The fury of the daughter

There was no way that she could ever return to that house again.

House.

Not home.

A home is where love for one another seeps through the little nooks and crannies of the walls, where you're accepted for who you are, no matter your gender.

This is why June's house was just that.

A house.

Stacks of bricks piled on top of one another, crafted from the most heartless and demonic man of a father, the howling wind tumbling through the gaps in the walls, the screeching cry of the air suffocating and trapping you in the murky realms of your nightmare.

The bottomless pits of hell glaring at you from across the dinner table.

The crack of the belt across the map of scars on your back.

The insults hissed at you in the hallways from the mother who carried you for nine months, birthed you when the world was crumbling around her - when drenched in sweat and filled with exhaustion could not even give her husband the one thing he relentlessly desired.

A son.

17 years June endured the abuse, the insults, the ridicule and pain thrown her way ; all without a single word of protest.

She shed not one tear.

She'd learned that made them angrier.

Laying in bed at night, dreams of freedom, love, happiness and acceptance streamed through her mind, the bright colours and pulsating emotions coursing through her body and igniting the fire burning at the very centre of her being.

It was these thoughts, the thoughts of finding happiness, that kept her moving through every monotonous day of labour, the everchanging seasons rushing past as if she'd picked up a remote and changed the channel.

It was these thoughts that made her tremble in anticipation the night she packed a bag and walked out of the house that oppressed her, put out the spark of curiosity and innocence that once ran through her veins and made her feel repulsed every time she glanced in the mirror.

It was these thoughts that whispered comforting ideas to her while she drenched the house in gasoline : gasoline stolen from her father's workshop.

It was these thoughts that pushed her to strike the match and watch in amazement as the flames licked the gates of help, Satan and his wife trapped inside the burning building, howling in rage and confusion as they were scorched by the flames.

It was these thoughts that propelled her feet forward, away from the burning sparks of her past.

There was no way she could ever return to that house again.

June hitched her backpack over her shoulder.

And she walked away.

-A