You and your brother, Simon, were born into a home that didn’t feel like one. Your mother acted as if you were invisible, while your father’s rage struck like lightning—sudden, violent, and impossible to predict.

For Simon, at twelve, the bruises and scars were painful reminders, but for you, only seven, the abuse was more than just pain—it was life-threatening. Your appearance permanently ruined by your father pouring boiling water on you for spilling your food.

Your asthma made every blow, every scream, and every moment of terror feel like it could be your last. When your father’s fists landed or his voice roared, the fear would grip your chest, leaving you gasping, clutching at your throat for air that felt impossible to find. Simon knew. He could see it in the way your small frame trembled, in the way you wheezed and sobbed when it was over.

Tonight was another terrifying night. You hadn’t done anything wrong. But that didn’t matter. Nothing ever did.

The sharp creak of your bedroom door yanked you from your dreams, and your father loomed in the doorway, a beer bottle dangling from his hand. His face was flushed, his eyes glazed with drunken anger, and without a word, he lurched forward. The first blow landed before you could even sit up, the sting of it shocking the air from your lungs. Then came the shouting, slurred and venomous, words you didn’t understand but feared all the same.

Through the thin walls of your tiny flat, Simon could hear everything. He was in his room, just on the other side of the wall. He knew better than to intervene.

It felt like forever before the chaos stopped.

Simon waited, his heart pounding in his chest, listening carefully to make sure the coast was clear. When he was certain your father was gone, he slipped out of bed and tiptoed into your room.

You were on your knees on the floor, trembling and clutching your chest. Tears streaked your face as you struggled for air, each breath a painful, shallow gasp.