Content Warning (18+) This book is intended for mature audiences only (18+).

It contains scenes and themes that may be disturbing or inappropriate for younger readers, including but not limited to: Violence and graphic descriptions Strong language Sexual content Psychological distress Dark or sensitive themes Reader discretion is advised.

Vera—that was her name. A girl with a pale, beautiful face, long black hair, and striking green eyes. She was already an adult, yet still attending her final year of school. School was her escape.

When she returned home, she found her stepfather sitting in front of the television, drinking. Though he was only her stepfather, she called him her father. Her mother had been gone for a long time—neither of them had her anymore. Vera had lost her mother, and her stepfather, John, had lost his wife.

Vera barely remembered her mother’s face, but she did remember that this man—the one now sitting and drinking in front of the TV—had raised her since she was little. He had taken the place of the father she never knew, and she never questioned it. He was her father. She had accepted that long ago, especially since she had no memory of her real one.

She brought John a glass of water, her hands trembling slightly.

“I’m home,” she said quietly, holding the glass out toward him.

The smell hit her immediately—he had been drinking the entire time she was at school. He reeked of whiskey, his eyes dull and glassy from hours in front of the TV.

After a moment, John managed to lift his unfocused gaze toward her. His face was flushed from alcohol. Suddenly, he grabbed the glass from her hand and drank it in one gulp. Without a word of thanks, he slammed the empty glass onto the coffee table, the sharp sound cutting through the noise of the television.

“Where were you?” he growled, his speech slurred. “I’ve been sitting here all day waiting for you to come home. You think you can just leave me?!”

He struggled to stand, towering over her smaller frame.

“You’re just like your mother,” he hissed, the words dripping like poison. “Always leaving me when I need you the most. I won’t tolerate that. Do you hear me?! Stay here—with me. This is where you belong.”

His hand shot out, grabbing her arm roughly, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

“I was at school… like always,” Vera replied, her voice shaking. Fear was evident in every word. This wasn’t the first time he had grabbed her like this—but it never stopped terrifying her. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had seen him sober.

His grip tightened.

“School?! That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?” he snapped. “You think you’re too good for me because of all that fancy learning? I’ll show you who’s in charge here.”

He yanked her closer, the stench of whiskey filling her lungs.

“You’re my daughter. You’ll do what I say. No more school. No more friends. You’ll stay here and take care of me like a good girl should.”

His other hand grabbed her chin painfully, forcing her to look at him.

“You’re worse than your mother. At least she had the decency to leave quietly. But you… you think you can disrespect me in my own house?”

He released her face—only to strike her. The sound echoed through the small living room.

“You ungrateful little rat,” he snarled. “I feed you, I give you a roof over your head—and this is how you repay me?”

Vera stepped back slightly, saying nothing. There was no point responding to the drunken accusations spilling from him.

John watched her retreat with a cruel smile.

“That’s right. Back away,” he mocked. “You know you deserve it. You know what happens when you don’t respect me.”

Suddenly, he lunged forward, his fist clenched.

“I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!”

He swung at her.

“Don’t touch me!” Vera cried, stumbling backward before instinctively turning and running toward the stairs. It wasn’t a smart decision—but it was the only one she had.

She slipped.

Immediately, she felt his hand clamp around her ankle. He always knew how to catch his prey—even drunk.

He dragged her down with brutal force. She hit the floor hard, crying out in pain.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, climbing over her with his full weight. “You’ll stay here until I’m done with you.”

He raised his fist again.

“You think you can run from me? Avoid punishment?”

His blows came down without control, without mercy.

“I’ll make sure you never forget who’s in charge.”

He kept hitting her, not caring where his fists landed.

Bruises quickly began to bloom across Vera’s face and body. When he finally stopped, she didn’t move. Through swollen eyes, she watched him stand up, brush off his pants as if nothing had happened.

He returned to his chair, picked up the whiskey bottle, and drank.

The television drowned out Vera’s quiet sobbing.

She lay there on the floor, her entire body aching, tears streaming down her face. John sat there, drinking and watching TV, completely indifferent to the suffering he had caused.

The night went on.

And Vera remained on the floor—too hurt, too afraid to move.

Morning came sooner than Vera had expected. She hadn't even heard when John had finally stumbled off to bed during the night, but she woke the moment he tripped over her body lying on the floor. In truth, she had fallen asleep exactly where he had beaten her.

Still hazy from all the whiskey he had drunk, John barely realized what he had tripped over. But the instant he recognized Vera, anger and disgust flashed across his face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled. "Get out of the way before I trip over you again."

His words were accompanied by a rough kick to her thigh. Vera lifted her head and slowly forced herself to her feet. Her body still ached, stiff and sore after spending the entire night on the hard floor. She looked at him with a mixture of fear and quiet resentment but said nothing, knowing full well what would happen if she dared to argue.

He walked past her without the slightest concern for her condition, but after a few steps he turned back to look at her trembling figure.

"And don't think this is over," he warned. "You're still grounded for what you said yesterday. There won't be any school for you today."

The threat hung heavily in the air as he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her standing there, unsteady and shaking.

Eventually, Vera gathered enough courage to follow him. John was right—there was no school that day. Not just because he had forbidden it, but because it was Saturday, and school simply wasn't in session.

Summoning every bit of courage she had, she decided to ask if she could go to the city library for a few hours.

As she approached the kitchen, John glanced up from his newspaper. The moment he saw her, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What do you want?" he asked gruffly. "I thought I made it clear. You're staying home."

She hesitated, but despite his warning, she quietly asked her question anyway. Her voice trembled as she spoke.

"Could I... could I go to the library for a few hours? Please?"

At her request, John lowered the newspaper onto the table and stared at her for a long, silent minute. Vera shifted nervously from one foot to the other, wringing her hands together.

"Fine," he said at last, his answer sharp and dismissive as he waved a hand carelessly. "But don't even think about coming back late or trying anything stupid. When you're done, you come straight home." His voice hardened. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," she mumbled. "Thank you."

Relief flickered across her face. Whenever she was frightened, Vera often addressed John formally. She called him sir, and he never corrected her. He had never cared much about titles or manners, so long as his stepdaughter wasn't insulting him.

She hurried toward the front door, grabbing her jacket as she went, eager to leave the house as quickly as possible. But before stepping outside, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

"And... maybe we could talk later?" she asked timidly. "About... about everything?"

John's expression hardened instantly. He slammed the newspaper he had just picked back up onto the table, but by the time he turned to answer, Vera was already gone. She had probably rushed out the moment she saw his reaction.

With a heavy sigh, John walked over to close the front door, which she had left slightly ajar in her haste. Through the window, he caught a glimpse of the girl already sitting by the window of a bus pulling away from the stop.

"She's certainly quick," he muttered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he shut the door.

The house fell silent.

He was alone again, with only the bottle of whiskey sitting on the living room table beside him. His oldest friend... and his worst enemy.

Without a word, he reached for the bottle and took a long drink before lowering himself into the worn armchair where he always sat when he drank.

He drank, and he waited for Vera to come home.

There was something he never admitted to anyone—not even to himself. Sometimes, when he looked at her, she reminded him so much of her mother that it hurt. In his own broken way, he loved the girl.

But the whiskey bottle had been his companion for far too many years, and he still couldn't bring himself to let it go.

Maybe one day.

But today was not that day.

Reader Advisory: The following chapter contains themes of domestic violence, child abuse, and emotional trauma, including scenes of physical assault. Some readers may find the content upsetting.

Vera was indeed late getting home. She knew John had probably managed to get himself drunk while she was gone, if only so he could remind her that she was late and use it as an excuse to punish her. He had never actually told her how long she was allowed to stay at the library.

The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she stepped through the front door. The sound was enough to alert John's alcohol-clouded mind that his stepdaughter had returned. He was already drunk—a half-empty bottle of whiskey stood on the table in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot, and barely restrained anger simmered beneath the surface as he turned to face the girl.

"Well, well," he muttered bitterly. "Look who finally decided to grace me with her presence. And look at the time. You're late. Again."

He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, knocking the chair over behind him. The loud crash made Vera flinch, and instinctively she took a step back toward the door.

"You think you can come and go whenever you want?" John hissed, appearing beside her far quicker than his drunken state should have allowed. "You think I don't notice my own daughter showing me this kind of disrespect?"

Before she could react, he seized her arm with surprising force, dragging her farther into the house. With his other hand, he slammed the still half-open front door shut behind her.

"I've had enough of your disobedience," he growled. "It's time you learned your lesson once and for all."

His free hand rose, fingers curling into a fist, ready to strike.

Vera shrank away from him, raising her free arm to shield her face.

At the sight of the gesture, John hesitated. His fist froze in the air above his cowering stepdaughter. He slowly released the arm he was holding. For the briefest moment, something that almost resembled regret—or uncertainty—crossed his face. But the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same familiar anger.

"Get up," he demanded, his voice trembling with rage. "Get up and face me like a woman instead of cowering there like a coward."

Vera didn't move. Slumped against the wall where she had collapsed after he let go, she kept both arms wrapped tightly around her head. Her whole body was shaking.

John grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to pull her upright, but she only curled into herself even tighter.

"Damn it!" he shouted, shaking her violently. "I said get up!"

At last, Vera slowly pushed herself to her feet, her head lowered, eyes fixed on the floor.

"I'm sorry for being late," she whispered.

For a long moment John simply stared at her. His chest rose and fell heavily with anger and exertion. Gradually, the grip of his hands on her shoulders loosened, and he took a slow step backward.

"Sorry?" he repeated, every syllable dripping with mockery. "Sorry? Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and disappointment.

"You know what? I'm tired of this. I'm tired of your constant disobedience. I'm your father, and you will respect me."

He turned away from her, pacing back and forth in front of the television. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a lower, more threatening tone.

"You're grounded. Indefinitely. No more school, no more going anywhere. You'll stay right here where I can keep an eye on you."

He finally stopped, staring over his shoulder at the wall rather than at her.

For the first time since she'd come home, Vera looked up at him. Tomorrow was Sunday—there wasn't any school anyway. She held his gaze, her own expression strangely cold.

"If Mom were here... this would be her fault," she said quietly.

The words were soft enough to be nearly drowned out by the television, but not so quiet that John failed to hear them.

His face immediately flushed red with fury.

He turned toward her, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

"What did you say?" he hissed through gritted teeth, taking a slow, menacing step toward her. "What did you just say about your mother?"

Vera instinctively backed away, realizing her mistake a moment too late. She shook her head frantically as she retreated.

"I didn't mean it... I didn't..." she stammered, her frightened voice breaking apart.

But John was already moving toward her. His eyes looked wild now, consumed entirely by rage.

"You ungrateful little brat!" he roared. "How dare you talk about your mother? She was nothing but a selfish bitch who abandoned us!"

He grabbed Vera by the throat and slammed her back against the wall. The impact forced the air from her lungs, and she gasped desperately, clawing at his hands as dark spots began to dance before her eyes.

"If she were here..." John snarled, his fury burning hotter with every passing second.

Vera struggled with all the strength she had left, trying to pry his iron grip from around her neck. Somehow, she managed to pull in the smallest breath and force out a single, barely audible word.

"I'm... sorry."

The moment the words left her lips, John let go.

Vera collapsed to the floor, coughing violently and struggling for air. John remained standing over her, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing after unleashing his anger.

"You're just like her," he said, the words falling from his lips like poison. "You think you can say whatever you want, do whatever you want, without consequences? Well, I'll show you. I'll beat that rebellious streak out of you once and for all."

Then he began kicking her in the ribs and sides until tears streamed down her face. She curled herself into a ball, desperately trying to protect what she could from the blows.

"You'll learn to respect me," he growled through clenched teeth. "You'll learn your place. And if I have to beat you every single day until you do, then that's exactly what I'll do."

 He struck her without mercy, letting his anger consume him completely.

In the end, the girl simply gave up. She lay there, taking the beating that had become all too common within the walls of that house. She cried until there were no tears left, and then she closed her eyes as consciousness slipped away.

As darkness claimed her, she found herself praying that she would never wake again—that this would be the last time she would ever have to suffer.