The chaos in her house had stopped being rare.
Now it came like evening tea—expected, regular, served without invitation.
Siya's father was no longer just drinking on occasion—
he was drowning in it.
Every day, the smell of alcohol arrived before he did, creeping into their walls, their dinner plates, their sleep.
Where once he'd yell, now he roared.
"Katti bekaar ho tum dono ki tarah!" (Completely useless like the rest of your family!)
"Ek bhi achha kaam nahi kiya apni zindagi mein!" (You've never done a single good thing in your life!)
Siya would watch from the stairs as he hurled abuses at her mother—words that cut deeper than a slap.
Her mother never yelled back.
She stayed quiet, wiping tears, holding herself together for the sake of her children.
Her little brother would hide behind curtains.
Sometimes peek from behind the door.
But he never stepped in.
And Siya?
She became the quiet witness.
The girl who never spoke up, never screamed.
Because deep down she still believed:
"I'm just a child. I shouldn't question my elders."
📱 The Day That Broke Her
It was a regular school day.
Online class. Wi-Fi on. Headphones in.
Siya was mid-way through a math lecture when her phone buzzed—a message from a boy in her online study group.
"Let's call after class and study together?"
It was innocent.
Playful at most.
She smiled, replied, and placed her phone beside her.
But fate doesn't need much to turn calm waters into a storm.
Her father barged into her room—drunk again, reeking of cheap alcohol and anger.
Without a word, he grabbed her phone and started reading.
His eyes darkened.
"Toh ye sab chal raha hai? Class ke naam pe ladko se baatein?!"
(So this is what's going on? Talking to boys in the name of class?!)
Before Siya could explain, before she could say "it's not like that,"
he disappeared into the other room and came back with something in his hand—
a PVC pipe.
Cold. Hollow. Dangerous.
With a rage that drowned reason,
he raised it and struck her across the thighs.
The pain was blinding.
"Besharam ladki! Ghar ka naam doobayegi tu!"
(Shameless girl! You'll ruin the family name!)
She cried out.
"Papa, please! Mat maaro! Galti ho gayi—please! Maaf karo!"
But he didn't stop.
One hit.
Two.
Three.
"Haramzaadi! Chup kar!"
(Slut! Shut your mouth!)
Four.
Five.
Six.
Her cries turned into shrieks.
Her legs burned, skin turning purple, swelling under the impact.
Her brother stood nearby—still, watching.
Saying nothing.
Only when her grandmother ran in, screaming and pulling the pipe from his hand, did he stop.
"Bas beta, bus karo! Maaro mat usse!"
But it was too late.
Siya collapsed on the floor.
Tears poured down her cheeks.
Not just from pain—but from the betrayal.
Her body shook.
Her thighs were red, swollen, with marks she knew would take weeks to fade.
The rest of the day, she didn't speak.
Didn't eat.
Didn't look anyone in the eye.
🕗 The Turning Point — Evening
That evening, around 6, her mother returned from the hospital—tired, unaware.
She entered the house, removed her shoes, dropped her bag—
and was met by her mother-in-law at the door.
"Siya ko uske baap ne pipe se maara."
(He beat Siya with a pipe.)
Siya's mother froze.
In a flash, she dropped everything and ran to Siya's room.
There her daughter sat—knees tucked to chest, face swollen from crying.
"Kaha lagi? Dikhana mujhe!"
(Where did he hit you? Show me!)
Siya pulled up her salwar slowly.
Red. Swollen. Deep bruises across both thighs.
Her mother gasped.
It was the first time Siya saw pure rage in her mother's eyes.
Rage not at her—but for her.
She threw her bag aside and stormed out.
⚡ The War at Home
The living room erupted in shouting.
Her mother screamed like she'd been holding it in for years:
"Tum pagal ho gaye ho kya? Bacchi ko pipe se marte ho? Woh bhi itni zor se?!"
(Have you gone mad?! You beat your daughter with a pipe? That too so brutally?!)
Her father staggered up, mumbling.
"Ladko se baat kar rahi thi! Sharafat nahi rahi is ladki mein!"
(She was chatting with boys! She has no decency!)
"Sharafat?! Tumhara kya tha jab tum roz daaru pee kar chillaate ho?!"
(Decency? Where is yours when you come home drunk every day screaming?!)
"Mujhe bhi takleef hoti hai lekin kabhi baccho pe haath uthaya maine?! Kya kar rahe ho tum? Baap ho ya janwar?!"
(Even I feel hurt, but have I ever raised my hand on the children?! What are you doing? Are you her father or an animal?!)
The fight went on for almost two hours.
Doors slammed. Voices echoed. Furniture rattled.
And for once, Siya didn't feel alone.
Her mother—her silent wall all these years—had turned into a shield.
🌑 That Night
That night, Siya lay curled under her bedsheet, legs still aching.
She kept reliving the moment the pipe hit her again and again.
But her heart held onto one different memory—
Her mother's voice, shouting for her.
Taking her side.
Calling her daughter. Protecting her.
It didn't erase the pain.
But it gave her a thread of strength.
She whispered into her pillow:
"Someday… this will all end."
"Someday… I will never let anyone treat me like this again."
"Someday… they'll know my worth."
And for the first time in years, Siya's pain didn't feel like punishment.
It felt like fuel.