Some nights don't begin with stars.
Some begin with screams.
That night was one of them.
It was past midnight.
Siya was in bed, her headphones in, the playlist soft.
But she could already feel the shift in the air—the tension. The tremble of footsteps.
That familiar stench of alcohol had begun to seep through the cracks of the walls.
Her stomach dropped.
"Not again," she whispered to herself.
Downstairs, her mother was already pleading:
"Aaj fir se shuru mat karo... Siya so rahi hai."
("Not again tonight... Siya's sleeping.")
But drunk fathers don't listen.
And monsters wearing the mask of a man don't care who's watching.
A crash.
A scream.
A slap.
Siya threw her headphones off and bolted downstairs.
What she saw froze her blood.
Her mother lay against the wall, her cheek bruised, eyes wide with shock.
Her father stood over her, breathing heavily, shouting:
"Kaminee! Tum sab mere khilaaf ho! Har din har waqt bas mujhe dosh dena!"
And then he raised his hand again.
That's when Siya lost it.
"Bas!"
Her voice cracked like thunder across the room.
"Hath neeche kar! Warna tujhe khud pe pachtawa hoga!"
Her father turned to her, shocked.
His rage doubled seeing her defy him.
"Tuu?! Teri himmat kaise hui mujhse aise baat karne ki?!"
He stepped toward her—his hand raised.
But Siya didn't move back.
This time… she moved forward.
She grabbed the wooden stick lying in the corner—the same one he'd used years ago to hit her thighs.
This time, she held it.
And as his hand moved again toward her mother—
CRACK!
The sound echoed.
His arm twisted backward.
A scream. Not hers—his.
"Aaaaaahhh!"
He collapsed onto the floor, groaning, grabbing his elbow.
"Tu pagal ho gayi hai? Tu ne mera haath tod diya!"
Siya's chest was heaving.
Her eyes full of tears—but not fear.
She dropped the stick and stepped over to him.
"Saalo tak tune meri maa ko maara, mujhe dard diya. Aaj tune jo paaya hai... woh sirf ek choti si sazaa hai."
She turned to her mother, helped her up, and whispered:
"No more crying behind locked doors, Maa. I'm here now. And I'm not scared anymore."
That night, no police were called.
No relatives were summoned.
But something changed.
Her father didn't speak for hours.
Maybe it was pain.
Maybe it was the shock of losing control.
Maybe... it was shame.
Siya didn't care.
She cleaned her mother's wound.
Fed her water.
Put her to bed.
And then sat alone in the living room.
Holding that stick.
Breathing deeply.
Finally, after all these years—
The abused became the protector.
The next morning, the silence in the house wasn't fearful anymore.
It was peace.
Her father kept his distance.
Maybe he understood.
Maybe he still didn't.
But Siya did.
She wasn't a little girl anymore.
She was the storm.