Chapter 4 CHAPTER 03

Dante Valentini

I'm kneeling on the cold kitchen floor, my head lowered and my hands resting on my thighs as I wait for my parents to finish dinner. I'm not allowed to move or look up. I have to wait until they decide whether they're satisfied with the meal. If they aren't, I know I'll go without food again. My legs are starting to ache from staying in the same position for so long, but I don't dare shift. The last time I did, my father said I was being impatient and made me go without dinner for two days.

So I remain perfectly still. It's better this way. The less they notice my presence, the less likely something is to happen. I listen to the silverware clinking against the plates on the dining table. The silence in the house is heavy, broken only by the small sounds of their meal and my racing heartbeat. I try to detect any sign that I've done something wrong. My mother is still eating. That's good. My father is too. Maybe they like it. Maybe today I'll be allowed to eat whatever is left.

My stomach clenches painfully at the thought. I haven't eaten since last night, but I try to ignore my hunger. I learned a long time ago that showing it only makes things worse. My father drops his spoon onto the table with a sharp clatter. My entire body stiffens. I know that sound. I keep my eyes on the floor, focusing only on the noises around me. The silence that follows weighs even more heavily on the kitchen.

“It's barely edible,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “You've made worse, but it's still horrible.”

My heart sinks. What's horrible about it? The taste? The seasoning? Did I not add enough salt? Did I cook it too long? Maybe I used an ingredient he didn't want. I don't know. He never tells me exactly what I did wrong. He just says it's bad and expects me to know how to do better next time. But how am I supposed to improve something when I don't even know what I did wrong?

I should have asked while I was preparing it. No. If I'd asked, he would've gotten angry because I should already know. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor interrupts my thoughts. I hold my breath. I don't lift my head, but I follow his movements out of the corner of my eye. I watch as he stands, picks up the soup bowl with the leftovers, and walks over until he's standing right in front of me. My fingers dig into my own thighs.

Please don't hit me. Please.

Without any warning, he throws the bowl onto the floor. The hot soup spreads across the floor, staining the tiles and splashing directly onto my exposed thigh. The heat burns my skin, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from crying out.

“Eat,” he orders, pointing at the floor. “That's what you're eating today. If you can't even make a decent bowl of soup, you should be grateful I still let you eat the leftovers.”

I stare at the soup spilled across the floor. I already know what he wants. Even so, I reach out with a trembling hand to pick up the bowl, clinging to the foolish hope that maybe, just this once, he'll let me use something to eat with. The slap strikes my face before my fingers can reach the dish. The force of the blow knocks me sideways, sending me crashing onto the hard floor. A sharp pain explodes across my cheek, and for a few seconds, my vision blurs.

“Eat like the dog you are, you worthless piece of trash!” he bellows, his voice echoing through the kitchen. “All you ever bring your mother and me is disappointment. We've given you everything: a roof over your head, clothes on your back, food to eat... And all we ask is that you help with the housework, and you can't even do that right!”

Dog. The word shouldn't hurt anymore. I've heard it so many times that I should be used to it by now. My father always calls me a dog when he wants to remind me of my place. Dogs don't sit at the table. They don't complain about their food. Dogs obey and are grateful for whatever they're given. And in this house, that's exactly how he treats me.

Maybe that's why they almost never let me eat at the table. Maybe that's why I have to wait until they're both finished before finding out whether I'll be allowed to eat the leftovers. Maybe that's why, when he's particularly angry, my food ends up on the floor. My father delivers a hard kick to my thigh, and I curl in on myself from the impact. Pain spreads through my leg, but I hold back a groan.

I can't cry. He hates it when I cry. Or maybe he likes it. I've never been able to figure that out. Nothing I do is ever enough. I can clean the entire house, prepare the meals, stay quiet, and do exactly everything they tell me to do. Still, something will be wrong. And when there's nothing wrong, they find something. Sometimes I wonder what I have to do for my father to look at me and tell me I've done something right.

Just once. He doesn't have to tell me he loves me. I stopped hoping for that a long time ago. I just want to hear that I've done something right. But it never happens. In the end, I'm always the one who bears the brunt of their frustration and anger.

“Darling, that's enough,” my mother intervenes, rising from the table. “He won't be able to do his chores if you keep this up. Let's leave the trash to clean up the kitchen.”

She approaches and crouches in front of me. Without warning, she grabs my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to look up.

“Tomorrow's food had better be better than this, Dante,” she whispers close to my face, tightening her grip on my hair even more viciously. “Because if I have to eat this garbage again, you'll forget how to walk. I'll beat you so badly you'll beg for death.”

Tears gather in my eyes, blurring my vision. The pain in my scalp is unbearable.

“W-Why do you treat me like this?” I manage to ask, my voice thick and breaking. “I'm your son...”

I hate how weak my own voice sounds. I hate even more that, after everything, a part of me still hopes for a different answer. She lets out a cold laugh and pulls my hair even harder, drawing a muffled groan of pain from me.

“I never wanted a useless son like you. You should be grateful I didn't throw you away the moment you were born.”

She abruptly releases me, making my head fall forward, and stands up.

“Clean up this mess. And no food for you today.”

They both leave the kitchen, and I listen to their footsteps fading down the hallway until I'm alone on the freezing floor. I can't hold it in anymore. The tears finally spill down my cheeks, and I give in to my sobs. Not just because of the bruises scattered across my body or the physical pain from the kicks and slaps, but because of all this suffering that never seems to end. I just want someone to take care of me, someone to love me. A family that actually wants me.