SINS OF SILENCE

CHAPTER 1

"Abuse if you slight it, will gradually die away; but if you show yourself irritated, you will be thought to have deserved it." - Tacitus

Isla Isabelle POV

I awoke from a fitful slumber on the cold, filthy carpet of our basement, my sanctuary from the harsh realities of my life. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the creaky staircase, sending shivers down my spine. 

My heart raced as I realized the door was being unlocked, a foreboding sense of dread enveloping me. Instinctively, I pressed myself into the dark corner of the room, hoping to disappear into the shadows, knowing that today would bring another wave of torment.

"Bitch! Wake up, you good-for-nothing slut who sucks up all our money! Get up and make us breakfast now!" 

Sir's voice boomed, filled with venom and contempt. I flinched as cold water splashed over my tiny, fragile body, making me tremble uncontrollably. The biting chill cut through my thin clothing, as if mirroring the coldness that resided within the souls of the people who were supposed to care for me.

I lived with my mother and stepfather, though they denied me the privilege of calling them "mother" and "father." To them, I was a burden, a mistake that had ruined their lives. Instead, they insisted on being addressed as "ma'am" and "sir," a cruel reminder of the emotional distance they maintained.

 I had never known the warmth of parental love, the feeling of being cherished and protected. Instead, I was confined within the four walls of our suffocating home, my world limited to the basement, devoid of sunlight or freedom. 

The reasons behind their restrictions remained a mystery to me, locked away like secrets in a forbidden chest. With tears welling up in my innocent eyes, I mustered the courage to speak, my voice trembling in a baby-like tone. 

"B-but siw, I downt know cook," I stammered, my words filled with vulnerability and a longing for compassion. 

My tiny voice carried the weight of fear and uncertainty, hoping against hope for a glimmer of understanding. Yet, before the words could fully escape my quivering lips, a searing pain shot through my cheek as Sir's hand struck with force. 

The sting of the slap silenced me, a harsh reminder of my insignificance in this cruel and twisted existence.

"I don't care, slut! Get up and do some house chores because I will have a visitor later," sir barked, his words searing into my tender ears. With a jolt, he unchained my feet from the cold, hard ground, his grip tight and painful.

Reluctantly, I followed him up the creaking stairs, my small hand tightly gripping the ragged railing for support. As we ascended, a sense of trepidation gnawed at my heart. I knew all too well the torment that awaited me within those walls. The weight of my responsibilities settled heavily upon my frail shoulders.

Upon reaching the top, I was met with a disheartening scene. There, slumped on our worn-out couch, was my mother, her body limp and lifeless, a bottle of beer clutched in one hand and drugs in the other. 

It was a sight that had become all too familiar—a heartbreaking reminder of the darkness that consumed her. Taking a deep breath, I began my arduous task of cleaning the house, armed only with a worn cloth that was damp with water and dirt. 

My young age had taught me the basics of cleaning, but cooking remained a mystery to me. Despite this, they still forced me to perform tasks beyond my abilities, fully aware of my limitations.

As I diligently wiped the kitchen counter, a surge of panic shot through me when I accidentally knocked over the half-empty bottle of beer. My heart raced, and I prayed fervently that ma'am and sir hadn't heard the loud clatter.