Scherezade had a thousand tales. Angela had only one voice. But whenever her father got angry, she used it. It was her only defense.
She would begin to hum. Softly at first, so he didn't really notice, so he wouldn't suspect. Then as he got calmer, she got louder. Soon she was proudly belting out whatever song had struck her fancy, whatever song she thought might save her that day.
Eventually he would fall asleep, slumped over in his great big ugly chair. But she kept singing, until her voice hurt. It was a smaller pain than the one she lived with every day. It was a smaller pain than living without her mother.
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