Waking Up to Murder

Jane's POV

The sharp crack of leather cutting through air pierced the darkness like death's scythe.

Fire erupted across my back as I knelt on the cold floor, my small body convulsing with pain. Tears blurred my vision, but I could still make out my father's face—Thomas Miller's features twisted with rage and disgust that I never understood, never deserved.

In the corner of the room, Linda stood perfectly still, arms crossed over her chest, not a trace of sympathy or mercy in her expression. Those cold eyes watched everything unfold like she was observing some play that had nothing to do with her. Her red manicured nails tapped steadily against her arm - somehow more devastating than the belt itself.

"Daddy, please stop!" My voice came out broken and raw. "I'm your daughter! Why are you doing this to me? What did I do wrong?"

I reached out with trembling little hands, trying to grab hold of his pant leg, desperate for even the smallest hint of warmth or mercy. In my desperation, I turned to my stepmother. "Linda, please... please make him stop..."

But Linda just looked away with disgust, her lips curling in contempt. She turned toward her vanity and began organizing her jewelry, as if my cries were nothing more than annoying background noise.

"You goddamn little slut!" Thomas's voice roared from the depths of hell as he raised the belt again. "You're just like your whore mother! Dirty blood, dirty genes!"

"She deserves it." Linda finally spoke, her voice so calm it made my blood freeze. "Just like her dead mother—nothing but trouble. Thomas, you're doing the right thing."

Those words cut deeper than any belt ever could. I stared at her in disbelief, this woman who used to pretend to care about me when my father was watching, now showing her true face.

"No! That's not true!" I screamed hysterically. "Mom was good! Mom loved us! She wasn't like that!"

The belt came down again, harder this time. Linda continued arranging her diamond necklace, a satisfied smile actually playing at the corners of her mouth. She was enjoying this—my pain, my humiliation. She relished seeing the "previous wife's daughter" brought low.

"Daddy, it's me... it's Jane, your daughter..." My voice grew weaker, the light in my eyes fading. "Why... why do you hate me so much?"

Thomas's face blurred and twisted in the darkness, becoming something monstrous and terrifying. Linda moved to his side, stroking his shoulder as she whispered, "Because she doesn't belong, Thomas. She'll never belong in our family."

"No—!"

I jolted awake, gasping.

My chest heaved as cold sweat soaked through my thin nightshirt. My heart hammered so violently I thought it might burst from my ribcage. The ceiling above me looked gray and oppressive in the dim light filtering through my apartment windows.

I reached back with shaking hands to touch my back. The scars were long gone, but the pain felt so real, as if I'd just endured another beating from my father's belt. What hurt even more was remembering Linda's cold eyes—that look of pure disgust, like I was nothing more than garbage.

Tears fell without my permission, dropping onto the cold sheets. Those childhood nightmares still haunted me, reminding me of the helplessness, the pain, and the complete abandonment by the people who were supposed to love me most.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and curled up against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. The apartment felt too big, too empty.

Even now, at twenty-six, successful in my own right as a novelist, I still felt like that terrified little girl begging for mercy that never came. Ironically, the inspiration for my novel came from none other than my father and stepmother.

Why couldn't they just love me? The question echoed in my mind like it had a thousand times before. What was so wrong with me that my own father couldn't stand the sight of me?

The worst part wasn't even the physical abuse—it was the way they talked about my mother. Sarah Miller had been everything good in my world before she died. A police officer who fought for justice, who tucked me in at night and told me stories about brave girls who saved the day. But in Thomas's mouth, her memory became something ugly and twisted.

I knew the truth, though. Mom had been pure light, and when she died, that light went out of our house forever. Thomas couldn't handle his grief, couldn't handle being left alone with a daughter who looked so much like the wife he'd lost. And Linda... Linda had just been waiting for the chance to push out any reminder of the woman who came before her.

The digital clock on my nightstand read 3:47 AM. I'd been having these dreams more frequently lately, as if something was stirring up all the old wounds. Maybe it was stress from my latest book deadline, or maybe it was just the spring weather making me feel restless and unsettled.

I pressed my face against my knees and tried to push the memories back down where they belonged. I'd worked so hard to build a life away from all that darkness. My novels were doing well, I had my own place, and I'd cut all ties with Thomas years ago. I was supposed to be free.

But freedom from the past was harder to achieve than I'd thought. Some scars went deeper than skin.

I stayed curled up against the wall until exhaustion finally pulled me back under, my cheek pressed against my knees, still tasting the salt of tears on my lips.