The slam of Anita's bedroom door was a final, concussive note after the storm, leaving a suffocating quiet in its wake. She retreated into the familiar, safe space, the world outside her walls fading to muffled, worried murmurs. Curled into a tight ball on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, she pressed her forehead against them. The tears came then, a slow, unstoppable leak of the terror and despair she had tried so hard to hide. The wall in front of her was a blank canvas, but her mind painted it with scenes from her past.
She was seven again, coming home from school. The front door was ajar, and the air was thick with the sound of her father's cruel words and the thud of his blows. She had dropped her backpack, a small, defiant shield, and rushed forward, a tiny warrior trying to protect her mother. The backhanded slap had sent her sprawling, the rough carpet scraping her cheek. The subsequent darkness of the closet was not just the absence of light; it was a punishment. She could still smell the dusty clothes, feel the suffocating Darkness. Not just the absence of light, but a thick, suffocating darkness that pressed against her eyes, her skin. She could hear the muffled screams that were her mother's, and the frantic pounding that was her own heart.
She had been so small, so helpless. The memory was not a ghost but a physical presence, wrapping itself around her, squeezing the air from her lungs until she was a child again, terrified and gasping for breath.
The man, her father, hadn't just appeared today; he had lived inside her for years, and now he was unleashed, a poison spreading through her veins. She ignored their voices, their knocking. The darkness of the closet was still with her, but this time, She wasn't in it. She was it. She was the darkness he had promised would drag John down, and a terrible, cold certainty settled in her heart. He was right. And she didn't know how to save John from it.
Outside the door, John stood stiffly, a hand resting lightly on the wood. He had never seen this side of Anita, the quiet implosion after the show of strength. Her mother's voice was a tearful whisper. "I'm so afraid she'll hurt herself. This isn't the first time." The words hit John with the force of a revelation. This wasn't a sudden breakdown; it was a pattern, a relapse into an old, deep-seated pain. He realized the battle in the living room had been about more than just words. It was a confrontation with a trauma that had never fully healed, and he knew then that he couldn't wait for her to come out. He had to reach her.