You don’t know what time it is, but the sky looks like the blue of your mom’s nightgown—the soft, dark blue one she wears when she’s happy. She’s humming again, the smell of butter melting on the pan.

  The warmth from the stove curls into the air, and it feels like it’s wrapping you up, holding you in place. You’re so warm in the kitchen that you almost forget about the cold in the rest of the house.

  You like nights like this. Just the tick of the kitchen clock and the scrape of her spatula.

  She lets you flip one of the pancakes. You mess it up, fold it wrong, and she laughs instead of sighing. That means it’s a good day. The laughter is soft, gentle. It feels like it fits. She doesn’t scold you for it. She never does. Her smile coughed from her throat; it makes you laugh too. You join with her; you don’t know why you’re laughing but it feels good.

  “Don’t tell anyone I let you burn it,” she says, nudging your shoulder with her hip. Her smile makes your chest warm. You imagine it stretching across the ceiling, lighting up the room like stars. like the night has wrapped you both in a soft blanket, the kind that feels safe.

  The clatter of silverware settles. You can almost hear her humming underneath the noise, like a song you can’t quite remember. It’s right there in your mind but you just can’t seem to grab that right emotion- that memory. It’s almost like de ja vu.

  You’re both sitting at the table now, the first pancake steaming on your plate, when the front door clicks.

  That’s when the stars fall.

  It’s not the sound of the door creaking open that makes you stiffen, but the silence that follows it. Your mother’s smile falters. Just for a second. But you see it. You always do. Her shoulders tighten, her eyes go blank, like she’s already bracing herself for something. Like a soldier going for war; they don’t know how their enemies look like, slaughter like, until they set out to fight.

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  You freeze. Her fork stops midair. Your heartbeat gets loud. You want to disappear under the table, but you’re not sure if that makes it worse. The door creaks open.

  “Shhh,” your mother says, her voice suddenly flat. “Just eat.”

  But your hands don’t work anymore. They’ve gone stiff, like toy hands. Heavy steps come down the hall. The smell of something sharp follows—like smoke and metal and the stuff grown-ups keep under sinks. Your heartbeat gets loud too. Like it’s beating against your ribs ripping them open. You squeeze your hands into fists under the table. You want to disappear. To melt into the wood beneath you. But you’re stuck. You can’t move. Not until she tells you it’s okay.

  He walks in.

  You don’t look at him, but you feel it. The room gets smaller. Colder.

  He says nothing.

  Then everything at once. Yells about something you didn’t hear. The TV being too loud. The pan left on. The goddamn pancakes. Its burning, the room is burning. The red thick wall boiling your pupils. Your eyes are melting, you can’t see.

  His voice hits your ears like glass. You hear his voice, distant at first. Yelling. The words don’t matter. The tone does. It's always like this. It always gets like this. The noise from the kitchen—his words—are like the clashing of pots. But it doesn’t matter. It’s meant for her. Always her.

  You slide under the table. You try to breathe quiet. The floor is cold, and your socks are wet now, somehow; You don’t wonder how that happened. You see your mother’s feet step back, stumble, one shoe slipping off.

  You see his feet next.

  You hear it—the slap, the thud. The air shatters. Then her cry, short like a hiccup. Then you feel it.

  Something cold. A hand on your ankle, Jerking you backwards. It hurts. It hurts, and you know why it hurts this much. It’s as if it’s not only physically but also emotionally but it just doesn’t feel right. Nothing here feels right.

  Your head hits something hard, and the lights blink behind your eyes. You taste iron in your mouth. His face is close now, but you don’t see it—only shapes, colors, things that don’t belong. It makes you remember some classmates’ drawings from school. The rancid smell burns insides of your nose and you can’t breathe now. Your try to fight him, but you’re just a little kid.

  You want to call for your mom, but your voice stays somewhere in your throat. It hurts, it scrapes your bones; twists your vocal cords.