Author's note: this is my first attempt at fanfiction. I have been mulling over writing this for some months now, but have never actually had the courage to do so. I will attempt to update quickly, and chapters will hopefully be longer than this short pilot one. Reviews are always welcome, even if they are just to tell me to stop polluting the Internet and go away!

Chapter 2 will hopefully be more familiar territory for most people.

The air crackles before the vibrant reverberation dissipates into a sizzle. I close my eyes, pressing up against the cold grate as far as my feeble body will allow. From previous experience, I know this leaves gutters along my cheek, but the anticipation of what comes next overcomes any conditioned response I may have developed.

I inhale deeply, panicking for a moment as I realise that the only scent I can perceive is the same one I have been numbed to. It is a putrid smell, stale as bread left unattended for days and repulsive as rotting fish. I wrinkle my nose, suppressing a gag as I wait for the inevitable adaptation of my olfactory centres. Then, it hits me. The warm, sweet aroma which makes my nostrils flare and prickles at my tired eyes. On prior occasions, I have heard her commentary as she tells another "you have to let the oil get hot – see how it smokes – before you add the onions." The crackle coincides with the word 'onions'. "Be quick when you stir, that's the only way you'll capture the flavour without burning them." A pause as I imagine a smug smirk upon that unknown face. "Maybe one day I'll let you cook for your father".

Onions. My mind dissects the word which has no visual meaning. All I associate with it is that crackle, that saccharine fragrance which is my escape from the stimuli which constantly threaten to overwhelm my senses. Then, another sound; I know this is her voice. She is alone. She only does this when she is alone. There is no prosody in the noises she makes, as there is when the other is there. Instead, there is a constant variation in tone which comes in a rhythm I find myself swaying to. I do not have a name for this, this noise. I only know that I am comforted by it, that it makes me feel safe. My eyes are still closed as I try and imitate those dulcet tones. Nothing emanates from my parched throat, however, and I must be content with what I am hearing, knowing it will be over soon.

My reverie is interrupted by the slamming of a door which whips through the air. Instinctively, I cower. No, it's too early. He's never home this early. Tears begin to form as I realise my daily consolation is over as quickly as it started. The heavy stomping grows louder, announcing his presence before I am hit with another smell. Onions, I think frantically as the lingering smell of cheap tobacco and the intoxicating whiff of alcohol assails me.

Before I can scamper away, I am yanked off the floor by my unkempt, greasy hair. The familiar sensation tears through my scalp, and my eyes water. Instinctively, I feel a shriek build in my chest; I open my mouth, but all that escapes is a whimper. I am curled into a ball, every fibre of my being tightened at the knowledge of what comes next. His lecherous eyes are upon me. Those cold, emerald eyes, which once-upon-a-time held a look of something so different.

"Daddy!" I hear myself whine. In vain hope I look up at those eyes, but they do not see me. They have not seen me in years. The cruel features contort into an expression I have come to dread.

"Daddy's home" comes the reply.

My mind deadens.