That night, my dad managed, as always, to beat me senseless.
For the longest time, I thought he lashed out because he resented me—a convenient outlet for his frustrations in life. But now, everything clicked. Without my mom feeding his anger with her whispers, how could a father so brutally punish his own flesh and blood?
It was all a calculated act: one played the villain and the other swooped in as the savior. After every slap from my dad, my mom would offer me a token of kindness—a piece of candy, a warm hug. It was all part of her ploy to keep me loyal, to ensure I’d serve this family like a beast of burden for the rest of my life.
I ran to my room and locked the door. My dad hammered on it with unrelenting fury, shouting, “Alma, you ungrateful brat! Scalding your own father with hot water? You’ve got no heart!”
I shoved my flimsy desk against the door and stayed silent.
As the adrenaline wore off, reality set in. I was just a kid, completely dependent on them for survival. Any defiance could end disastrously for me. But one thing was clear: this time around, I wouldn’t let them extinguish my spark. I wouldn’t sacrifice my life to light my brother’s path.
Eventually, my dad gave up pounding the door. “Just wait till tomorrow,” he barked, his voice dripping with venom. “You’re dead meat, Alma.”
Next came my mom’s turn. She knocked softly and called out in a sugary tone, “Alma, are you awake? It’s me. Let me in, sweetheart.”
The false concern in her voice made my skin crawl. I didn’t answer. She knocked a few more times, sighed heavily and left.
The following morning, I woke early, determined to join them on the trip back to our hometown. Staying behind wasn’t an option—there was no way they’d pay for an extra month of utilities at the apartment or leave money for my meals.
My brother was already up, bubbling with excitement as he zipped and unzipped the suitcase. He couldn’t wait to fill it with the new clothes our parents promised him.
I stared at the suitcase, gripping my hands tightly. That cursed thing—my coffin in a past life. It had stolen my breath, my future.
This time, the tables would turn. My brother would get a taste of the suffocating despair, the helplessness that had crushed me.
My heart thundered as I watched him inch closer to the suitcase. My breath hitched, every fiber of my being praying for the moment to come.
But just as his fingers brushed the zipper, a hard kick landed squarely on my back. I stumbled forward, crashing into the suitcase. Pain exploded in my head as I slammed against the edge.
My father loomed over me, seething. Before I could react, he grabbed my hands, tied them behind my back and shoved one of his filthy socks into my mouth. “You think you can get away with what you did yesterday? Let’s see if you’ve got the guts to fight back now!”
The last sliver of light disappeared as he zipped up the suitcase and snapped the lock shut.
Tears streamed down my face, soaking the suffocating darkness. Was this how it would end again? Would I meet the same cruel fate—silenced and buried alive in this makeshift tomb?
No. Not this time.
I thrashed, kicked, pounded, but the suitcase didn’t budge. “Let me out!” I tried to scream through the sock, but it came out garbled.
A vicious kick hit the suitcase. My father’s voice snarled, “Keep yelling and I’ll toss you down the stairs. See if I care.”
His words struck like a dagger. He wasn’t bluffing.
My mother chimed in, her voice laced with reproach. “Alma, don’t blame us for favoring your brother. It’s your fault for being so ungrateful. You’ve never been as obedient or filial as he is.”
She didn’t stop there. “You should be grateful we’re even bringing you along. We could’ve left you here alone, but we’re kind enough to take you back home with us for New Year’s. The least you can do is help your brother out more. Why can’t you understand how lucky you are to have parents like us?”
Every word carved into me like a knife. Gratitude? For what? For turning me into a disposable tool?
Tears burned my eyes, but not from fear. It was rage. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t family. It was exploitation. In the suffocating darkness of the suitcase, I swore to myself: I would survive this and I would never let them control me again.
I clenched my fists, a wave of bitter irony washing over me. She could spout a hundred words, but that last sentence was the one that mattered most.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on her manipulations. I needed to conserve my oxygen and strength if I wanted to survive this.
Curled tightly in the cramped, pitch-black suitcase, I could feel the vibration of the bus beneath me as it rumbled toward the train station. Taking a deep breath, I banged my bound hands against the inside of the suitcase, desperate to attract attention.
It didn’t take long before someone noticed.
“Did you hear that? It sounded like someone knocking.”
“Yeah, I heard it too. What was that?”
