Sami POV
“Come on, Sami. Just come downstairs. You don't want to make your stepfather angry, do you?”
I stood frozen in my room, fear a cold weight in my chest. This happened most nights. He'd come home, start drinking, and the worst part was he worked part-time as a police officer. I couldn’t run to the authorities; reporting anything happening at home was impossible. I often felt sorry for my mother. Ever since my father died, I felt like I'd lost both parents in the car crash. My father was driving us home from a weekend getaway. I was in the back, my mother in the passenger seat. I was thirteen at the time. A man ran into the road, causing my father to lose control and crash into a telephone pole, killing him instantly.
I woke up in the hospital three days later. My mother survived with minor injuries. Of course, I was upset about losing my father, but the part I hated most was not getting to say goodbye.
“Come, Sami! I just want you to spend some time with me.”
I dragged my feet down the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned into the kitchen to see Peter, my stepfather, standing there with a baseball bat in his hand.
“I’m doing you and your mother a favor by being here and paying your bills. All I ask in return is that you clean the dishes. And I walk in here to find them dirty, sitting in the sink!” He shouted.
“I had homework to do,” I said, my voice rising in protest.
“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT?” Peter roared, his face contorted with rage.
Suddenly, I felt the stinging burn of his hand across my face. I bit my lip, refusing to let out a cry. He just stood there, laughing. How could he find this funny? How could a man beat a seventeen-year-old and laugh at the pain he was inflicting? I slowly stood up and headed toward the sink. But he wasn't finished with me. As I stood by the bench, I could smell the vodka on his breath. He slapped me again, sending me sprawling to the cold tile floor. He grabbed a plate and smashed it on the ground, the shards sinking into my skin. I yelped in pain and turned to see my mother sitting in a daze, a drunken stupor. Peter kicked my side and rib cage, and I screamed. He punched the side of my face, and everything went black.
I lay there, unconscious, on the cold floor. Looking at the baseball bat he hadn’t used, I wished he had. I wished he’d use it to permanently end the pain he caused me day in and day out. And like most nights, I was left there, sleeping on the cold, unforgiving tiles.