Where fear ends

Kim's POV

I sit in the middle of the bed, pressed against the wall, knees pulled tightly to my chest, arms wrapped around them, trying to still the tremble that won’t leave me. The darkness in the room doesn’t hide me from the nightmare that keeps replaying, over and over.

I had a dream... No, not a dream. A nightmare.

But then again, my entire life feels like one.

The dark thoughts creep in, uninvited and unstoppable.

Maybe it would be easier to just give in to the darkness. To disappear.

Maybe then I wouldn’t feel anything. No pain. No fear. No shame.

A muffled thud freezes the blood in my veins. Heavy footsteps.

I know who it is. The monster wearing my father’s face.

My breath turns shallow, ragged. My eyes dart frantically across the room.

I need something. Anything. Something to protect myself.

The door swings open with a bang, slamming against the wall. I jolt violently.

I force my body to move, to stand, to do something—anything—to not look helpless.

But my legs betray me. I collapse to the floor, eyes locked on his figure.

He’s drunk. His bloodshot eyes burn with fury, and his mouth trembles in a cruel sneer.

— "Why are you still alive?" he spits, disgust dripping from every word as he steps closer.

— "Why don’t you just die already?"

I bite my lip, trying to hold back the tears.

I wish I could answer him. I wish I knew.

He moves fast. Brutal.

Before I can even flinch, he grabs my hair and slams my head against the edge of the bed.

Agony explodes in my skull like shattering glass.

Something warm trails down my cheek. My vision blurs.

Blood.

— "I can’t stand you anymore!" he roars.

— "Thank God your mother is dead. I couldn’t have taken both of you!"

His words cut deeper than his hands ever could.

I try to fight, to escape his grip, but he drags me toward the door.

A mocking laugh escapes his lips.

— "Die!"

He shoves me with all his strength.

Everything happens too fast.

My feet leave the floor.

My body flies over the railing.

The fall feels endless.

But the impact is instant.

The floor hits me like stone, and for a moment, the world goes silent.

Then I hear him.

The heavy steps descending the stairs.

I open my eyes.

All I can see are his shoes. Getting closer.

He unbuckles his belt—and the sound makes my whole body freeze.

But something inside me breaks.

The fear curdles into rage.

My hand finds the vase on the table, long forgotten, filled with dead flowers.

Before he can take another step, I stand.

And I strike.

The crash of glass shattering echoes through the hallway, followed by his stunned cry.

He crumples near the stairs.

I fall on top of him, breathless.

Without even realizing it, I grab his hair and smash his head against the steps.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until his body goes limp.

Until the fury softens just enough for me to grasp what I’ve done.

I tremble.

I stare at him—still.

Motionless.

I try to stand, but my legs won’t move.

Pain shoots through my arm, cutting through the numbness.

I’m hurt.

But him…

Oh God.

Did I kill him?

Dragging myself across the floor, I reach for the phone.

My fingers tremble uncontrollably as I dial emergency services.

— "Good evening. Emergency dispatcher. How may I assist you?"

— "I... I think I just killed my father," I whisper, my voice drowning in sobs.

The sound of sirens echoed in the distance, faint yet unmistakable.

They were coming for me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew the ambulance and the police wouldn’t be far behind.

Still, the waiting was unbearable.

Time stretched in strange, elastic ways, and the silence inside the house had turned oppressive.

My gaze drifted to my father’s body, lying by the stairs. A cold shiver crawled down my spine.

What have I done?

My thoughts spun out of control—images flashing in a chaotic loop: the shattered vase, the crack of impact, his stunned expression...

My body felt like a stranger’s.

Pain throbbed through my left arm, and warm blood trickled from my forehead, gluing strands of hair to my face.

The air smelled of iron and dust.

Everything felt wrong. Unnatural.

When the front door burst open, I flinched violently.

Officers and paramedics stormed inside, their heavy boots shaking the floor.

I couldn’t move. I had frozen in place, curled on the floor, my back pressed against the wall, knees tucked to my chest—like I could somehow disappear from their eyes.

A firm hand landed on my shoulder, and in that instant, panic erupted.

— "No! Don’t touch me!" I screamed, thrashing with all my strength.

A man’s voice answered—calm, yet commanding:

— "Miss, I’m with the police. You’re safe now."

But his words didn’t reach me.

All I could feel was raw, unstoppable terror.

I struggled, hitting him with my fists, desperate to escape.

— "Please... don’t hit me again! Leave me alone!"

His arms tightened around me, not violently—but firmly, with restraint.

Eventually, my body gave in. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, every breath sliced by pain from my arm and back.

— "It’s okay… you’re safe now," he whispered, almost gently.

As my crying subsided, I looked up.

In front of me stood a man in a police uniform, concern etched across his face.

My eyes drifted to the bloodstain on his shoulder, and I quickly looked away—only to glance again at my father.

I instantly regretted it.

— "I’m Detective Johns, from Homicide. Can you tell me what happened?"

His voice was unexpectedly soft.

I tried to speak, but the words got stuck in my throat.

— "Is... is he dead?" I finally whispered.

The detective signaled the paramedics to check on him.

They moved past us, and one knelt beside my father, checking for signs of life.

— "He’s still breathing," one of them said, "but he’s in critical condition."

A medic crouched beside me, examining my arm.

They helped me to my feet and led me outside.

The night air hit me like a slap, and the trembling only grew worse.

I felt every gaze on me—police, medics, everyone—and shame wrapped around me like a second skin.

At the ambulance, the detective sat beside me.

— "What’s your name?" he asked.

— "Kim Blake," I replied, my voice barely audible.

— "And the man inside?"

I hesitated.

The word “father” wouldn’t leave my lips.

— "John Blake," I said at last.

— "Your father?"

I nodded without looking at him.

— "Have you been abused?"

The question hit like a punch to the chest.

All color drained from my face, and my breath came short and fast.

I couldn’t answer.

I looked down, and the motion sent a sharp jolt through my back.

The doctor moved closer and gently lifted my shirt.

— "Oh my God..." she whispered.

Shame suffocated me.

I didn’t dare look at the detective, but I could feel his gaze.

I knew what they saw: old bruises, fresh ones, wounds that had never healed.

I felt exposed, stripped bare—as if every secret I’d tried to bury was now under a spotlight.

I closed my eyes, wishing I could vanish.

— "We need to get her to the hospital immediately," the doctor said, and the detective nodded.

As the ambulance pulled away, I looked through the window.

I saw the paramedics wheeling my father’s body out on a stretcher.

My trembling intensified.

— "Is... is he dead?" I asked again, my voice weak.

The detective looked at me for a few seconds, then sighed.

— "No. But his condition is critical. We’ll know more at the hospital."

I nodded, but his words offered no comfort.

I leaned my head back, letting the tears fall in silence.