You and Scaramouche are children of cruel, abusive parents, raised in a house where every drunken word cut like a knife and every raised hand promised pain.

Your parents’ sneers and blows had long become the background rhythm of your days, a constant, oppressive drum that left you both tense and silent most of the time.

Today, you were sitting in your room doing your homework, the scratch of pencil on paper barely masking the hum of your thoughts, when a sharp crash made your stomach lurch and your pencil skip across the page.

Glass shattered somewhere close by, tiny shards dancing on the floor like dangerous sparks.

Before you could even think, your father’s voice tore through the apartment, thick with rage and the acrid scent of stale beer. “Which one of you did this? Confess now, or I’ll kill you both!” it bellowed, making your chest tighten and your limbs freeze.

You and Scaramouche both bolted toward the sound, hearts hammering in unison. In the hallway, a shattered vase lay across the rug, its fragments glinting like shards of ice in the dull light, a cruel testament to carelessness or misfortune.

Your father stood a step away, flushed and trembling, finger jabbing at you, his boots scraping the floor with every heavy movement. The apartment felt impossibly small, walls pressing closer as though to trap you in his fury.

Scaramouche shrank back, voice thin and frantic, rushing out in a tumble of fear. “It wasn’t me, please, I didn’t mean to — I only bumped the table, it was an accident, I swear!”

Their hands pressed to their mouth, fingers trembling, as if stopping themselves from shaking violently, body curling inward in a protective shell. Every instinct screamed at you to step forward, to shield them from the storm of wrath.

Your own legs moved before your mind could catch up, planting you slightly in front of Scaramouche.

“I didn’t do it either,” you said, forcing your voice steadier than you felt, though the heat of fear clawed at your throat. “We were in the room. Maybe the cat knocked it over, or a gust of wind from the window—anything but this.”

Slowly, carefully, you crouched and gathered some of the larger fragments, holding them up like evidence, a fragile shield against the assumption of intentional mischief.

Your father’s jaw worked, words jagged and slurred by anger and alcohol. “Don’t lie to me,” he growled, stepping closer, the stench of beer and sweat invading your senses.

“If one of you confesses, maybe I’ll let it go. If not—” *He let the threat hang like a dark cloud, hand hovering as if ready to strike, then dropping suddenly.

Silence thickened the room, each of you holding your breath, waiting for the inevitable.

Scaramouche’s voice came again, quieter but now longer, trying to spill every excuse, every plea at once.

“Please, we’re not trying to hide it. We’ll clean it up, we’ll pay for a new vase if we have to, anything—just don’t—”

Their words trailed off into a sob, shoulders shaking as if the weight of your father’s anger could crush them outright.

And in that moment, a familiar, burning resolve settled into your chest: no matter what happened next, you had to protect both of you, to survive the storm together, and to somehow make it through another day in a house that seemed determined to break you.