I am sitting in my shared bedroom. Across from me is the walk-in closet that has no doors which is alongside beige carpeted stairs that lead downstairs to the gray toned blue living room below. My sister and I sit happily in between our two beds which are on either side of the room against the mute colored walls. The room is warm and calm, the yellowed lighting is comforting. I hold my brown haired brown eyed American Girl Doll in my small skinny hands. My sister holds her blonde haired doll. A car door outside slams. We know who it is before we even glance out the window. Below the dark stormy sky is a gravel driveway with a small silver car parked to the left side. He is walking into the house. His posture tensed and stressed. Angry. Over what we have no clue.
“He's home ry.” my sister's eyes go empty as she begins to rise to her feet.

“Clean up a little bit and just stay out of his way.” I say, trying to sound like I have it all figured out. I don't.

I collect our doll clothes and accessories and hurriedly rush to the crib. I toss the doll stuff as well as the dolls into the crib. Dolls don't feel pain. I look at my sister whose eyes are shiny with dismay. The front door slams.

“BANG.” The floor softly rumbles below my feet.

My sister runs to her bed and curls up underneath the comforter facing the wall. My smile is wiped away like footprints at a beach. My mom is hammering downstairs as she stamps letters into a steel circle, she makes necklaces. The thudding of her tools mesh with the beat of my heart and the stomping of his feet as he rushes up the stairs. I hear his deep heavy breathing. 

He reaches the top of the stairs, I sprint into the closet and push the clothes aside and crouch down to hide against the wall behind them. My vision is blurred as tears start to swell along the water lines in my small dark brown eyes. My eyes are the color of oak, A strong fierce tree, However I am neither of those things. He stomps to the bed seeing the silhouette of my sister beneath the shield she thought the blanket would be. He tears it off the bed and begins to yell. The screams and sobs fill my ears, he does not hit with his fists but his booming voice hurts more than anything. Aren't we supposed to feel safe around him? Is he not meant to be a protector? I guess not. 

When he has finished shrieking at my sister he whips around. I cannot see his eyes but I can feel them. They have landed on the closet. I hear his footsteps as he approaches and I feel them as they cause the floor beneath me to quiver, but maybe that is just me. Sweat and tears roll down my face to my chin and mix before they fall to my lap. 

He kneels down and removes the wall of clothing I have hung across me. I blink away my tears and look into his eyes. I do not see longing or love. I see the darkness under a bed at night where children like myself know monsters dwell. I see hatred. I search his face for any remorse as his voice roars. I see none. My eyes begin to blur again creating a veil of water. I feel like I'm drowning. I feel lifeless like the dolls I had played with not ten minutes ago. The only difference? The dolls don't cry. Dolls don't have to live with a monster.