I gazed into the mirror, my reflection a constant reminder of my father's disdain. It was the face that mirrored someone he'd loved but couldn't keep alive.

    Sometimes, I wished I didn't bear her resemblance. Perhaps then, he wouldn't harbor such animosity toward me. The creak of the door interrupted my thoughts; he was back.

    Rushing to the living room to retrieve his shoes, I tried my best to avoid his gaze.

   "STOP," he commanded.

    I stood still, bracing for what would come next. Surprisingly, he simply uttered, "Get me a glass of water."

   Returning with the glass, our eyes met. His were vacant, yet filled with a sinister edge that sent shivers down my spine.

   Our locked gazes were abruptly shattered by the sound of shattering glass - the glass had fallen. I knew I was in trouble.

   Lowering my head, I waited for his next command.

   "Clean it up!" he ordered.

   Turning to fetch a broom from the kitchen, I was halted in my tracks.

  "No, not with a broom," he stated, arresting my movements. He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a plastic bag. "With your hands," he instructed.

   I knelt down, collecting the tiny glass fragments, my hands gradually turning crimson. "Faster. You still need to prepare dinner," he urged.

  I hurriedly picked up the shards, my palms stinging from the cuts. By the time I finished, there was already a pool of my own blood on the floor.

  My hand bled profusely, so I grabbed a nearby rag and tried to stop the flow. But the bleeding persisted.

  After cleaning up both the glass and my blood, I retreated to the bathroom in search of the first aid kit, but it was nowhere to be found; he had taken it. I improvised, using a torn piece of cloth to wrap my bleeding hand.

  Later, after serving him dinner, I escaped to my room, finally succumbing to tears. Night after night, I cried myself to sleep, trapped in this harrowing cycle.