The sound of bone meeting bone is not a clean snap; it is a wet, heavy percussion that vibrates through the skull like a funeral bell. When my father’s fist—a gnarled, heavy thing forged by years of self-righteousness—connected with my jaw, the world didn’t just spin. It tilted on its axis, spilling me toward the cold, unforgiving porcelain of the Blackwood Manor kitchen floor.
The iron tang of blood bloomed across my tongue instantly. It was hot and salty, a visceral reminder of my own mortality. I landed hard, my palms sliding through a thin, crimson smear that was, only moments ago, inside of me. My ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out the hum of the refrigerator, but it wasn’t loud enough to mask the sound that followed.
It wasn’t a gasp of horror. It wasn’t the frantic scuff of a mother’s shoes rushing to check her daughter’s pulse.
