck yourself.” The words tasted like freedom and stupidity mixed together, sweet and bitter simultaneously on my tongue. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

Oh shit, Wendy breathed inside me. You've done it now.

"I'll fuck you right here," he growled, clocking me in the left jaw with a blow that made stars explode behind my eyes. Pain radiated through my skull like lightning, white-hot and blinding. My ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else for a second.

I decided that was it—that was the goddamn line. I tackled him in the midsection, feeling ribs bend under my shoulder. We crashed to the floor with a thud that shook the house, knocking over a lamp. Glass shattered, raining tiny daggers across the tile. I came down on his face with a hard left, sitting on top of him. My knuckles split against his cheekbone with a sickening crunch, warm blood slicking my fingers. The impact sent shockwaves up my arm, but the pain felt good—righteous.

Don't stop now, Wendy urged, her voice trembling with excitement and fear. He deserves every bit of this. Make him bleed. Make him hurt. Give into your rage.

He bucked me off like a rodeo bull, throwing me against the wall so hard the drywall cracked. Before I could recover, he was on me, giving me another hard left that made my teeth rattle in their sockets. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, warm and coppery. A tooth wiggled, and I probed it with my tongue, feeling it shift in the gum.

We traded blows, staggering and grunting like wounded animals, pushing our fight back into the mud room of the house. His fist caught my ribs, stealing my breath in a whoosh that left me gasping. I countered with an uppercut that snapped his head back, spraying sweat and spittle in an arc through the air. By then, my muscles screamed for oxygen, lungs burning like I'd swallowed fire, arms heavy as concrete. My vision tunneled, black edges creeping in.

Then came the sound—that sick, wet crack that you feel more than hear. His next shot caught me square in the ribs, and something fucking gave. The pain was immediate and electric, like someone had jammed a cattle prod between my bones. I felt that rib splinter, each jagged edge grinding against raw nerve endings with every desperate breath. The taste of copper flooded my mouth as I bit my tongue, trying not to scream. My whole left side was on fire, useless, each shallow breath like swallowing broken glass.

I stumbled backward, one hand clutching my side, fingers pressing into skin that was already swelling, already turning the color of bruised fruit. The bastard grinned through bloodied teeth, knowing he'd done damage. That's when blind rage took over—that primal, stupid courage that comes when you've got nothing left to lose.

I lunged forward, head down like a battering ram, catching him flush in the chest. The impact slammed us both against the wall, rattling the cheap picture frames, sending one crashing to the floor. In the chaos, his forehead smashed into my face. There was no subtlety to it—just the dull, crushing force of bone meeting bone. My nose gave way with a wet crunch that echoed through my skull, a sound so visceral I nearly puked.

Hot blood cascaded down my throat, thick and metallic, choking me with each ragged inhale. My sinuses filled immediately, like drowning from the inside out. The pain bloomed white-hot behind my eyes, shooting stars and lightning across my vision. Snot and blood and tears mixed together, streaming down my chin, spattering the dirty linoleum floor with dark red droplets that looked black in the dim light.

I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva at his feet, each breath whistling through the new, crooked channel where my nose used to be straight. The world tilted and swayed, the room spinning like I was drunk off my ass. But I stayed standing. Barely. My hands shook violently, adrenaline and pain fighting for control of my nervous system.

"That all you got, coward?" I wheezed, the words bubbling through blood and spit, even as my vision blurred and my knees threatened to buckle.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Don't you dare quit, Wendy hissed. If you go down now, he'll kill you. We'll die here on this filthy floor.

He grabbed a garbage can full of rotten food—the stench alone nearly made me gag—and dumped it over my head. The weight of it knocked me to my knees. Putrid slime cascaded down my face, into my eyes, burning them like acid. Then he kicked the can, the metal rim splitting my lip with a burst of fresh pain. I felt the skin tear, a flap hanging loose and throbbing.

The rotten slop slid down my face. Putrid tomatoes. Moldy bread. Coffee grounds. The stench invaded my nostrils like an army. It got in my mouth, triggering a violent heave that brought up everything in my stomach. I vomited all over myself, adding to the disgusting cocktail already covering me. The acid burn of bile mixed with the rot, creating a new level of foulness.

Get up, get up, Wendy pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation. Don't let him see you broken. Don't let him win.

But my body betrayed me. My legs wouldn't respond, turned to useless rubber beneath me. Blood dripped from my mouth , mixing with the filth on the floor in swirling patterns, hypnotic in their ugliness. I could feel my left eye swelling shut already, a throbbing mass of pain that pulsed with every heartbeat.

Walt locked me in the room, his voice booming through the door: "Stay there with the garbage where you belong, you worthless piece of shit!" The lock clicked with finality, sealing me in with the stench and my own shame.

In the silence that followed, only Wendy remained. Next time, she promised, her voice softer now, soothing. Next time we'll be ready. Next time we'll win. But for now, just breathe. Just survive.

I stayed there in my own filth for hours. The vomit dried and crusted on my skin and clothes like some unholy second skin, hardening into a rancid armor. The stench crawled up my nostrils and made a fucking home there - acid and bile and whatever the hell I'd eaten last, all fermented together in a nauseating cocktail.

Time stretched like taffy pulled too thin, threatening to snap with each passing minute. My legs cramped from sitting in the same goddamn position, pins and needles stabbing through muscle until the pain became white noise. The darkness pressed against my eyeballs until I couldn't tell if they were open or closed anymore.

I stayed until Zoe finally unlocked the door, the metal scraping against metal like nails on my soul. Her face was perfectly composed - a mask of false concern so practiced it could win her an Oscar. Her lips curved into what might pass for sympathy if you didn't know better, if you hadn't seen this performance a hundred times before.

"Have you learned your lesson?" Her voice dripped with a sweetness that made my teeth ache, sugar-coating the poison she'd been feeding me for years.

I said yes because what else could I say? My pride had drowned in puke hours ago, swirling down an imaginary drain along with whatever scraps of dignity I'd been clutching. The word tasted like surrender on my tongue, bitter and familiar.

She let me out to clean up in my rustic bathroom. The bathroom light scorched my eyes after the darkness, revealing a stranger in the mirror - hollow-eyed. The dried sick had practically bonded with my skin, a topographical map of my humiliation. Scrubbing it off felt like peeling away layers of myself, the hot water turning my skin angry red while I scoured until I bled, wanting to wash away more than just the physical evidence.

That night, when the house finally fell silent except for the creaking of old pipes and settling wood, Wendy came to me. Not physically – she never could – but in that space between waking and sleeping, where truth sometimes slips through the cracks.

You know this is fucked up beyond words, right? Her voice was always stronger than mine, clearer somehow.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I whispered into the darkness, tasting salt from tears I didn't remember shedding. "Where would I even go?"

Wendy leaned forward, her eyes fierce with a protective rage I never allowed myself to feel. Anywhere but this goddamn hellhole. You think the world outside is scarier than what happens in here?" She gestured around the room, at the walls that had witnessed years of this twisted power play. At least out there, you might get the chance to be me. To be us. To be whole.

I rolled onto my side, wincing as my raw skin touched the sheets. "That's easy for you to say. You only exist in here." I tapped my temple, feeling the familiar sting of shame. "Out there, I'd just be... whatever the fuck I am now. Broken. Unfinished."

Bullshit. Wendy's voice cut through my self-pity like a razor. I exist because I'm real. I'm who you're supposed to be. Every time that bitch locks you away, every time she makes you feel like garbage, she's locking both of us up. And I'm fucking tired of it.

Morning always stole Wendy away, dissolving her into the harsh reality of daylight. But her words remained, buried like shrapnel beneath my skin, working their way deeper with every passing day. The cage might've been built of monsters and memories instead of metal, but for the first time, I could see the hinges starting to rust.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

But I was still in pain. A lot of it…