The Power of a Muted Mate

The familiar stench of stale beer and desperation clung to the air, thick enough to taste. My father’s voice, a gravelly roar, tore through the fragile quiet of the evening. “You pathetic brat! You were supposed to make me dinner and it was supposed to be ready 5 minutes ago!”
I just bowed my head, a familiar reflex, and didn’t say anything. What was there to say? My name is Melody Winters, I am 17 years old, and I don't sing or even talk at all. I haven't since I was ten. Seven years of silence, a shield against the endless torrent of his rage. Today was no different.
He stormed into the kitchen, his eyes blazing, a prelude to the storm I knew was coming. I had messed up, falling asleep after moving all our belongings from the U-Haul, forgetting to set an alarm. Steak and baked potatoes, his specific request, were far from ready. I braced myself, praying for a miracle, but miracles rarely visited our home. They certainly hadn't visited since Mom died, and Xavier left. Now, there was only this. Only him.
