She was glad he was dead. It was a horrible thing to think about anyone, much less a parent, but the world was an improved place in his absence. Cornelius was a saint compared to her father. She often wondered what could have created a monster like him. Escaping the clutches of his household had been the most freeing moment of her life. She often replayed in her mind the formative events of her childhood.

Meals were quiet, her father seated at the head of the table, with her sister and herself fixed at the sides. They would watch him drain a flask of whiskey between bites of cube steak, his nightly indulgence. “What are you looking at?” he would begin calling out as the liquor took hold. The interrogation always devolved into a completely unwarranted explosion of anger. The house was dirty. The food was awful. The money was disappearing. Everything was their fault. And so they paid for it.

Xandria tried for years not to blame him. Not directly, anyway. He was suffering. Their mother had died—a victim of cancer—and he was left in the wake, trying to take care of two small girls who missed their mother. How could he make up for the loss? He couldn’t. He tried his best, but he couldn’t. Xandria and her sister pulled away from him as a result. Fearing loneliness, her father began putting restrictions on them. They were not allowed out of the house for days at a time. He pulled them out of school. They soon found themselves scared and friendless.

And that’s when the real pain began.

Religion had always been a part of her father’s life. But somehow, combined with alcohol, it turned into something ugly. Something evil. He would rant about how God had created women to serve men. Unless his two daughters learned how to serve him, they would never make it to the holy hereafter. But there was nothing holy about his brand of servitude.

Late one night, Xandria heard screaming coming from her sister’s room. She hid under her covers and stuffed her pillow in her ears. It wasn’t enough to muzzle the sound of her sister calling out to her for help. But what could she do? Their father was too strong, even drunk, for Xandria to stop him. Her sister continued to call out. Xandria rose from her bed and opened her bedroom door. Her sister’s door was directly across from hers. It was cracked open. The sounds coming from inside nauseated her. “Help me,” pleaded her sister. “Please . . .”

She looked down at the scars on her arms, her legs, her chest. They felt like they were burning. Then she heard her sister’s voice again, more frail this time.

“Xandria . . .”