Chapter 5: Oatmeal and Hatchets

Bang! Bang!

The pounding shook the whole house. I jumped, heart in my throat.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The noise grew louder, more frantic. I scrambled out of bed, searching for a way out. There was none.

Someone pounded on the door so hard the whole bed frame shook.

The walls rattled, dust drifting down from the ceiling. I pressed myself against the wall, praying they’d go away.

Suddenly—crash!—a huge noise. The latch snapped, and the door was kicked in, hanging crooked on one side.

Dad stood in the doorway, holding a gleaming hatchet.

His face was hard, eyes wild. The hatchet caught the light, flashing silver. I shrank back, terrified.

He glared at me. “Eat.”

His voice was flat, emotionless. I knew there was no arguing with him—not now.

They dragged me to the table.

Mom hovered behind me, hands on my shoulders. The bowl of oatmeal steamed in front of me, the smell making me gag.

“I’m not feeling well. I’ll skip breakfast,” I said, forcing myself to sound calm.

My voice shook, but I tried to sound casual. Mom’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her face.

“How are you going to get through quarantine on an empty stomach?” Mom said, her smile cold and fake.

She pushed the bowl closer, her nails digging into the table. I could see the fear in her eyes, masked by forced cheerfulness.

“Don’t force me. I’m not a child anymore.”

I stood up, chair scraping against the floor. My legs trembled, but I kept my chin high.

I got up and headed for the door.

My heart pounded, each step harder than the last. I reached for the doorknob, praying I could make it outside.

“Where are you going?” Dad’s voice was low and threatening.

He sounded like a stranger. I froze, hand on the door, afraid to turn around.

Fear twisted inside me—I moved faster.

I pushed the door open, cold air rushing in. I took a step outside, hope flaring for just a second.

Dad lunged and yanked me back, slamming the door shut.

His grip was iron, fingers digging into my arm. The door slammed behind me, cutting off my escape.

He grabbed me from behind and barked, “Pour it down her throat!”

Mom lunged forward, bowl in hand. I twisted and kicked, fighting with everything I had.

I struggled wildly, finally screaming, “Don’t think I don’t know! You poisoned my food!”

My voice echoed through the house. Mom gasped, dropping the bowl. Oatmeal splattered across the floor.

“You don’t want me to pass quarantine! But I have a right to know the truth!”

Tears streamed down my face. I stared at them, pleading, desperate for answers.

Dad froze, then his face twisted in anger, and he raised his hand to slap me.

His hand hovered in the air, trembling. I braced myself, eyes squeezed shut.

Mom jumped between us, crying, “She’s grown up. We should tell her everything…”

Her voice was soft, broken. She clung to Dad’s arm, pulling him back. He let his hand drop, shoulders slumping.

Dad sat motionless in the corner, like a statue in the dim light.

The room fell silent, the only sound my ragged breathing. Shadows crept across the floor as the sun dipped lower.

After a long silence, he let out a heavy sigh.

It sounded like all the air had left his body. He looked at me, eyes haunted.