I sprinted up the wooden stairs, my callused bare feet aching with every pound on the rough surface. I dashed into my room, instantly whipping the creaking door shut behind me. I shoved my bony shoulder against it, leaning in with as much power as I could muster. My parents had long since taken the rusted gold doorknob off, leaving my own minimal strength as the lock. His weight abruptly flew against the door, coming as a surprise since I hadn’t heard any footsteps. Knocked completely off balance, I soared backwards, slamming my skull on the wall. Pain seared through my head and I sensed, even in my hazy state, blood oozing down my neck and being soaked up by the old, worn cotton collar of my shirt.
I hated living in this horrifying constant fear of assault—of death. But what could I do about it? What would I do about it, if even given the chance? Nothing.

Things are the way they in this world for reasons beyond your understanding or comprehension, darling, my father always told me.
His buff, towering figure rose above me, the gloomy shadow blocking my currently obscured view of the room. My eyes filled with an outburst salty tears. It shocked me—I hadn’t cried in a decade.

There’s no room or necessity for crying, darling, my father always told me.
His muscular hand lunged for my throat, pulling my limp body up roughly, slamming me crudely against the wall. My body was yards away from the hopeless security of the floor, my eyes forced to become level with his. The dark glint within his charcoal black eyes held nothing but malicious intentions. I began convulsing involuntarily, my head knocking back and forth against the wall. My body shook violently. Air flowed into my lungs when the initial shock of my seizure loosened for a split second, only to tighten back immediately with even more brute strength than before. He glared menacingly at me, while he expertly slammed his free fist into my stomach until its contents emptied disgustingly. He had just enough common sense to slam my head to the side, one cheek pressed against the cold stone wall, the other being squished by his dirty, callused hand. The vomit sprayed mostly to the side, and not on his precious royal blue and maroon uniform. My head instinctively whipped back around to face him as he took his one hand off my cheek. I wanted to make sure he saw the lights leave my eyes.
His glinting eyes were the only things showing through the tight, black ski mask he wore. It made no sense—it's not as though his identity was any mystery to me. I tried to swallow my fears, struggling halfheartedly against the iron clamp held firm on my neck. Having given up hope hours ago, I only felt like putting on a show for him at this point to make him feel like he was doing his job. I heard a soft click and the cold, metallic barrel of a gun was rested against my temple without a word or minuscule change of emotion.
Don’t get shot, darling, my father always told me.