Chapter 1
Mom smiled as she drove the nail through Dad's hand, pinning it to the workbench.
Dad screamed. Blood pooled beneath his fingers. Grandma watched from the doorway, sipping her coffee like nothing was happening.
"I warned you, pretty boy," Mom said, her voice sweet and terrifying. "Try to leave again, and I'll take the other hand."
Dad hung his head, tears dripping onto the concrete floor of the basement. His body was a canvas of bruises, old and new, layered like the rings of a dying tree.
Grandma set down her mug and clicked her tongue. "Vivian, I told you to break his ankles the day you brought him home. But no, you wanted to keep him pretty. Look what that softness got you."
Mom yanked the nail out. Dad's scream echoed off the walls.
She turned to me, standing at the top of the basement stairs. "Lily, sweetheart, come thank your daddy for staying. If you hadn't told Grandma he was trying to leave, we might have lost him."
I stood there, five years old, clutching my stuffed rabbit, and smiled at Mom the way she taught me to. "I love our family, Mommy."
Dad lifted his head. When his eyes met mine, I saw something shatter behind them. The warmth that once lived there — the softness he saved only for me — it was gone. Replaced by something cold and broken.
"You," he whispered, his voice raw. "You told them."
I nodded, still smiling. Because that's what Grandma said good girls do.
Dad's jaw tightened. He looked away from me like I was something rotten. "I should have never held you the day you were born."
Mom laughed and ruffled my hair. "See? Even he knows you belong to us." She pulled a chain from the wall and locked it around Dad's ankle. "No more basement privileges. From now on, you stay in the storage room. And if you so much as look at the front door again, I'll take your eyes."
She dragged Dad across the floor by his collar. He didn't fight. He had no strength left.
After Mom locked him away, I crept to the storage room door. Through the crack, I could see Dad curled on the bare concrete, shaking.
I pressed my small hand against the door and whispered, "I'm sorry, Daddy."
He couldn't hear me. And even if he could, he wouldn't believe me.
Because this was my first day back.
I had lived this life before. In my previous life, on this exact day, Dad had planned everything perfectly — the stolen key, the loosened window latch, the bag he'd hidden with food and my jacket. He was going to carry me out while Mom slept.
But Grandma had spent years filling my head with poison. "Family stays together. Your daddy doesn't love you. He wants to leave you behind." I believed every word.
So when I saw Dad packing that bag, I ran straight to Grandma.
They caught him before he reached the fence.
Mom didn't just break his hand that time. She shattered both his kneecaps with a hammer. Dad never walked again.
Three months later, he used a piece of broken glass to end his own life.
And I was left alone with the monsters.
Dad screamed. Blood pooled beneath his fingers. Grandma watched from the doorway, sipping her coffee like nothing was happening.
"I warned you, pretty boy," Mom said, her voice sweet and terrifying. "Try to leave again, and I'll take the other hand."
Dad hung his head, tears dripping onto the concrete floor of the basement. His body was a canvas of bruises, old and new, layered like the rings of a dying tree.
Grandma set down her mug and clicked her tongue. "Vivian, I told you to break his ankles the day you brought him home. But no, you wanted to keep him pretty. Look what that softness got you."
Mom yanked the nail out. Dad's scream echoed off the walls.
She turned to me, standing at the top of the basement stairs. "Lily, sweetheart, come thank your daddy for staying. If you hadn't told Grandma he was trying to leave, we might have lost him."
I stood there, five years old, clutching my stuffed rabbit, and smiled at Mom the way she taught me to. "I love our family, Mommy."
Dad lifted his head. When his eyes met mine, I saw something shatter behind them. The warmth that once lived there — the softness he saved only for me — it was gone. Replaced by something cold and broken.
"You," he whispered, his voice raw. "You told them."
I nodded, still smiling. Because that's what Grandma said good girls do.
Dad's jaw tightened. He looked away from me like I was something rotten. "I should have never held you the day you were born."
Mom laughed and ruffled my hair. "See? Even he knows you belong to us." She pulled a chain from the wall and locked it around Dad's ankle. "No more basement privileges. From now on, you stay in the storage room. And if you so much as look at the front door again, I'll take your eyes."
She dragged Dad across the floor by his collar. He didn't fight. He had no strength left.
After Mom locked him away, I crept to the storage room door. Through the crack, I could see Dad curled on the bare concrete, shaking.
I pressed my small hand against the door and whispered, "I'm sorry, Daddy."
He couldn't hear me. And even if he could, he wouldn't believe me.
Because this was my first day back.
I had lived this life before. In my previous life, on this exact day, Dad had planned everything perfectly — the stolen key, the loosened window latch, the bag he'd hidden with food and my jacket. He was going to carry me out while Mom slept.
But Grandma had spent years filling my head with poison. "Family stays together. Your daddy doesn't love you. He wants to leave you behind." I believed every word.
So when I saw Dad packing that bag, I ran straight to Grandma.
They caught him before he reached the fence.
Mom didn't just break his hand that time. She shattered both his kneecaps with a hammer. Dad never walked again.
Three months later, he used a piece of broken glass to end his own life.
And I was left alone with the monsters.