The Flaming Lips

In the cramped bathroom, steam swirled around.

I huddled on the toilet, my legs drawn up, staring fixedly at the wooden door, which was secured with a makeshift wire lock and creaked as it swayed.

It felt as if a beast would burst in at any moment, tearing me apart and devouring me.

"Gloria, don't be afraid. Be a good girl and open the door for Daddy," the man outside said, his voice dry and tinged with a mix of impatience and threatening coaxing. "All this noise will worry your mother. She can't take it, so open the door quickly."

As he spoke, the wooden door swayed more violently, the faint sounds striking every nerve.

Fear and despair surged, and I trembled, clenching the faded long sports pants, wrinkling them further.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out at first. After clearing my throat forcefully, I managed to speak, my voice quivering. "Dad, brother... he's coming back soon."

The noises from outside paused for a moment. Through the door and the sound of water, I heard a few low curses.

"Gloria, your mother has dialysis tomorrow, you know that, right?" After a while, the voice outside resumed, now with a hint of probing.

I blinked, my eyes red and dull, knowing it was a threat, and slowly nodded.

Realizing he couldn't see me, I added, "I won't tell my brother."

These past three years since my mother remarried have been a long nightmare for me.

From the lecherous glances, the seemingly accidental touches, the inexplicably moved underwear, the unexplained stains on the bed, to tonight's brutal and aggressive advances, this home had long ceased to be a safe place.

But I couldn't leave my mother, who relied on me, and I didn't have the means to pay for her thrice-weekly dialysis.

The footsteps outside receded, and I knew my stepfather wouldn't do anything else tonight. I stood up and went to the sink, turning on the tap and scrubbing my neck and arms with cold water until a few drops of blood appeared before stopping.

I stared intently at my reflection in the mirror, looking disheveled and dirty.

After the fear subsided, only a blank expression remained.

*Click*

The front door clicked, followed by the sound of keys being thrown onto the shoe cabinet.

I listened carefully to the creaks of the old wooden floorboards, using them to gauge my brother Stan Wallace's position. When he got close, I quickly untwisted the wire lock and stepped out of the bathroom.

Just past midnight, the nearby residents had already turned off their lights to save on electricity, and the Wallace household was no different, except for the warm yellow light spilling from the bathroom.

In the dimness, I briefly met Stan Wallace's gaze and quickly looked down, calling out, "Brother."

Stan Wallace met my eyes but didn't respond, his face indifferent.

I was used to this. At this moment, I felt safe.

I guessed Stan Wallace didn't want to be my haven. He probably hated me because of us, he lost his mother, his complete family, and so much more.

Perhaps it was because we both hated the same person in this house, or maybe it was just because Stan Wallace was kind, so when I leaned closer, he didn't push me away.

As long as he was there, I could feel a fleeting sense of safety.

So, whether Stan Wallace wanted it or not, he was my sole reliance in this house.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my stepfather's gaze still fixed on me like a venomous snake, and I instinctively took a step closer to Stan Wallace.

Seeming to notice my unease, Stan Wallace glanced coldly into the living room, his brow furrowing slightly before relaxing. He turned towards the bedroom and said, "Follow me."

I heard him and nodded vigorously, silently following behind him.

He still held a few design drawings in his hand, and his middle finger now had a transparent plastic bag, containing a pink box, likely a gift.

In the cramped and dilapidated two-bedroom apartment, there was originally no space for my mother and me. Later, my stepfather forced a wooden partition in Stan Wallace's original room, dividing it into two spaces, one for me and one for Stan Wallace.

After placing the single beds, only a narrow passage remained. We entered the room one after the other. Stan Wallace carelessly tossed the bag and drawings onto the bed and then nonchalantly pulled off his black T-shirt.

The divided window cut the moonlight into symmetrical geometric shapes, casting it on Stan Wallace's well-defined waist.

His back was beautiful, having shed the thinness and frailty of three years ago. Even the scars that lined it exuded an air of inviolable strength.

I stood a short distance behind him, taking in the scene, and looked away when he turned to me.

"Did your college entrance exam results come in?"

Stan Wallace was usually silent and often out early and back late. It was rare to hear his voice at home, and he treated my mother and me with indifference. So, when he suddenly asked a question, I was taken aback and hesitantly gave him a number.

Stan Wallace rummaged through a box under the bed for a clean T-shirt, pausing at my answer and giving me a sidelong glance.

His surprise made me a little happy.

But my joy was short-lived as he said coldly, "Apply to a school far away. Don't come back."