Alina Valez was six years old the first time her father hit her.
She remembered the smell before the sting—the sharp bite of whiskey and sweat, cigarette smoke woven into his clothes like rot. He'd spilled his drink when she accidentally bumped the table. He looked down at the shattered glass, then at her, and she knew—somehow she already knew—what was coming.
His palm cracked across her face before she could even cry.
It didn't leave a bruise. Not that time.
That was the beginning.
---
The House of Breaking Glass
Her parents weren't always like that—or maybe they were, and she just hadn't seen it yet. Children believe what they're told. And Alina had been told that her family was normal. That her father, Miguel, was "just tired from work." That her mother, Elena, "needed quiet." That love looked like slammed doors and broken dishes.
Miguel had been charming once. That's what her mother used to say, anyway. "He was sweet back then," Elena whispered once when she thought Alina was asleep. "Before the drinking. Before you."
It stuck.
Before you.
As if Alina had ruined something just by being born.
Her earliest memories were soaked in tension—muffled fights behind closed doors, her father's voice rising like thunder, her mother crying silently into the bathroom sink. She learned quickly to tiptoe, to disappear, to keep her mouth shut and her eyes lowered.
But silence didn't protect her.
Nothing did.
---
Her Father's Decline
Miguel worked construction—when he worked. But mostly, he drank. It started with beer after work, then vodka at lunch, and finally whiskey with breakfast. By the time Alina was eight, he was more liquor than man. A walking firestorm of rage and resentment. His fists were fast. His voice was louder than God.
He wasn't always angry for a reason. Sometimes, it was just the sound of her breathing. The way she chewed. How her shoes squeaked on the kitchen floor. Anything could trigger him. Everything did.
And when he snapped, it was like watching a dam burst.
He'd grab her by the arm and shove her into walls. Slap her so hard her ears rang. Drag her by the hair, scream in her face until her vision blurred. Once, he threw a chair across the room—she ducked, and it shattered the window behind her. He didn't apologize. He never did.
Instead, he'd say:
> "You made me do it."
"Stop crying. You're so fucking dramatic."
"You think I wanted a goddamn brat like you?"
She learned not to scream.
---
Her Mother's Silence
Elena Valez wasn't like her husband. She didn't hit. She didn't scream. She evaporated. Day by day, piece by piece, until she was nothing but a shell with red lipstick and tired eyes.
She was weak, but cruel in quieter ways.
She never stopped Miguel. Never stepped between them. Never asked if Alina was okay afterward. She'd patch up bloody knees with trembling hands and offer limp excuses.
> "Your father's under a lot of stress."
"If you just behaved, he wouldn't get like this."
"You need to toughen up, Alina."
When the bruises got too dark, she'd keep Alina home from school. Not to protect her—but to hide the evidence. Elena's love came with conditions, and most of the time, Alina failed to meet them.
Worse, her mother resented her.
Sometimes she would stare at Alina like she was a stranger—or worse, a mistake. There was no warmth in her voice anymore. Just blame.
> "He used to love me, you know. Before you ruined everything."
Alina didn't understand how a child could ruin a marriage. But she accepted the guilt. Wore it like a second skin. Children always think it's their fault.
---
The Night of the Divorce
Alina was thirteen when the last fight happened.
It started like all the others. Her father came home drunk, tripping over the carpet, shouting Elena's name like a curse. Something about bills. Or maybe the stove being broken. Or the fact that Elena had burned dinner—again. It didn't matter. It never mattered.
He threw a plate.
It shattered against the wall near Alina's head.
That was the first time Elena screamed back.
She stood up. Shaking, but defiant. Called him a monster. Told him to leave. That she was done. That she'd call the cops if he laid another finger on her or Alina.
And Miguel laughed.
A cold, dry laugh that cracked the air. Then he turned toward Alina.
Something shifted in her mother's face then—some ancient instinct finally woke up. Elena stepped between them, arms spread wide like wings.
> "Not this time," she whispered.
The next morning, Miguel was gone.
Elena filed for divorce within the week.
---
Aftermath
They moved into a small one-bedroom apartment. Cheap, cramped, cold. The wallpaper peeled. The radiator groaned. The ceiling leaked when it rained.
But at least there were no fists.
Alina waited to feel safe.
She never did.
Her mother changed. Or maybe she just revealed who she always was. Bitter. Hollow. Angry all the time but too exhausted to show it.
She didn't hit, but her words cut deeper than bruises.
> "You think life's supposed to be easy?"
"You have no idea what I gave up for you."
"You're just like your father."
That one hurt most.
Because she feared it might be true.
---
Her Father's Death
Miguel died when Alina was sixteen.
She found out from a news article. "Local Man Dies in Drunk Driving Crash." No funeral. No condolences. Just one photo in the paper—his mugshot, not even a recent one—and a line that said survived by an ex-wife and one child.
She didn't cry.
She didn't feel anything at all.
But something inside her shifted.
Not closure. Not freedom. Just… silence. Like a radio finally going quiet after years of static.
She stayed in the shower that day for an hour, scrubbing her skin raw. Not because she felt dirty—but because she didn't know what else to do with her hands.
---
The Woman Left Behind
Elena didn't grieve. Not openly. But something in her cracked deeper that day.
She started drinking at night. Cheap wine. Then harder stuff. She took pills for migraines she didn't have. Started disappearing for days at a time. Sometimes she brought men home—shifty-eyed strangers who smelled like oil and spoke to Alina like she wasn't a person.
Once, Elena called her "a burden."
Another time: "a reminder of every mistake I ever made."
Alina stopped trying to make her proud.
Stopped trying to be anything at all.
She just wanted out.
---
The Escape
At eighteen, Alina applied to every out-of-state university she could find. Anywhere that would take her. Anywhere that offered a scholarship. Anywhere far.
She got into Saint Lucian University—full ride.
She packed two bags, left a note, and left before dawn. Her mother never called.
No goodbyes. No hugs. No apology.
She stood on that bus with nothing but scars and silence, and told herself she'd become someone new.
But trauma doesn't leave quietly.
And Alina Valez?
She was haunted.