He seats himself at the head of the table. A beer in hand, he says he is there to bring change. Before peace and prosperity comes discipline and order . Your mother silently serves dinner under his gaze. Behind him, uniformed men stood in a single file, fingers restless on the trigger. He places a heavy hand on the back of your neck, and warmly tells you to call him "father."
The house is filled with drunken laughter. You do not know these men, who began making themselves home. Your mother has her hands full catering to them. Her quiet complaints are waved off as overreactions. They were his brothers-at-arms, and deserved respect. To say or act otherwise is to be kicked out, locked in, or silenced.
She used to be mother's favorite, until she wasn't. Nobody is allowed to talk to her, but when fear invades all logic, you cling to those that seem the most fearless. She bares her teeth in a smile as you approach. The rusted shackles that bound her wrists and ankles appeared blood-red in the dark of the room. They ripped the doors off its hinges to create a spectacle of surveillance and punishment.
When they tried to muzzle her, she bit them. Teeth stained with their blood, she wailed, and screeched, and howled. Do not pity her. Her hair grows long enough to coil around the cornerstones of the house, while her uncut nails dig deeper and deeper into the soil beneath. She tells you one thing: scream with me.
(c) VALS, 2021