Home

The house is quiet when I get to the door. Still I am cautious. I know what dangers lie in silence enough to not be overly joyed at the lack of music coming from inside. I walk inside and see nothing at first. Lights dim, the noiseless rooms making me more on edge than if there were a marching band in the living room. My eyes track the usual path from the bar to the kitchen, hesitating only slightly at the open liquor cabinet, but stopping completely when they fall on the martini shaker and beer bottles lined up by the trash can.
Then the sound comes, like the rush from an open dam I can hear his pitch less singing over the headphones he wears. The volume varies from very soft to way too loud and it hurts. I debate letting him know that I am home, decide against it, and sneak back to my room, trying hard to not let him see me. If he sees me then I have to talk to him, and if I talk to him I run the risk of not being able to follow the rules.
Once in my room I shut the door and turn the lights off, crawling into my bed which feels so cold. I can’t even cry over it. I can feel the tears behind my eyes, burning, but I can’t force them out. All I can do is drift off to the only place that has offered me comfort in the past couple years. All I can do is drift into blissful sleep where nothing hurts, no matter how deep the cuts are. Where nothing hits, no matter how tempting the taunts are. Where nothing drinks, no matter how much booze there is waiting when he gets home.