Killing My Tyrant Father

Tessa's POV

The bathroom stall door was kicked open, slamming into my face. Before the pain subsided, three girls filled the tiny space.

"Look who's here? Williams' little bitch." Amanda Porter—head cheerleader—grabbed my history textbook and cruelly ripped it in half, smirking.

I backed up against the cold tile wall. "Back off. I didn't do anything to you."

"Aww, the half-Latina slut's gonna cry," Lira Matthews mocked, her crimson nails digging into my shoulder. "Does your daddy know what a loser you are at school? Maybe we should tell him—Chicago's South Side's most feared gang leader should know how pathetic his daughter is."

The third girl yanked my hair hard. "No one would believe the gang leader's daughter anyway. Who'd dare help you? You belong in the gutter, Tessa Williams."

Amanda gripped my chin. "Heard your dad's recruiting. Are you the prize? The gang leader's bitch. Guess you're just like your mom—nothing but a plaything."

She mentioned my mom. That was my line.

Something snapped inside me. SCREW THIS! I roared, kneeing Amanda in the stomach and shoving past the others as she doubled over, bolting out of the bathroom.

The empty hallway stretched before me, footsteps pounding behind. I slammed through the emergency exit, cold air burning my lungs.

Then I saw them.

Three tattooed thugs leaning against a black SUV at the school entrance—my father's ride. They turned toward me simultaneously, their eyes filled with the lust and cruelty I knew too well. Damn, he really sent them to pick me up for "work."

My stomach plummeted as I spun around, fleeing along the outside wall of the school.

Sleet began falling, ice pellets striking my thin jacket. My sneakers slipped on half-melted snow, and after stumbling once, I ducked into an alley, hiding behind a putrid dumpster.

I trembled, unsure if from cold or fear. Icy sleet slid down my cheeks, blurring my vision. But what blurred it more was the memory that kept flashing back—the nightmare I could never escape.

That Sunday, three years ago.

The bathroom door wasn't locked. I pushed it open, wanting to borrow Mom's hair gel. Then I saw her—Elena Williams, once Chicago's most beautiful Latina model—lying motionless in the tub. The water was red. Her wrists turned upward, mangled.

I screamed and rushed toward her, only to be roughly pulled away by my father who came running.

"Don't touch her," Terence Williams said coldly. "She was weak, just like you."

His fists hadn't stopped since. First slaps, then belts, finally anything he could grab. Alcohol made him more violent.

Just last night, he stared at me for a long time while drunk, his gaze chilling me to the bone.

"Your mom's face made me plenty of money," he grinned. "You look like her, time you started paying me back. Jackson's been saying how pretty you are. Tomorrow you're going with him."

Jackson. The gang's second-in-command, whose eyes always slithered over me. The thought of being handed to him made my stomach churn.

I clenched my teeth, wiping sleet from my face. Dusk had deepened, temperature dropping further. I had to return to that hellhole, at least for money and warm clothes. Maybe Dad would be passed out from his hangover.

The lock on our decrepit apartment building had been broken for years. I crept up to the third floor, ears straining for any sound. Please, let him be gone.

The door was unlocked. I pushed it open slowly, darkness filled with alcohol and cigarette stench. The mold stains on the wall seemed to writhe in the dim light. Beer bottles and takeout containers littered the floor.

I tiptoed toward my bedroom, hoping to grab my savings hidden under the mattress.

"Home late, aren't you?"

The voice came from the couch direction, freezing me to my core. The corner lamp suddenly lit up, revealing my father sitting there, half a bottle of whiskey in hand.

"Had... school stuff," I whispered, trying to inch toward my room.

"Stop right there," he commanded. "Jackson came by this afternoon. Was disappointed not to see you. He brought a gift." He pointed to a small box on the coffee table, revealing a cheap necklace.

My stomach twisted. "I won't see him. I won't do that."

He stood up abruptly, snarling, "You think you have a choice? You live in my house, eat my food. Either you behave, or you won't leave this apartment alive, understand, you little tramp?"

I gathered courage and shouted, "I'd rather DIE than let you turn me into Mom! I'm not your merchandise! SCREW your deals!"

His face contorted. The bottle smashed against the wall, glass shards flying everywhere.

"This is what happens when you disobey!" he roared, lunging at me. "Who do you think you are? You're NOTHING without me!"

His fists rained down. I curled up on the floor, tasting iron. He kicked my ribs, and I heard a sharp crack, pain nearly knocking me unconscious.

This is different. A voice screamed inside. He's really going to kill me this time.

When he turned to get another bottle from the kitchen, cursing me as an "ungrateful bitch," I struggled to my feet. The door seemed a mile away. My vision blurred with pain, but survival instinct pushed me forward.

My hand found the doorknob as his curses erupted behind me. I was already out, stumbling down the stairs.

A blizzard had swallowed Chicago's night. I ran through the snow, blood dripping from my mouth, leaving dark red traces on white snow. No destination, just away from that hell.

My vision gradually blurred, each breath torture from my broken ribs. I spotted the silhouette of an abandoned building ahead and dragged my battered body toward it.

My legs finally gave out, and I collapsed in the snow under the building's shadow. As consciousness faded, I thought: if this is the end, at least I didn't give in.

At least I kept my last shred of dignity.

Darkness consumed me, cold strangely turning to warmth. I heard distant engine sounds, saw blinding headlights.

Then a man's voice, rough yet somehow reassuring: "Damn it, hang in there, kid."

Was this a hallucination? Or death's call?

Before consciousness completely slipped away, I had just one thought: whatever it was, it was better than returning to that hell.