It always happens on nights like this.

Outside, the rain pounds so hard that I can’t tell it from the thunder. We… we live on one of the lower clouds, below the rain. We can’t afford any better.

Mom and Dad work so hard. I know they do, but Dad still takes me to hoofball games or Junior Speedsters. He even takes his lunch break at school with me. Mom can’t. She works evenings, too, and she does it for me. I know she does. She says so. But…

It always happens on nights like this.

I can’t see. It’s too dark. Dad told me to stay in the closet, no matter what. Don’t make a sound, don’t open the door for anypony, don’t cry.

I rub the bruise on my cheek from last time, only three days ago. The weather service usually goes months between storms this hard, but only three days...

I know she’s sorry. She says so. Every time, the next morning, before she goes to work. She says it to Dad, too, but not bruises—he g-gets… a swollen eye. Once, a broken collarbone. He tells her it’s not my fault. I can hear him. It only makes her madder.

It always happens on nights like this.

The front door slams. “Hi, honey,” Dad says. “I have some soup almost ready. Why don’t you go lie down on the couch, and I’ll give you a neck rub while it simmers.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Mom says. I do hear the sound of her flopping onto the couch. “Where’s Scootaloo?”

My wings twitch, and I huddle into the pile of winter coats. “At the neighbor’s.”

“It’s dinnertime,” Mom growls. “She knows she’s supposed to be home when I have to work late. These storms don’t make themselves.”

“It’s okay. It can just be us tonight.”

It always happens on nights like this.

A loud bang. Water sloshes on the floor, glass breaks, somepony cries out. “You think I slave at work so my daughter can ignore the rules?” she roars.

I clench my jaw and cover my ears. It doesn’t help. It never helps. I have to hold still or she’ll hear me. Maybe if she hears me, she won’t be so angry with Dad. It’s… it’s not fair. It’s not fair for him.

“This is my home! I pay the bills around here, and I won’t have you undermining my authority with Scootaloo!” More glass, then a cabinet slams shut, and there’s a loud thump.

“Alright, alright! Just… I’ll go get her. I’ll go get her, and we’ll have dinner. I’ll cook some more soup. Just please, don’t… don’t be mad with her. It’s not her fault.”

My h-hooves, they’re sh-shaking, and… from the little slit of light under the door, I can just see them, trembling.

No more words, just harsh screams, like a wolverine, over and over. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop. It’s never been this bad before. Dull thuds, slowing now, then… silence. Except…

Hoofsteps, sometimes limping, sometimes sliding, coming toward the closet. Dad didn’t know. I didn’t want him to know, but I got a knife from the kitchen, in case he needed my help. The dying light glints off its blade. Don’t come out, he said. For anything.

I tighten my grip on the handle, brace it with the other hoof. The doorknob turns. My breath catches in my throat. Slowly, the door opens. And I lunge.

---

It always happens on nights like this.

I can’t tell the rain from the thunder, and I huddle in my closet. It’s my own room, anyway. None of the other kids ever come in here.

None of them know.

A knock at the bedroom door. “You in there, Scoots? It’s Rainbow Dash. I had to work late, but I figured we might get some popcorn and watch a movie. Sound good?” My hooves shake. “Scootaloo?”

No, no, he doesn’t deserve this. Leave Dad alone!

Hoofsteps. I have to keep quiet, but I can’t!

“You here? The receptionist hadn’t signed you out.”

I grip my pocketknife. The hoofsteps get closer, and I whimper. I… I miss Dad. Dammit, I miss Mom.

“Oh, yeah, I… I guess you weird out a little on stormy nights. You okay? Just some rain. Nothin’ to worry about.”

I have to help Dad. My whole body tenses.

The doorknob turns.

She doesn’t ask, just hugs me, and I love her for it.

She doesn’t ask, but I tell her anyway.