"You're worthless, you know that?"

I look up from the toy I've been playing with, a sweet little doll made of white porcelain and yellow yarn to look just like me, and stare at my father's blank sneer. He looks alternately disappointed or upset, depending on how the light touches his face when I twist my head.

"Daddy?" I whisper, confused, not understanding what he's saying. Worthless is a word I've heard before, often directed at me or the neighbor's three-legged sheepdog. But what does it mean? I'm wracking my six-year-old brain to find a proper explanation for myself when he continues.

"I always told Mara we should have had you drowned the same day you showed up," he says slowly. His hard, dead eyes are fixed on a spot on the wall across from him rather than me. Is he talking to me now? Has he stopped?

Worth: the level at which someone or something deserves to be valued or rated.

"I'd been hoping for another boy, did you know? A good strong boy who wouldn't question my opinions or my methods. Just do what he was told. What I told him to do."

Less: to a smaller extent; not so much.

He turns just his head and spits on the floor. The gob lands near my spot on the floor, spattering my doll with dirt and spittle. Not a large amount, but enough to make my heart break just a little for her. I'd just gotten the thing as a gift for Christmas. A second ago, she was pretty and perfect and lovely, but now she's got that spot of tragedy on her face, staining her dress, mussing her hair.

She'll never be whole again, I realize. My eyes start to water at the awful thought of having a piece missing because someone else stole it.

The moment of grief is cut short by the quiet sound of a thick-soled black work boot settling down on the floor. I try to sniff back my tears, but it's too late. I already know he's seen them.

Worthless:

"And instead," he says coolly, standing over me like a guiltless king. "Instead I got you."

Worthless: having no real value or use.

"A little girl who cries at a dirty doll."

Worthless: having no good qualities.

"Look at me, Hallie girl. Let me see your mother's eyes."

Worthless: deserving contempt.

And I fall for it, fall hard and fast, looking up with shining blue eyes that are so much paler than my mother's bright and pretty ones. Hoping that maybe, this time, he really is just looking for a reason to meet my eyes. He stares back down at me, unblinking and unfeeling.

I shouldn’t have looked up.

The blow comes when I expect it, that boot smashing into my side, leaving an imprint on my ribs. I gasp as I tumble to the floor, the doll still somehow clinging to my hand. Normally, I’d know better than to make a sound, but it catches me right in the lungs, breaking me apart.

A laugh rattles my bones and I hide my face so he can’t see my terror. Jarrod...where’s Jarrod…?

Goodbye: used to express good wishes when parting.

“Crying again, huh? H---, all you do is cry. That’s all you’re good for--isn’t it, Hallie girl?”

Another shot. This time, it catches the side of my face. I fly into the wall, my head cracking in a harsh way that makes everything in me shatter and go numb. I blink away my tears, blink away the stinging in my side, blink away his words until they’re just background noise, the white space between me and the rest of the world.

Is this what dying means?

Dying: gradually ceasing to exist or function; in decline and about to disappear.

No. I’m not functioning, but I still exist. I’m in decline, maybe, but I’m not disappearing anytime soon. No, I’ll be stuck in this life for too much longer. Perhaps that is the greatest tragedy--I am still here.

“Go on, Hallie. Say it. Go on.” He laughs loudly, breaking through the buzz in my head. “You can’t, can you? Worthless girl. Stupid, useless, worthless--”

“SHUT UP.”

Savior: a person who saves someone or something from danger.

I curl tighter into a ball, squeezing my doll to my chest, my eyes shut tight. This can’t happen--this can’t be happening. My father’s laugh rings out through the tiny house, distinctive as always. “Welcome back, boy. Thought you were gone forever again.”

“Don’t touch her.”

He can’t be here. He’s not big enough, not strong enough, and too good to really do what he thinks he’s going to do. Jarrod…

There’s another slam, but it’s not for me this time. I look up just in time to see my brother crumple against the opposite wall, see my father heading his direction again, see his back turned to me at last.

And I don’t think. I just react.

He can’t hurt Jarrod again.

Savior: a person who saves someone or something from danger.

I get to my feet, shaking and shivering, terrified beyond belief, but I’m not stopping. I can’t stop or he’ll hurt Jarrod again.

The doll in my hand flies forward, tumbling the wrong way and defying gravity until it suddenly--

--stops.

She falls, and so does my father. Down, down, down to the floor where they stay, my porcelain girl shattering on impact with the ashen floor and skittering off in a thousand direction all at once. He doesn’t move. The heavy thump his body makes when it hits a solid surface and then lies still makes my stomach clench in terror.

He’ll kill me for this one. All because I never had my mother’s eyes. I can’t let that happen, or he’ll take out my betrayal on Jarrod, too.

Mistake: an action or judgement that is misguided or wrong.

Something cold and hard touches the smooth skin of my palm. It’s her face, the beautifully broken face of my doll, still staring up at me with the conviction I never knew I could have. You’ve got to finish it, she says. You’ve got to finish it now.

I curl my fingers around the piece and squeeze until red oozes through the cracks in my resolve. My shaky knees lift me up to crawl across a sea of nightmares to where my father hasn’t moved even yet.

“Worthless,” I remind him. A tear plummets from the tip of my nose onto his exposed neck. “Having no real value or use.”

My closed fist trembles from the height I lift it to. “Having no good qualities.” The red is starting to run down my arm, soiling my pants, the same ones Momma stole off somebody’s pile in the laundromat two days back.

It matches my doll’s dress now, my dead doll whose face I’m holding in my hand now.

“Deserving contempt.” I take in a single breath, doing us both the service of sliding my eyelids shut.

“You deserve this,” I exhale slowly.

Slam.

Slam.

Slam.

“You are worthless.”

Slam.

He doesn’t get around to getting up again.