Page 48 of Dangerous Beginnings

“Mom, I appreciate that, but it’s not just about us. It’s about him.”

Her eyes flicker with a mixture of guilt and sadness. “I know he’s made mistakes, but people can change. I believe in giving him a chance.” I bite my lip, struggling to convey the pain andfear that lurks in my memories.

“Mom, he hurt me. I was just a child, and you knew. How can I forget that? You know he won’t change.”

A heavy silence enveloped the room, broken only by the distant sounds of the neighborhood outside. My mother’s gaze fell, a weighty acknowledgment of the past. She spoke in a hushed tone, “I was scared, Isabella. I thought things would change, but I felt trapped.”

Anguish wells up within me, a conflicted mix of empathy and frustration. “I needed you, Mom. I needed you to protect me.” Her eyes well with tears as she reaches out, her hand trembling.

“I’m so sorry, darling. I want to make things right now, if you’ll let me.”

The sincerity in her voice tugs at my heartstrings, but the wounds run deep. A heavy feeling I have always felt when I was a child. The reason I let no man touch me, ever.

Amidst the conversation and the attempt to find common ground, a sudden chill grips the room. The front door swings open unexpectedly, revealing a figure I had hoped to avoid—my stepfather.

A wave of anxiety washes over me as his eyes lock onto mine, a sinister smile playing on his lips. “Well, well, who do we have here?” His voice drips with condescension as he saunters into the room. My mother’s expression shifts from anticipation to dread, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil his presence brings. I clench my fists, a surge of anger rising within me. This was not a man I wanted to face, not now, not ever.

“Isabella, what a surprise,” he sneers, his tone laced with a twisted sense of pleasure. I force a tight-lipped smile, but my discomfort is obvious.

“Just here for dinner, nothing more. With that, I also must leave now.”

He chuckles, the sound sending shivers down my spine.“Already? Well, that’s a pity.” He drops his work bag and rushes over to the dinner table. I’m standing up, facing him. My mother shakes at the table and of course, she does nothing. It was a mistake coming here. He stands in front of me. I immediately feel like the child again, the 6-year-old me. His hand reaches out towards me, and with that, the healed scars burst open again.

Chapter 31

A Certain Sad Life

Isabella

He shoves me back into the chair, his voice a cold command, “You’re not going anywhere. You need to apologize to your mother. You left her.” A surge of uncontrollable anger explodes within me, a tempest of raw, bitter fury.

“What the fuck do you mean, I left her? I had my reasons, and you were that reason!”

His hand clenches at his side, and I can feel the shadow of my childhood fears creeping back in. He’s about to lash out, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the storm breaks. I need to get the hell out of here and escape this madness before it consumes me.

I pack my bag, glancing at my mother, still the same—silent, submissive, forever bound to his will. She won’t change; she’ll never stand up to him. She’s his obedient puppet, and she always will be. As I try to leave, his voice cuts through the air like a knife, “Get back here, you ungrateful bitch!” My fist clenches uncontrollably. Anger is a seething, violent force, born from years of abuse, manipulation, and betrayal. He’s scared me in ways that make it hard to relate to anyone else. He’s torn apart my sense of self-worth, my capacity for love, and my childhood innocence. I turn to face him, the rage in my voice barely contained.

“Fuck you! You’re a piece of shit. You’re constantly cheating on her, treating her like dirt, manipulating her. You are the worst excuse for a father I’ve ever known!”

His face contorts with fury, and in a flash, his hand connectswith my cheek, a searing blaze of pain. Another blow lands and I try to retaliate, but he’s overpowering, too strong. I’m paralyzed by the trauma response, unable to defend myself as his fists crash into my face. Blood spills from my lips and nose, warm and sticky, mingling with my tears. I don’t know how long it lasts, but then, abruptly, he stops. He looks down at me with a gaze that’s as cold as his voice. “Get the fuck out. Don’t ever come back.”

Tears blur my vision: tears of anger, of helplessness, of the crushing realization that I can’t protect myself. I grab my bag, wrench open the door, and step out into the night, leaving behind my childhood in a single, desperate act. I will never return. I was right, it hasn’t changed, and it never will.

I’m not worth the fight. She prefers him over me, and she always will. My real father—if he ever existed—will never come back.

When I get home, I throw my bag onto the floor and begin emptying its contents. Frantically, I start packing clothes and toiletries, driven by a mind clouded with despair. I don’t think clearly—I just need to leave. I hate this place, and Lexi, my only semblance of solace, is away on vacation. I can visit her elsewhere.

In my frenzied state, things fly through the air, and I collide with a wooden board. The pain on my forehead is a dull, throbbing heat. I look in the mirror, my reflection fractured and bruised. My lips are split, and my nose is swollen and discolored. A broken girl stares back at me—her eyes dull, her spirit shattered.

I collapse into the bed, the sheets cool against my raw skin. With Lexi gone, I have no one to confide in. I kick off my heels, letting them fall to the floor. I wrap myself in the white sheets, pressing a pillow over my head. The familiar sadness envelops me, dragging me back to the six-year-old girl who had no one to talk to and couldn’t articulate her pain.

I recall that night’s agony—how my eyes ached from tears, how my breath was ragged and choked. I remember the struggle to silence my cries, the overwhelming difficulty of that moment. I’ll never forget that pain.

And now, there’shim…the man I gave my most intimate self to, something I wanted to reserve for someone who would truly care. Instead, I handed it to someone who doesn’t care at all. Someone who will eventually end me.

I am perpetually out of place, always the odd one, never fitting in. It’s just me, alone with my drowning thoughts, night after night. An abused child doesn’t stop loving her parents; she stops loving herself. And everything she does is tainted by that self-loathing.

Aslanov

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