My father towered above me, glaring with a look that could freeze the blood in my veins. The rod in his hand felt like a death sentence, and I whimpered, cowering at his feet. Terror gripped my heart, squeezing until it hurt to breathe. My entire body trembled uncontrollably, every instinct screaming at me to run, but I couldn't move. I was paralyzed, trapped by the overwhelming sense of dread that pressed down on my chest, suffocating me.

"Please... don't kill me," I begged, my voice barely a whisper. "Please…"

I clung to his legs, desperate, searching for even the smallest glimmer of mercy in his eyes. But there was none. All I saw staring back at me was pure, unfiltered rage. His angry eyes and furrowed brow sent waves of cold fear through me. The memories of past beatings flooded my mind-every strike, every cruel word. Each one was more painful than the last, reminding me how futile it was to hope for anything different. My heart ached, not just from fear, but from a deep, gnawing loneliness, from the desperate craving for love that I knew I would never find in him.

"Father, please," I choked out. "I'll be obedient. Just… please, don't kill me."

But my pleas only seemed to anger him further. The rod came down, slashing through the air before landing on my back with a sickening crack. I cried out in pain, my body jerking uncontrollably as the sharp sting radiated through me. My breath caught in my throat, my vision blurring as tears streamed down my cheeks. The betrayal cut deeper than the blows-how could he? My own father. It felt like every shred of hope was being beaten out of me, leaving me empty and raw.

He struck me again. And again. And again, until my skin tore open, and the warm trickle of blood stained my clothes. I writhed on the floor, helpless, sobbing like a child, my screams echoing in the dark corners of the room.

"Stop!" I cried, my voice hoarse. "Please, stop! I'm sorry! It hurts… Please!"

But he didn't stop. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking so hard that it felt like he might tear it from my scalp. I screamed, the pain blinding, as his grip tightened. I could feel his hot breath on my face, the veins in his neck bulging as he snarled, his eyes wild with rage. His hatred consumed him, and I was nothing more than a punching bag for his fury. I tapped at his arm, silently begging, praying for him to release me.

But mercy wasn't something he knew.

"Hey, wake up! Ava, wake up!" A voice pierced through the darkness, and I felt someone shaking me roughly. Oliver's voice was filled with panic, his hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me out of the nightmare.