My favorite color was yellow. It had always been and would continue to be yellow. It was one of the only things about me that remained unaffected without opposition. When I decided that yellow was my favorite color, I said that it was because yellow was ‘the color of happiness'. To me, it represented positivity, brightness, and energy. The color yellow was my color. I was about 15 years old, so he had been hurting me for about 7 or 8 years. I was living in hidden fear, but I never stopped being a positive person. Yellow was still my color. He worked at night, so he was usually asleep during the day. Today was different- he was asleep, as usual, but, today, my mom was home. We were in the kitchen, making pineapple cupcakes together. I was frosting a cupcake while standing by the stove, and my mom laughed, “You're pushing too much icing. A little goes a long way - yea, like that.” I giggled and suddenly felt icing being smeared on my face. I was startled for a second, but then I grinned. “Oh my God, you did not! You asked for-” I stopped mid-sentence. My stomach dropped the second I heard the dreadful sound of the bedroom door being wrenched open. My unsuspecting mom still had a smile on her face as she turned around. Suddenly, everything changed. I felt all of the happiness in the room drain and turn into fear. “Why the f*** are you so f***ing loud?! You're f***ing useless! Fat f***ing pig!” The sound of his voice filled the room, and everything happened in flashes and blurs. He flipped one of the cupcake trays and threw the other across the room. With every step he took, I stepped back, until I was cornered. As my tears blurred my vision, I felt my heart pound. I could feel my chest move with each breath, but I felt like I was suffocating. I blinked, and, suddenly, he was right in front of me, looking down at me. He grabbed my arms and shook me as he screamed, “What are you crying for, you pathetic little sh*t? I haven't even touched you yet.” Every word he shrieked sent spit flying at my face, mixing with the seemingly endless stream of tears. My hyperventilating made my throat catch, and I coughed as my tears continued to flow. I instinctively turned my head away, and the sudden movement made me lose my balance. I tried to pull my hands up to prevent myself from falling, and I jerked my shoulders away. He didn't like that. He immediately grabbed my arms again and slammed me into the counter. My head hit the open cabinet door behind me, and pain seared through my entire body. I could feel myself getting dizzy, and my vision became even more blurred than before. I could faintly hear my mom shouting, but the sound of her voice seemed far away, as if it were merely a figment of my imagination. But, then, he was pulled off of me and shoved away. It seemed to take all of her strength, and when he sprung back, he began to walk towards her. She continued to yell, attempting to hide her fear, but she inched backwards until she was right up against the fridge. He towered over her, and everything went silent. Time froze. I could see that there was nothing good left in his soul, if he had one. His presence was more terrifying than ever. He clenched his jaw and his nose twitched, and, in a sudden movement, his fist smashed into the fridge door right by my mom's head. “STOP!” I heard myself scream. This caught him by surprise, and he turned his head towards me. My mom ducked under him, and he tried to grab her as she was getting away from him. I ran forward and tried to push him away from her, but he grabbed my arm and threw me to the ground. My vision went black, and I still couldn't hear past the ringing, but, once I felt my mom's warm hand on my back, and she helped me up, everything came rushing back in. I could hear every sound and see everything clearly. Chairs were knocked over, and there was icing on the walls and floor. His voice was still booming in my ears, but he was speaking slowly and clearly, with a horrifying grin on his face. “Call the cops, I dare you. Clarksville's fastest response time is not fast enough, I promise.” My mom grabbed my hand and ran out of the house as fast as she could. We got in the car and drove to the police station. The car ride was silent. At least, I remember it that way. I couldn't speak. I caught a glance of my reflection in the side mirror. There was icing in my hair and streaks of mascara on my cheeks. My lip was swollen and bleeding, but the only marks on my arms were cuts from his fingernails. Perhaps the bruises couldn't be seen because the devil could hide them. The police didn't seem to be too worried, and we didn't go home for a couple of days. He was never punished. Even though he is physically gone, he is still always with me. I fight his voice in my mind every day, and almost all of me has changed. Except for my favorite color, my favorite color is still yellow.