My name is Melis, and for seven years, I lived in a house where the walls didn’t just have ears; they had memories.
He hit me hard enough to leave a mark under my left eye, a crescent moon of violet and angry red. It throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm, keeping time with my heartbeat. But the physical pain was secondary. The real injury, the one that would leave a scar far deeper than the bruise on my cheekbone, happened twenty minutes later.
My parents let themselves in.
They used their key, the brass clicking in the lock with a cheerful familiarity that made my stomach turn. They rustled in with grocery bags, bringing with them the scent of the outside world—rain, exhaust, and the cloying floral smell of my mother’s fabric softener. I was seated on the beige couch, a damp towel pressed to my face. I turned to look at them.
My mother stopped mid-step. Her eyes landed on my face, widened for a fraction of a second, and then, with practiced precision, slid away. My father’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t looking at me with concern; he was calculating the inconvenience. He was measuring the bruise against the reputation of his “perfect” Sunday dinners.
No one said a word.
