Chapter 3

Jasmine's Pov 

I lay in my bed, attempting to meditate. I found myself daydreaming about my present, specifically how I had received scholarships to Kisco High School.

After a few deep breaths, I reopened my eyes and returned my awareness to my breath.

As I settled into the moment, I felt compelled to jot down my thoughts.

I opened my drawer and took out all my painting supplies. I began expressing my feelings on a piece of paper, using black paint to capture the fear coiling in my mother’s and my own eyes. It’s my fear of insanity, I guess, as I draft it.

"Jasmine, my dear," my mother called, breaking my concentration. I unlatched my room door and was pleasantly surprised to see her face glowing with a resplendent smile for the first time in a long while.

"I want you to prepare. You are going for the Kisco scholarship exams. I’ve worked hard to get this money so you can enter that school." She handed me $200.

That’s a lot of money. I was both shocked and excited at the same time. Where did she get all this from? She must have suffered so hard to gather this money for me.

"Thank you, Mom; you are the best mom in the world." I hugged her tightly.

But just then, a dark shadow loomed over the moment. “I have said it time and time again: Jasmine can’t make me proud; she’s just useless.” My dad, who had been eavesdropping on my conversations with Mom, intruded into our moment.

He was right, I thought bitterly. I had failed two scholarship exams I took long ago. It had been a long time since I had written an exam. Now, I was determined to rectify my mistake and make sure I passed this one.

“Jasmine, give me that money,” my dad demanded. He snatched the money from my hand and pushed me aside as tears welled in my eyes.

My mom stood by, helplessly watching him leave with the money.

“Please, Mom, don’t let him take the money!” I begged, holding onto her. She couldn’t do anything to stop him. She wrapped her arms around me, but she looked so frail and weak. She was not the type to confront my dad.

I don’t ever want to see that man again.

His presence irritates me to no end. I have thought about what to do to him, to make him feel the pain and hurt he is causing us, but I couldn’t come up with anything. I stood by the door as the knob twisted. I gripped the rod I had been using for my painting, clustering it in my hands, waiting for the door to be shoved open. I knew it was my dad. I would make sure to hit him with it to end this pain that has been buried inside me.

"He must die today," I murmured to myself as the door burst open.

He entered and took measured steps, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. I hid behind his back, raising the rod to hit him, knowing that my mother wouldn’t stop him from taking my scholarship exam money. Hitting him would make him feel the pain I’m feeling right now. I was sweating profusely as I prepared to strike.

“Jasmine, don’t, please!” My mother yelled, tears dripping from her eyes. “I don’t want to hear that this man has caused me nothing but pain.” His presence annoyed me further, and I felt myself going wacky because of it. I looked at my sad mom and felt as if my heart was being torn into pieces by my father.

The rod was stripped from my hand.

Before I could comprehend what was happening, my dad gave me a sharp slap across the face. I held my cheek, trying to endure the sting.

“Oh, you want to kill me?” he taunted, and then he punched me so hard that I wailed in pain.

“You are an evil child who wants your father to die,” he spat at me before storming out.

I burned with rage and hurt. It felt as though something was piercing my heart, and I couldn’t stop wondering if he was truly my father.

“Mum, I deserve to know who my real father is!” I shouted vehemently.

“Jasmine, he is your father,” she replied, looking heartbroken. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to leave him. I didn’t think I could continue to endure my father’s heinous character alongside her anymore. I felt it was time to act so that I wouldn’t die in pain.

“You know he doesn’t see me as his daughter, so why should I take him as my father?” I pressed my mom.

She couldn’t help but cry. “Mom, let’s leave this house for him.” My words felt like daggers piercing her heart. She didn’t want to hear that.

“You know he is my husband, and we made a vow at the altar—to stick together for better or worse. No matter how difficult he is, I should stay by his side.” That was the reason she was suffering, all in the name of a vow.

“If that is the case, then I will make sure I kill Daddy so that you can be happy. That man has made life a living hell for you.”

“Let’s kill Dad so we can be free from his grip,” I blurted out, knowing full well how my words would be received. From the way she glanced at me, I could tell she would be very angry for saying such a thing.

“Why would you think that way?” Fury laced her voice as she wondered how she had raised me to contemplate such violence.

“So that he can stop hurting us!” I exclaimed, desperate for her to understand where I was coming from.

“My dear, I didn’t raise you to be a killer. Don’t worry; we will get through this,” she assured me.

Her words felt like a bandage on a wound that would not heal. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was trapped in a nightmare that would never end. I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, my heart heavy with thoughts of escape.

What would it take for us to be free? I longed for the day when I wouldn’t have to fear the sound of my dad’s footsteps approaching. I wanted to be able to laugh and play without looking over my shoulder. My dreams of attending Kisco High School felt like a distant fantasy, overshadowed by the grim reality of my home life.

As the days went on, I found solace in my art. Painting became my escape, a way to channel the anger and sadness that threatened to overwhelm me. Each stroke of the brush felt like a release, a way to communicate the feelings I couldn’t express in words.

I often painted scenes of hope, imagining a life where my mom and I could live free from fear. I painted the sun shining bright, flowers blooming, and laughter echoing through the halls of a home filled with love.

But reality would always creep back in. I could hear my dad's angry voice in the distance, and it would shatter the peace I had fought so hard to create.

One evening, as I worked on a piece that depicted a serene landscape, I overheard my parents arguing. My father’s voice boomed, filled with rage, while my mother’s tone was soft and pleading. It made my heart race, a familiar feeling of dread washing over me.

I set my paintbrush down and pressed my ear against the wall, straining to hear their words. The argument escalated, and I felt a surge of anger boiling within me. How could he do this to her? How could he destroy the woman who had given everything for me?

Just then, the door to my room creaked open. It was my mother, her eyes puffy and red from crying. I rushed to her side, wrapping my arms around her tightly.

“What happened, Mom?” I whispered, fearing the answer.

“Nothing, dear. It’s just the same old argument. He’s just frustrated,” she said, her voice trembling.

“No, Mom. It’s more than that. He’s hurting you, and I can’t stand it!” I replied, my voice rising with emotion.

“I know, sweetie. But we have to endure. We have to stay strong,” she said, her eyes reflecting a deep sadness.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm within me. “I just want us to be free from him, Mom. We can’t keep living like this.”

Her gaze softened as she held my face in her hands. “I know it’s hard, but we will find a way. We just have to be patient.”

Her words lingered in the air, a bittersweet promise that felt both comforting and empty. I wanted to believe her, but the reality of our situation weighed heavily on my heart.

As I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling of despair. I wanted to break free from this cycle of pain, to find a way to protect my mother and myself from the monster that lived in our home.

I promised myself that I would find a way to create a better life for us—one filled with love, laughter, and freedom. My dreams of attending Kisco High School were not just about education; they symbolized hope for a brighter future. I would not let my father’s darkness overshadow the light that was still flickering within us.

I vowed that somehow, someway, I would fight for our freedom. I wouldn’t let fear control my life anymore. I would be strong for my mother and for myself, no matter what it took.