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My sister and I were huddled on the floor of the tiny bathroom that was located between our two bedrooms. Our bathroom was tucked away from the rest of the house and offered the most privacy, so it was often our place of refuge in the tiny house. We could hear our parents screaming at one another, like they've done a thousand nights before. Ellie curled up closer to me and whispered, "How bad do you think this one is going to get?" I shrugged my shoulders and told her to be quiet.

Suddenly, we heard my mother scream, "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" And then, there was a moment of silence before we heard the sound of skin slapping skin, repeating several times. My father had smacked her. We knew it was hard to enough to knock her down, because we heard the familiar thumping of her body hitting the floor. It was a sound we had heard so many times before.

And then, as usual, the sound of my father smashing whatever breakable object was in reach vibrated through the house. Our house had become practically empty due to the many nights he would smash the furniture, dishes, photographs, and any other object that he could shatter. There is a scar on Ellie's leg from the time he shattered the coffee table and a splintered piece of would went flying through the air and caught her skin. It seemed as if everything our father touched would eventually be destroyed, including his own family.

The smashing and breaking eventually stopped and I could hear my father muttering curse words. He let out a loud belch and muttered something else I couldn't decipher. I heard him moving around, but everything was suddenly and eerily quiet. As much as it hurt to listen to the sound of my mother's sobs, I would much rather hear that than the silence. The silences always seemed so much louder and more frightening than the fighting, because I never knew what those silences meant. My entire body stiffened and I felt like I was bracing myself for something even worse. Ellie sucked in her breath as she leaned her ear against the door with the hope of hearing my mother stirring. I silently prayed to hear my mother's voice, to hear her cry, or to hear her do anything at all. But, the air was filled with that dreadful silence.

"Susan," my father cried, "Wake up! I didn't mean it! Susan! Wake up, baby, I didn't mean it! Oh, my, God!"

I heard his fists bang on something, perhaps the wall; as if he was trying to startle her awake. I began to shake and wonder if I should dare find the telephone and

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