Tonight had been bad. I stared at the door and tried not to whimper as the weight of the evening crashed down on me.

"What is this?" His tone was bitter as he stared at the plate in front of him. I had made him steak and potatoes, just like he asked. The hard thump pounded in my ears as I ran through the options of what could be wrong with it.

Using his knife, Jack sliced at the meat and pointed at the center of it with his fork. The juices dripped red from the center, and the edge was crisp. I didn't understand; it looked perfect to me, and I tried to contain the rumbling in my stomach.

"Too rare," he muttered, but he was still talking to me. Raising his voice, he directed his hard eyes at me, "do you think I'm a wild animal?"

Should've cooked it longer, should've cooked it longer! I told myself, fighting the tremors that threatened to show. I shook my head and dropped my eyes to the floor. The tremors won, and my hands started shaking; I knew what was coming next.

I barely even heard him get up, my mind already blocking out the pain before he even delivered the first blow. Still, I gasped when he grabbed a fistful of my ponytail and dragged me to the living area. A swift punch to the ribs and I was sprawled on the floor, winded from the impact. Not bothering to let me stand back up, Jack literally kicked me while I was down. Again and again, until he decided I had gotten the point.

"Next time," he grunted, "think about what you're making me.

I didn't have the energy to make a sarcastic comment even in my head. I mustered enough strength to cough up some blood and crawl down the stairs. He let me go, returning to his meal. Red meat or not, apparently he was still going to eat it. I rolled my eyes, then what was all the fuss about?!

"Eirenae, get back up here and clean this mess!" Jack yelled from the top of the stairs, effectively jerking me out of my review of the evening.

With a sigh, I slowly unwound myself from the tight ball I was in, sucking in a breath as pain shot through my rib; I was sure it was broken. I crawled from my spot on the bed and across the concrete floor, holding in the whimpers threatening to escape my throat. It took time, but I made it out the door and up the stairs, only to look up into his cold, dark eyes.

"Stop being a lazy brat and go clean up dinner!" He demanded. At least he didn't hit me this time.

I nodded, dropping my eyes to the floor, and ambled my way to the kitchen in an awkward, painful gait. I made it to the sink and turned the water on. It spurted choppily from the nozzle for a moment before evening out somewhat smoothly.

We weren't poor, necessarily, but we definitely weren't well off. Sometimes the heat didn't work, or the water, or the electricity. With just the two of us, Jack was the only one who worked. I would if I could — maybe then I'd use what I earned to get out of here.

But that was far from happening. Jack controlled my life, every bit of it. No work, no friends, no food — except for certain occasions, I had to come up with my own ways to survive — and absolutely no leaving. He'd made that clear several times.

I thought he would just want me dead. I mean, no eating? Why not just kill me now? Obviously he didn't want me around. But then again, no leaving? It didn't add up.

I flinched as water sprayed at me. Shaking it off , I continued scrubbing at the dish in my hands. That's what I was here for: his dirty work. I cooked and I cleaned, and as payment, I got beaten, no food, and the mental inability to speak.

I was completely mute thanks to Jack. I probably could speak if I tried hard enough, but it wasn't like I had a reason to try. And it had been so long since I uttered a word, I didn't even know what it would feel like. But, being mute didn't mean I couldn't make noise. My vocal chords worked perfectly fine — they had been unintentionally tested with cries of pain over the years. That's why I thought I could speak again if I tried hard enough. At the beginning, I kept quiet to make him happy. I got less injuries when I didn't complain, talk back, or try to reason. Nearly eleven years later, those reasons became enough to shut me up possibly forever. Maybe when I found a reason to try it would come back to me. For now, it was easiest to stay quiet.

I could run, set myself free. I didn't think I'd make it far, but I could try. I sighed with my thoughts. Even if I did run, he'd definitely catch me and I didn't think my body could handle the beating that would come after a stunt like that. Besides, where would I go if I did run? I didn't have money, I didn't have a car, and I didn't have friends; Jack made sure of that. And if Jack wasn't the issue on that one, no one wanted to be friends with the "Mute Freak."

My eighteenth birthday was in just under a month. That should mean in a couple weeks, Jack legally didn't have a hand on the wheel of my life anymore. But when that day came, I knew it wouldn't change anything. Not for me with the situation I was in. Turning eighteen didn't automatically fill my wallet; and that left me at the same place I was now: trapped in the palm of Jack's hand.

I shook my head, reeling in the tears about to fall. When I'd placed the last dish on the drying rack, I grabbed a hand towel and began drying everything I'd just scrubbed clean. Afterwards, I soaked a rag and wiped all the counters and the table, scrubbing some spots to make sure it was really clean. I didn't want Jack finding a sticky spot on the countertop.

When the kitchen was finally spotless, I made my way back through the living room to get to the stairs. My gaze on the floor, I noticed slimy red splotches left from the beating. Probably what I coughed up before going downstairs. With a sigh, I knew I needed to clean that up too.

Grabbing the supplies from the hall closet, I wiped the spots with a cleaning rag before spraying stain remover on the area. Then I scrubbed the floor clean with a new rag until it seemed good enough to me. Plus, it was getting harder and harder to breathe crouched over like that, so I decided it was fine and pushed myself up with a groan. I stashed everything away before making my way down the stairs to my bedroom. The journey there was slow and painful; I had to bite my cheek several times to keep quiet.

The room wasn't much, but at least I had a bed. It was pushed against the wall and only had one quilt on top — my only source of warmth at night. Next to my bed sat my backpack, where I hid the iPod my mother had given to me for my seventh birthday. It was super old, and just a shuffle, so all it could do was play music. I hid the rest of my memories of my family — the way it used to be — under the bed in a little box.

On the other side of the small room sat my dresser — if it could even be called that. It was a small wooden thing with a few drawers that held the few outfits I owned. A door next to it led to the rundown bathroom.

I grimaced as pain shot through my rib again and I knew it was going to take a while to heal. I slipped off my blood-covered shirt and replaced it with an old cotton one. I did the same to my jeans, changing into a pair of old ripped leggings. I brushed my teeth and hair before setting my alarm on the iPod and getting in bed. Just as I did every night, I folded my hands and whispered to whoever might be out there watching me that I wished things would get better for me the next day. It hadn't worked yet, but I still held on to that hope because it was all I had.