Chapter 4 - The Belt

I asked my mother once—softly, like the question itself might bruise—if she remembered the belt.

She blinked at me from across the kitchen table, sunlight catching in her hair, and said no. Like it had never happened. Like the sharp whistle of leather through air wasn’t a sound that had stitched itself into my bones.

Maybe she buried it.

I didn’t get that luxury.

I remember laughing at dinner. Just laughing.
Belt.

I remember running down the hallway instead of walking.
Belt.

A word spoken out of turn.
Belt.

Acting like a child when I was one.
Belt.

The worst part wasn’t the sting. It was the waiting. The way the air would change—thick and metallic—when he reached for it. The way my pulse would roar in my ears as I stood there, knowing what was coming. The anticipation hollowed me out long before the first strike ever landed.

My mother would go quiet. Silent in that way that felt louder than screaming.

My sisters would freeze, wide-eyed, terrified they’d be next. I can still see them clutching each other, as if fear could be divided evenly between us and somehow hurt less.

I don’t remember if I had to pull down my pants.

Maybe I do. Maybe I just refuse to let that memory breathe.

There were five of us, but I got it the most. I used to tell myself it was because he expected more from me. That I was stronger. That I could take it.

Funny how a child will twist herself into knots to make cruelty feel like a compliment.

And now, years later, I wonder why I am so hard on myself. Why perfection feels like survival. Why every mistake still sounds like a buckle sliding free.

He expected more.

So now I always do too.