I got off the bus and stood there for a moment, staring at the small house in front of me. The driveway was tight, barely big enough to fit Dad’s old taxi, which sat there now, covered in a fine layer of dust. That meant he was home.

My stomach knotted up, hard and tight. I could already picture what was waiting for me inside—Dad’s face flushed with anger, Mum trying to calm him down, and my siblings hiding away in their rooms. The school must have called by now. Fuck. I thought about turning around, hopping back on the next bus, just riding it anywhere but here. But where would I go? There was no escape. No hiding from this.

I sighed, forcing myself to move. Each step felt heavier than the last. My legs felt like they were weighed down with concrete, dragging me toward what I knew was coming.

As I reached the taxi, I ran my finger across its dusty surface, wiping away a line, trying to distract myself, to delay the inevitable. But nothing could push away the dread creeping up on me.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. My chest tightened as the familiar feeling of panic clawed at me. I’ve had these attacks before—where it felt like I couldn’t breathe, like the air was closing in. Some said I had asthma, but I knew what it really was. Fear.

With a shaky hand, I reached for the door and clicked it open. There he was. My dad. Standing in the doorway, gripping a thin leather belt, the metal buckle swinging from the end. His face was twisted in fury, his thick black beard, streaked with brown from the henna he always used, didn’t soften him. He wore his usual blue jeans and cream sweater, but there was nothing familiar or comforting about him now.

“What did you bloody bastard do?” he spat, his eyes locking onto me, burning with rage.

I wanted to answer, but I didn’t get the chance. He took my silence as hesitation and brought the belt down hard. I raised my shoulder, angling it just right to absorb the blows. They hurt, but not as much as if they’d hit anywhere else.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO, YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARD?” he screamed, his voice thick with his harsh Indian accent, the words broken but filled with venom.

He was furious. Then again, this was a three-month suspension. Not that I’m trying to justify his reaction—I didn’t deserve this. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and he never even gave me a chance to explain. But, to be honest, this wasn’t anything new.

He used to slap me around for just getting detention. For two-day detentions, I’d get the belt across my back. If it was a week, he’d really let loose. This time, I was sure he might try to kill me. And honestly? Maybe he’d be doing me a favor.

That thought flickered and disappeared as quickly as it came. I thought about Mum, how upset she’d be. I thought about my little sister, Fariya, and my brother, Arqam. At least they’d miss me. I didn’t want to put them through that.

“What are you doing? Leave him alone!” My mum’s voice cut through the room, sharp and desperate as she stepped between us, shielding me. Dad kept swinging, he told her to move away in Urdu, but Mum wouldn’t back down.

"Move out of the way, Shehla. You’ve been protecting him for too long. Now look what he's done—he's gone and ruined the family’s name, getting himself suspended."

“No, he hasn’t! My son has done nothing wrong, and you didn’t even bother to ask him what happened!” she fired back.

“The college told me everything I need to know. He’s been slipping for years now, getting worse and worse. He must’ve fallen in with the wrong crowd. He was doing fine before.”

“Then ask him! Ask him if it’s true!” she shouted, turning to me. “Is it, Zakir? Have you been hanging out with the wrong people? Who are they?”

“I haven’t,” I muttered, my voice barely there.

“What? Speak up!” Dad barked.

“I said, I haven’t!” I yelled, my throat tight, my heart pounding.

My father shoved my mother aside and came at me again. “Why are you so determined to wreck everything? I work myself to the bone, swallowing insults every day as a taxi driver, and for what? So you can throw it all away at school?”

This time, he used the buckle and it hit my shoulder with a sharp snap. I cried out, the sting spreading through my skin like fire, but he didn’t stop. “I’m killing myself to give you kids a chance—no stress, no worries. And what do you do? Tear it apart and pull us down with you!”

As the belt came down again, I caught a flicker in his eyes. Beneath the rage was something else—fear, sharp and raw, the kind I’d seen when he almost lost his job during the pandemic. But why now? Wasn’t the taxi company doing well?

“Stop it, both of you!” my mother cried her voice breaking, as she pulled him away from me with trembling hands and directed me towards the stairs. My father sighed deeply, frustration etched on his face as he wiped his brow.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Zakir, go to your room,” she ordered. “And you,” she barked at my father, “go back to the living room. Cool off.”

“This is all your doing, Shehla,” he growled. “You spoiled him too much. Now you’re pampering him again, and look at the mess we’re in because of it.”

With that, he stormed off into the living room. I grabbed my bag, which had fallen to the floor, and dragged myself upstairs. As soon as I hit the bed, I collapsed, burying my face in the pillow, and the tears came fast, like a dam bursting.

Frustration, anger, and sadness poured out, soaking the pillow beneath me as I cried harder than I had in years. I hadn’t realized how much I had been holding inside. After what felt like forever, I wiped away the tears, sat up, and stared blankly into the room, lost in thought.

My gaze landed on the old rope line beside the trashcan. "It used to be my mom's, for hanging laundry. But now, it just sat there, unused. I had looked at that rope many times before, even picked it up and stroked it with one thought in mind - what if? What if I just ended it? Would I finally find peace? Or would there be more pain waiting for me on the other side

I knew I didn't have the courage to do it, but today something in me snapped as I stared at the rope. A sense of confidence escaped from my usually fearful self and told me that if I took that rope and hung myself, I could actually do it.

The idea was mesmerizing, the temptation of ending the pain irresistible. But then other thoughts flooded my mind. Would anyone care if I died? Would anyone mourn me? My mother probably would, and maybe my sister and even my little brother. But my father? I couldn't remember a time when he was ever happy or sad for me. And as for my classmates...they barely knew I existed, their lives will carry on as if nothing happened.

I knew I was on a dark path, but as my fingers grazed the rough rope, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt...right. It didn’t feel like a sin. Instead, a strange sense of calm washed over me, like I was finally making the right choice. It felt like relief, a joy I hadn’t known in years

But then, a knock at the door cut through my thoughts, shattering them.

" Hey, I saved you the last of the biryani from last night. It's your favorite—chicken. Mom saved it for you. I almost ate it, but then I remembered it’s your favorite. Figured you’d want it," my sister, Fariya, said, her voice soft and casual.

I turned and looked at her, and in that moment, something clicked inside me. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go through with it—not when there were still people who cared enough to save me a plate of biryani.

"Thanks," I murmured, my smile barely holding together. Still, somehow, I felt a little lighter.

"Oh, and just so you know," Fariya added, her tone quieter, "Dad lost his job at the taxi company. They let him go... maybe that’s why he’s been so on edge lately."

"Oh," I muttered, suddenly understanding why he’d been angrier than usual. Dad usually started with guilt trips, then came the hitting. This time, he skipped straight to rage. It must’ve been a heavy blow. He’d always had a good relationship with his manager. We were even invited to their house a few times. So, what went wrong for him to be let go?

I knew I wouldn’t get answers from him. Not without risking more beatings. I’d have to wait until Mom had time to talk. Sighing, I tossed my socks into the laundry bag by the door, grabbed a clean towel from the wardrobe, and headed toward the bathroom, just down the hall from my parents’ bedroom.

I turned the faucet on and let the water run for a few minutes, filling the tub halfway. The room started to warm up, steam rising from the water. Slowly, I undressed and sank into the bath, the heat wrapping around me like a cocoon. After the day I’d had, it felt like the first real moment of comfort. I reached for the soap on the tray and scrubbed hard, trying to wash away the stench of urine that clung to me.

But no matter how clean I got; my mind wouldn’t stop racing. Thoughts of my future circled like vultures. Three months of suspension stretched out in front of me, endless and empty. I’d have nothing to do but study. But even that felt pointless without the support I needed for the upcoming exams. The idea of taking up paid tutoring crossed my mind, but where would I find the money? My dad’s financial situation was shaky, and asking for help felt impossible.

Frustration bubbled up inside me, and I splashed water on my face, trying to drown it out. But it didn’t work. The uncertainty and the fear—none of it went away.

After finishing my bath and slipping into pajamas, my mother’s voice called me downstairs for dinner. Reluctantly, I dragged myself into the living room. She laid out the food, while my father, as usual, silently arranged the plates. It was our routine, though today it felt colder than usual. He didn’t meet my eyes. None of us spoke as we sat down, the tension so thick it felt like a weight pressing down on my chest. Any joy that might’ve come from sharing a meal was sucked dry by the silence. A few moments passed by, and he eventually broke it.

"Tomorrow, you’ll be working at Mr. Mann’s shop during your suspension," he said, his voice flat but stern. "I talked to him earlier. Be there by 9 am."

"Yes, Dad," I answered, keeping my voice low.

He looked up, his eyes sharp. "And don’t screw this up. Don’t be late, and do exactly what he says, and when you get paid, half of your wages go to the household."

"Okay, Dad. But why half?" I asked. Even though I knew it I just wanted him to say it.

He sighed, frustration and weariness in his voice. "Because we need it. We’re barely hanging on and you’re pay is going to get our family though this.”

I didn’t respond. I just nodded, eating the rest of my meal in silence, not tasting a single bite.

Drained and overwhelmed, I retreated to my room, closing the door behind me. I didn’t care about anything else. Setting an alarm for the morning, I collapsed onto my bed. Even though I was exhausted, my mind raced, too wired to sleep.

Tomorrow, instead of sitting in class, I’d be stacking shelves at Mr. Mann’s shop. Three months of this. How the hell was I supposed to keep up with school like this? And half my wages—gone. I’d have nothing for myself. But what choice did I have.

An emptiness settled in my chest, cold and hollow. This was my life now, for the next three months at least. I didn’t like it, but I’d have to live with it. Sleep finally came, but I couldn’t shake the pit in my stomach. I just hoped tomorrow wouldn’t be a complete disaster.