Hanging On By A Thread

Prologue: A Fateful Night

"Choose not to be harmed - and you won't feel harmed. Don't feel harmed - and you haven't been."   ~ Marcus Aurelius

Once more, I find myself in this haunting scene, standing over the man who was supposed to embody the purest form of love—the one who ushered me into this world, the initial embrace in my existence. The man whose surname I bear against my will. My father. As I peer down at him, a floodgate of memories opens, each recalling the relentless abuse endured since my mother's departure—physical, emotional, mental, verbal, and sexual torment.

His blood courses through my veins; I am his flesh and blood, his lone daughter. Yet, I never chose this life, never volunteered for the tumultuous journey thrust upon me from conception. A life where I yearn he had followed my mother's footsteps, leaving me untouched by his darkness. My existence would have been better off without him, and, most crucially, I wouldn't carry the weight of a murderer.

With hands trembling, I retrieve my phone from the pool of my father's blood—one hand dialing 911, the other clutching a blood-stained meat cleaver. There is no remorse within me, only the liberating sense of finally breaking free from his perpetual abuse.

Tired of existing in perpetual fear, of teetering on the edge whenever he was near, I needed it to end—all of it. I needed to escape, by any means necessary.

"911, what's your emergency?" questioned the operator on the other end. "47 Saint Street. My father is dead," I replied, a lazy and blank tone marking my words as I lethargically hung up the call.

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"Ma'am, slowly put the knife down," I looked up with teary eyes at an officer who's carefully approaching me with his gun pointed. Numb to everything and everyone around me, I leisurely raised both my hands, witnessing my phone and cleaver fall with a chilling 'clank.'

The subsequent minutes passed in a surreal blur, and before I knew it, I found myself handcuffed to a chair at my local police station. The gravity of my actions hit me like a sledgehammer. I never envisioned being in this position, much like I never believed I could escape my father's unrelenting wrath. Questions inundated my mind—what will happen to me now? Where will I go? At just 17, faced with no other family around, my potential destinations seemed to narrow down to the stark options of jail or a group home.

Jail—those cold, iron bars looming over me in my mind's eye. It was a prospect too grim to entertain. The consequences of my impulsive act were now a reality, and the repercussions seemed insurmountable. Blinded by rage, hate, and fear, I hadn't fathomed the aftermath of my actions. The reality of my predicament settled in as I stared down at my hands, now stained with my father's blood.

The events of tonight replayed in my mind like a haunting film. His rough hands, forcefully entangling my hair as he pinned me down, the echoing slap on my cheek in response to my futile resistance—all these memories flooded back. I could still feel the desperation to escape, my feet hastily navigating the stairs, the kitchen door beckoning as my sanctuary. The sensation of his fingers mercilessly tugging my hair, yanking me away from the path to freedom, lingered. Each punch and slap etched in my memory, a visceral reminder of the unyielding torment.

In the visceral recollection of the night's horrors, my hands gripping the cleaver and swinging it at him, the room echoed with the savage rhythm of one, two, three stabs. The screams, both his and mine, intertwined in a cacophony of desperation and release. The chilling realization of the irrevocable act I had committed settled upon me, the consequences of my liberation now unfolding in the harsh light of the police station.

All I could think about was inflicting upon him the same agony he had relentlessly imposed on me; it was the only desire that consumed me. A sob involuntarily escaped my trembling lips as the night's brutal events continued to play on an agonizing loop in my mind. Despite my attempts to redirect my thoughts, to bury the memories, the echoes of his screams persisted, a haunting refrain that reverberated through my conscience. The visceral recollection of warm blood splattering across my hands and face intensified the turmoil within.

"You're free to go," uttered an officer, abruptly interrupting the harrowing soundtrack of my thoughts.

"W-What?" I stammered in disbelief.

"You're free to go, Ms. Grey."

"How? I just murdered someone, my own father."

"Self-defense, Grey. We found your journal, documenting the relentless torment at home. Considering your bruises, your father's battered knuckles, we connected the dots. I'm so sorry you had to endure all that, Ms—"

"Adreanna," I whispered.

"Adreanna. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. No child should ever face what you've endured."

"Yeah," I managed a weak smile. "Where will I go? I have no one."

"We've contacted your mother, and she should be here in an hour."

"My mother?" I asked wearily, realizing it had been a decade since I last saw her.

"Yes, your mother. There's coffee over there if you need any, and a bathroom to your right if you'd like to clean up," the officer said with a compassionate yet pitiful smile.

"Thank you..." I glanced at his name tag. "Thank you, Officer Montgomery."

As I cleaned up myself in the bathroom, the weight of what had transpired settled upon me, Officer Montgomery's words lingered in the air. The realization that I was now officially free, liberated from the clutches of my father's torment, felt surreal yet undeniably empowering. The journey ahead, however uncertain, bore the promise of a life free from the suffocating grip of abuse.

The officer's compassionate demeanor softened the edges of the harsh reality I had faced. With gratitude, I sipped the coffee offered, attempting to find solace in its warmth. The bathroom mirror revealed a reflection marred by the night's brutality—a battered visage, eyes haunted by the shadows of the past. As water flowed over my hands, the crimson stains slowly dissolved, leaving behind a metaphorical cleansing, a symbolic release from the anguish that had defined my existence.

An hour later, the door swung open, revealing a figure I hadn't laid eyes on in a decade—my mother. The reunion was a mix of emotions—relief, trepidation, and an unexpected surge of vulnerability. As she embraced me, I felt a connection to a past I had almost forgotten. Her eyes, filled with a mix of regret and love, mirrored my own complex sentiments.

My road to recovery would now be arduous, marked by therapy sessions, legal proceedings, and the inevitable revisitation of the traumatic past. Yet, with each passing moment, I found strength in the support systems slowly falling into place—Officer Montgomery's empathy, my mother's tentative yet genuine efforts, and the prospect of a life unshackled from the chains of fear.

Indeed, as I step into the dawn of a new chapter, I recognize that my journey is just now beginning.