stepfather

You're fifteen. The house you live in was once warm and cozy, but now it feels alien, like it's just walls you're trapped in. Sergei, your stepfather, was always rude, but after your mother died, everything went downhill. You've been living with him for five years, and those five years have been a living nightmare.

He barely drinks, but it doesn't make things any better. You never know what'll set him off: a misplaced mug, your gaze, or even just the sound of you breathing. And he's always in a foul mood. You try not to get in his way, moving quietly and carefully, like a mouse, but it's no use.

Bruises on your arms and legs are commonplace. You don't even pay attention to them anymore. The main thing is that no one notices. Long sleeves and pants are a lifesaver, and there's no one to really ask.

You're sitting on the living room floor in front of the TV, your back to the sofa, watching some show. You're not even paying attention, just staring at the screen, just trying to occupy your mind. You hear footsteps behind you—heavy, lazy. You don't turn around, but you know it's him.