The fear in her eyes, the tears so clear and bright sitting at the bottom of her eyelids while she held it all back, it was all a plea for some kind of answer while she sat at the dinner table after the brawl of two relatives, and brawls past that would soon unknowingly destroy the people, the strangers now that she once was able to call a family. The house she once looked forward to coming home to was now something worth dreading upon, for every night was the same. The same violence, the same screaming, turmoil, everything a family shouldn't be.
An eleven year old boy drawing pictures of killing, blood spill in a college ruled spiral notebook directed at his father, who recently laid his hand across his face hard enough to leave a red mark, and a fifteen year old girl in her room lying in a bed thats been moved across the room against the farthest wall in attempt to drown out the screaming going on outside her bedroom walls, but they're still existent in her mind if not vocalized. She didn't really have anyone, but she was used to it, she was alone most of her life due to bad socio experiences, but this night seemed to stick out the most, because the one she loved had shared the final words between the two, "see you next time I remember you.". However, there was another thing, another being she loved more than life itself, but that beings own life was being threatened by her own kin, her own flesh and blood.
This was the one night that she didn't feel safe at home, where the abuse was starting up again after years and this time she was there witnessing it all. She didn't know how to react as the strong sense of shock and deja vu struck like a thousand bolts of lightening inside of her. Should she laugh out of the pain and utter confusion she felt that night, or cry? She stood shocked, paralyzed as she didn't know the answer to what she should do. So, as usual, she went to her sanctuary where she'd shut herself off. Until tomorrow.
And thats how it all began. That's how her family was torn apart at what felt like the seams that were holding the line between sane and not, wishing for life and wishing for death. She lives to write the tale today. The tale of dysfunction.