Growing up, Christina lived a life of stark contrasts. To the few outsiders, like the old guy who took care of the yard or Mrs. Byrne, the strict housekeeper, the Jensons seemed like a sad, quiet family. They were just a dad and his two kids, keeping to themselves and grieving after the mom passed away. But behind the big stone walls of their house, a silent battle was going on.
Alistair, the dad, became more and more twisted in his methods. He found new and awful ways to make Christina's life miserable. Meal times were the worst. He'd make her sit at this huge, shiny dining table, her legs not even reaching the floor. Alistair would sit at the head of the table, eating in complete silence. If Christina dared to grab a pea before he did, he'd smack her knuckles hard with his heavy silver spoon, leaving angry red marks. If she spilled a bit of milk, her plate would be taken away without a word, and she'd go to bed hungry.
"A curse doesn't deserve food", he'd say, his voice flat and cold like he was stating a simple fact.
He also came up with mind games to play on her, targeting what a little kid would fear most. He'd lock her in the pitch-black, freezing cellar for hours. He would tell her that the darkness was where she belonged. "Monsters live in the dark", he'd say before locking the door with a final, chilling click. You should be with your own kind. She'd curl up in a ball on the dirt floor, not even crying, just listening to the scurrying of rats and the loud, fast beating of her heart. She learned to shut down, to go to a numb, empty space in her head where his words couldn't hurt her. That's where she learned to disconnect from her body, to float away into nothingness.
Clark, her brother, was her only protector. He was like a shield for her. He learned to read their dad's moods by the way he walked, the way he slammed doors. He'd sneak snacks from the kitchen, like bread and cheese, and hide them under a loose floorboard in her room. He'd make noise on purpose, maybe break a cheap vase, just to get Alistair's attention away from Christina and take the punishment himself. Once, he spent a whole night locked in the cellar because he pushed Alistair away from Christina when she was cowering in fear.
He found her there hours later. She wasn't crying, but she was staring into the darkness with a look that was way too old for a seven-year-old. "It's okay, Clark", she said, her voice strangely calm and steady. "I don't mind the dark. The voices in my head are louder than the rats."
Her words scared him to the core. He started to realize that he wasn't just protecting her from their dad's physical abuse; he was fighting for her very soul, for the spark in her eyes that was slowly being extinguished.
When Christina was five, and Clark was sixteen and getting stronger, he found her in the kitchen trying to bandage a bad burn on her arm with a dirty rag. Her face was pale, but she wasn't crying. Alistair had held her hand against the fireplace because she was looking at him with her mother's eyes.
Something inside Clark just broke. Something that had been building up for years finally exploded. He stormed into Alistair's study, where his dad was sitting with a glass of whiskey. Without a word, his face full of anger, Clark grabbed the heavy desk and flipped it over, sending everything flying—papers, ink, and glass.
Alistair just stared, shocked into silence, his glass halfway to his mouth.
"You will never touch her again", Clark said, his voice quiet but shaking with an anger he didn't know he had. It wasn't the voice of a boy, but of a man. "If you do, I will break you. I'm not a kid anymore."
Alistair saw the truth in his son's eyes. He saw the strength, the determination, the threat of violence that was much stronger than his own twisted cruelty. For the first time, he was scared of his own son. From that day on, the physical abuse got less frequent, replaced by a colder, more subtle kind of cruelty and a suffocating, stressful presence. The fight wasn't over, but it had changed.