Her mother placed a bowl of peeled potatoes in front of her. The girl looked up at her mother, silently conveying her question through her eyes. Her mother nodded at the knife and cutting board.

  ‘Chop those up; we’ll be having chicken stew for dinner today! Don’t you just love chicken stew?” her mother gushed, her voice tinged with false happiness.

  The girl turned away, starting to chop the potatoes up. She disliked chicken stew, her mother knew that. But they were having that dish tonight because it was her father’s favourite. Her mother’s betrayal stung, like a sore blister on a toe, like a wretched ulcer in . It was as if he had never ever gone to prison, never ever beat her up. Everything her mother did, she did according to her father’s preference. Just like tonight.

  The girl finished with the first potato and poured the chop pieces into another bowl. She grabbed the second one and started chopping that up too. With each cut, she struck the knife down hard, as though she was getting her revenge on her father. She struck the knife down time and time again, her mind filled with nothing but the rage she felt towards her father.

  She finished the second potato and was about to move on to the third when suddenly, someone grabbed her wrist. She did not need to look up to know who it was.

  Her father took up the bowl of cut potatoes and examined them carefully. Then, without a warning, he flung the bowl towards the floor so that the china broke and the potato pieces littered the floor. The girl flinched as the glass shards grazed her legs, but no tears filled her hollow eyes.

  “What is this ?! Can’t you cut them up in neat, square pieces?! Do it again!” he scolded, barging off to get a beer.

  Pride in her heart, the girl got a broom and started sweeping the glass shards and ruined potato pieces away, and still no weeping came from her. Once she cleared the mess up, she resumed to chopping the potatoes, purposefully cutting them up in irregular shapes. Once done, she dumped the whole lot into the boiling pot, not bothering to put the lid on or wash the bowls. This was her only way to show her defiance, that she was NOT okay with the things going on in this household. She would get hell for it later, that was sure, but not doing anything meant that she was conceding to her father, at least, that was how she saw it.

  She climbed up the steps, then slammed her room door and lay on her bed, finally allowing the tears to flow. They wet her pillow, staining the plain, blue fabric, turning it into a darker shade of blue. She wept and wept, her body racking and heaving with her sobs.

  “Are you done crying yet?”

  The girl jerked up from her bed, and stared incredulously at the window sill. For there sat the boy, cocking his head at her with an expression written with concern. She put her hands to to stop the surprised exclamation from rising up .

  She moved slowly to him, running her fingers through his hair, feeling his cheeks, cupping his face in her hands. And then the tears started to flow again, but they were happy tears this time, filled with joy that he was here. Here. In her very own room, in front of her very eyes.

  The boy smiled at her gently and landed lightly in her room.

  “I saw everything. The way that man treated you. Is he your father? What has been happening?” the boy asked, the worried expression back again.

  At these words, the girl gave way again, almost collapsing to the floor with her sobs had not the boy supported her. His firm arms caught her under her armpits, pulling her up to a standing position.

  “~~~~~,” he said, clumsily wiping the tears from her face, but all he succeeded in doing was to smear the salty moisture all over her face.

  She laughed half-heartedly at his clumsy maneuver.

  He laughed too, but turned her to face him.

  “~~~~~~. What has been happening?” he asked again.

  And out the words came tumbling, all the rage and fear and bitterness came pouring out of her heart, and she blubbered on and on, her voice rising higher as she told him more and more.

  Finally, he put a finger to her lips to shush her, and this time he managed to whipe the tears that had re-appeared on her face.

  “What now?’ she whispered, never ever feeling so helpless.

  And he threw her arms around her, drawing her tightly to him.

  “It’ll be okay, trust me,” he whispered in her ear, arms tightly bound around her.

  She hugged her friend back, burying her face in his shoulder, even though they weren’t broad. She was glad for his comfort, for his presence, for his concern.

  He hugged her tighter.

  “Don’t worry, ~~~~~~-ah! I’m always there for everyone, you especially,” he murmured.

  “Thank you. Thank you for being there when I thought no one wasn’t,” she whispered back, the tears gone now, the bitterness exterminated.