Warning:

This piece contains descriptive discussions of childhood trauma, including references to physical abuse, emotional and mental abuse, substance abuse, and the silencing of individuals seeking help. Reader discretion is advised, particularly for those who may find these topics sensitive or triggering.

This is a day I think about often. It stays with me because, as a mother myself, I still can’t fathom why it happened.

It was an ordinary day. I must have been around six or seven years old. I was sitting on my bedroom floor, the way I often did as a child. It was warm out, sunlight poured through my window as it passed overhead. My window faced a narrow lane of egress; if you turned left, it led to the backyard. Turn right and you were at the gate leading to the front yard. There was nothing special back there, just patches of dirt and muddy runoff.

I had a book in my hands. Back then, I devoured anything by Animorphs or R.L. Stine, though I can’t recall what I was reading that day. From anyone else’s point of view, it was a painfully ordinary afternoon.

The night before had been the same chaos and dysfunction as always. I hadn’t slept well. My father, on another bender, spent most of the night throwing things and shouting nonsense at my mother. She responded with her own screams and shrieks, the two of them creating an unhealthy, discordant melody that went on for hours.

I stayed awake through most of it, nesting into my covers. I’d drift into an anxious sleep only to be jolted awake by something being hurled across the room. Staying awake felt important. If the night escalated, it would become another day of manic escape.

The nights when escape became necessary were filled with screams and my mother’s frantic cries to run. In those moments, the only goal was survival. We left with nothing; no shoes, no backpacks, no schoolwork. Just our bodies and our will. I feared sleep itself; if I missed the alarm, the consequences… well, I never wanted to consider them. But thankfully, my parents eventually tired of the fighting and slept.

I was a dreamer. Books were my only escape from reality. So it was no surprise that on this particular day, I sat quietly on my floor, reading alone.

Without warning, my bedroom door slammed open.

Everything slowed down as my mother stepped inside. Her eyes were red, whether from crying or exhaustion, I couldn’t tell. Behind her stood my father. I didn’t notice him at first; he was swallowed by the darkness of the hallway, looming silently behind her.

My mother moved toward me without a word. It wasn’t until she was nearly on top of me that I realized she was holding something. Before a sound could escape my mouth, she raised her hand high and swung down onto me with my father’s belt.

That belt was thick and brown. I don’t know if it was leather, we couldn’t afford much, but it had a heavy, fibrous core that I’ll never forget.

The first crack landed across my back. I screamed, my book falling to the carpet. Instinctively, I curled into myself, clutching my head. My mother’s long nails grabbed at my clothing as she yanked me onto my stomach.

Another crack. This one across my buttocks and legs.

The belt snapped against bare skin, and there was nothing I could do to protect myself.

I reached behind me in desperation, trying to block the next strike.

“Why?!” I screamed.

Another crack.

The belt meeting skin became a terrible rhythm. My mind remembers it in slow motion, though I’m sure to anyone watching it was rapid-fire.

All I could do was try to wriggle free, my forearms taking hit after hit as she continued.

“Why?” I cried again. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with snot as I tipped into hyperventilation. I gasped for air between screams.

“Why?”

It must have gone on more than two dozen times. My father never spoke, he just watched.

When she finally stopped, she shoved me flat onto the floor. I lay there, swimming in tears, my book pressed deep into the carpet below me. Pages bent and curled from the weight of the beating.

I didn’t try to get up. I was still stunned by the sheer unnecessary cruelty of it all.

Then my mother spoke:

“There! Are you happy now? I just beat the shit out of her.”

I panted, struggling to catch my breath.

She continued, “I don’t want to hear another thing about me not disciplining her.”

She walked past him. Not bothering to explain anything to me as I laid sprawled out and broken on the carpet.

My father lingered just a moment longer, staring at me with a smug, satisfied grin.

I didn’t move. Any sign of resilience might earn another beating.

Eventually, he walked away. We had these long plastic carpet runners, and I strained to hear each suctioned step get quieter as he got farther away.

It was later that night that I learned the reason behind my so‑called punishment.

I hadn’t been beaten in a while.

While I was lost in the pages of my book that afternoon, my father had been antagonizing my mother, claiming she never disciplined me and that I “needed a reminder.”

My mother was usually our protector. I loved her dearly. She was still my mother. But, she traded my safety and trust for a night off from my Father’s berating nature. His need for cruelty was satisfied by the unwarranted beating I took.

If you’ve read my earlier entries, you know I was an extremely shy, quiet child, someone who tried to make herself small in every room. I never wanted to be seen. Being seen made you a target.

Even knowing this, I couldn’t understand why she beat me. The logic was simple: I hadn’t been beaten recently, and she needed to prove something to him.

I had done nothing wrong, except exist in their miserable world.

After everyone left, I peeled myself off the floor. I lifted my shorts to see red and white welts zigzagging across my thighs. My back burned. Sitting hurt. My neck ached from all the jerking and crying.

With what little strength I had left, I pulled my knees to my chest and rocked back and forth. Silent sobs shook my body. I didn’t want them to hear. My lungs could not survive a second round.

Hours later, it was time for dinner. I took quiet steps to set the table with plates, paper towels, and a fork.

My father watched me with a small, distinctive smile, giddy at the way I flinched with pain.

“Go put on pants,” he ordered.

He was proud of her handiwork, but he also knew the marks were going to be visible for days. To avoid any suspicion, he needed me to hide the evidence.

I obeyed, changing into pants in the dead of summer. That was the day I always started to hide the abuse, just as my mother had done on so many occasions.

My mother never apologized. Never spoke about it. It was simply something she did to appease him. To shift the spotlight off herself and onto anything else. As an adult, I forgive her, she also needed to feel safe, and perhaps that was the only option.

I’m sure, dear readers, you’re wondering if this affected our relationship. The answer is yes. Even as a child, I looked at her differently. If I could be punished simply for existing, how far would it go?

And when would it end?

Unhealed,

Sis

Note to Readers: This blog is a work of creative non-fiction based on the author’s memory. To protect the privacy of individuals, some names, locations, and identifying characteristics have been changed. The views expressed are solely my own. © 2026 Shadows I Survived, All Rights Reserved.