As his fist met my face, I crumpled to the floor; the force of the hit instantly causing my face to bruise. I look up at him in a daze, this man who is supposed to be my protector- my father and all I feel is loathing. He staggers around, cursing that he has hurt his knuckles, showing no care for the injuries he’s caused me. He reaches for his bottle of bourbon and takes another deep swig, before turning around to glare at me once more. “GET OUT YOU SCRAWNY RUNT!” he screams. “GET OUT!” I just about manage to roll out of the way, as he throws the heavy bottle towards me. I shield my face as the glass impacts on the wall and shatters. Needing no second warning, I stumble onto my feet, and hobble as quickly as I can out of the door. I only pause for a moment, to swipe a packet of matches.

I limp as fast as I can across the yard and head towards the woods that boundary our farm. Even from a distance away, I can still hear my Pa crashing and cursing about in the house, as he tries to find more liquor so he can drink himself into a blind stupor. For a moment the noise stops and there is silence; I wonder if he has passed out already and I’ve got away with my small act of disobedience. But as the door opens and I see him standing there, red-faced and menacing on the stoop, I know he has noticed. “WHERE’S MY MATCHES BOY?” he bellows towards me, as I continue making my slow escape. “I ain’t got ‘em” I yell back, making sure to stuff them in my pocket, out of his sight. “YOU A LIAR, BOY! GIMMIE ‘EM BACK!” He roars, as he starts marching down the steps to the yard, his ability to stay vertical despite all he’s drunk, surprising.

I pick up my pace, ignoring the ache from the cuts in my knees and press on to the thicket of trees. I know if I make it there, he won’t bother to follow. “I KNOW YOU GOT ‘EM BOY. THERE BE MORE TROUBLE FOR YER IF YOU HIDE EM! I NEED ‘EM FOR ME SMOKES!” “ I told ya- I ain’t got ‘em” I holler back, committed to my lie and committed to depriving him of something he wants, to show him what it's like. He starts crossing the yard and so I start to run, adrenaline allowing me to push through the pain, knowing I need to be fast to get away. Even when intoxicated, my Pa can be shockingly quick. I know if he catches me, he won’t hold back on the beating- he is out for blood. He begins to chase me, but luckily within a few seconds, he bends over panting, the exertion in the end, being too much for him. Giving up, he half-heartedly throws a rock in my direction and yells mockingly that he knows I will be back, as I can’t make it on my own. He tells me that I am worse than worthless. In fact, I am nothing.

I make my escape, and then I find somewhere to rest. My head is pounding and my knees throbbing from the assault. I sit against a tree and take some time to breathe. I feel protected here, the woods having become more of a home to me in the last year than our farmhouse has been. Pa had always liked a bit too much to drink and has had a foul temper, but without my Ma around, it's become unmanageable. I know he is angry at God for taking away his wife and his daughter, and he hates me as I look like them. His grief has become all consuming, and so day after day, all he does is drink and smoke himself into a sweet oblivion. When he wakes and has to face that Ma and the babe are gone again, he is poisonous and mean to me. It hasn’t even occurred to him that I might be suffering too. He doesn’t care that I have lost my Ma and my sweet baby sister. It doesn’t matter to him that I am ten years old and need him to be a parent, not an abuser.

I retrieve my prize from my pocket and smile, satisfied that I’ve taken something from him, as if somehow it evens the score between us. I know there will be hell to pay later, but there’s always a beating whether there's a reason for one or not. Least this way I’m in control of it.

I slide out the little cardboard drawer and inside are a bundle of matchsticks, their red little heads full of burning potential. I pick one up curiously and slide the packet shut again. I finger the rough surface on the side of the box that I’ve seen my Pa use to strike the matches into life. I position the matchstick in the manner I have seen him do, and nervously brush the head to bring some fire to life. Nothing happens though. I try again, striking harder and faster this time. This method gets results, but I am unprepared for the flame that suddenly sparks into life and I jump, dropping it to the floor, where it sputters out.

The word ‘pathetic’ in my Pa’s voice, echoes in my ears and I shake myself off to try again. I select another match and this time take a deep breath. This time as the match lights, I hold fast and let the flame burn into its fiery magnificence. I watch it transfixed and am filled with surprise as I think about how something so powerful came from nothing. It delights me to see deadly potential coming from something so small.

As the flame dances along the stick, it grows and spreads, destroying the wood and turning into something black and decayed. The transformative nature of the fire both intrigues and hypnotises me, leaving me distracted. The flame suddenly licks my fingers, singeing my skin and I drop the matchstick in alarm, quickly putting my fingertips to my mouth to try and soothe them with my saliva.

I am used to pain, but the burn is something quite different. It’s a raw soreness and as I tentatively touch my thumb to my burned finger it only feels numb and warm. A numb pain seems like a contradiction, but it makes sense to me since my dulled nerve endings are the only sign that harm has occurred. After suffering many bruises, cuts and breaks, some of which have left me in agony for days, this numbness intrigues me, and I decide that a pain that is numb, is probably the best pain of all.

I strike another match and this time, I dance my fingers through the flame, playfully weaving them in and out the heat. I encounter a sense of calm as I control the way the fire touches my skin. I remove myself before it burns too hot, but I ensure to leave myself with a radiating warmth and the fascinating numbness it creates. This time I make sure to drop the match to let it burn out, so as to not let the fire have power over me.

Before long, dusk closes in; the sunset bleeds through the trees, causing menacing shadows. The safety of the woods always fades at night, the unpredictability of coyotes and other nocturnal predators causing me more fear than the monster I face at home. I stretch out my aching limbs and then unsteadily stand to start the walk home. I pray that when I get there, my Pa is dead to the world.

The farmhouse is in darkness as I arrive, a good sign that he is unconscious. I let out a breath that I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. I should now have a few hours of peace, before I have to face any repercussions.

I stiffly ascend the steps to the house, and as I do, I notice something on the floor, reflecting in the dusky twilight. I bend down to look closer and realise it’s glass. Upon further scrutiny, I notice what appears to be torn up pieces of paper. Puzzled, I pick up one of the fragments and turn it over. An instant lump comes into my throat as I recognise the image upon it. I urgently turn the other pieces of paper over, desperate for them to prove me wrong, but they only confirm what I already know to be true, as does the tell-tale frame which lays discarded only a few feet away.

I can’t believe his cruelty. This pain in my heart is greater than any injury he has ever inflicted directly upon me. I gaze down, through tear-filled eyes, at the only picture we had of my Ma, which he has obliterated into dozens of pieces. Her beautiful face has been shredded into a patchwork mess. Every night since she died, I have slept with this picture in my arms, kissing it as I close my eyes, in an effort to try and keep a semblance of her presence with me. And the bastard has taken that away.

My sadness twists to rage and my hands start to tremble and tighten. My breathing turns heavy and a deep urge within me screams at me to find my Pa, so I can scratch out his eyes like he has done to my Ma. But I can’t. No matter how much I want to tear at him like a feral animal, he is too powerful for me to overcome. Too strong. But I can’t let this go. No matter how he is hurting, I can no longer let him steal from the small amount of happiness I have left, with him only giving me pain in return. I have to stop him. There is only one thing I can do.

Instantly I put my plan into action, adrenaline giving me the courage I need. I tiptoe into the house and find my Pa passed out on his threadbare bed, a bottle of partially drunk gin still in his grip. I gently prise it from him and then subtly creep away. I also collect a dirty rag as I return to the yard.

Guided by instinct, I deftly twist the rag into a long stretch and then start feeding it through the opening of the gin bottle. I keep going until the rag is partially soaking in the clear substance. Then I take the matches from my pocket. “I’ll show ya Pa,” I say to myself through gritted teeth. “I’ll make it on my own.”

Without hesitating, I strike a match and hold it to the rag until it catches. I wait a moment to make sure the rag will burn, and once I am, I launch it through the open bedroom window. In the silence I hear the bottle smash, in a way I imagine sounds similar to the photo frame my Pa destroyed, and it feels like poetic justice. Then as the roaring flames start to consume the room, and my unconscious Pa with it, I get a sense of actual justice.

The heat from the house intensifies, and my entire body radiates with the warmth of it. I’m in awe as I watch the hungry flames destroy what has become a hate filled home and I am enthralled by the fire’s capacity for destruction. I smile inwardly to myself, and I wonder whether if you could see me now, would you still think me weak? Would you still think I'm capable of nothing? Or would you finally see me and realise what you have done?

The End.