Chapter 1
Nico’s POV
If I could remove one thing from life, it would be sleep. I mean, what’s the point? Eight hours of nothingness while the world quietly moves on without me. Sounds peaceful until you realise sleep’s just a rehearsal for death — cosy, quiet, and completely inevitable. But then again, sleep isn’t the enemy. Nightmares are. Except mine are not monsters or ghosts; they’re real — waiting for me the moment I wake up. Grainy clips from today spliced together by a director who clearly hates me. My brain screens them every night like some cursed art film: shaky camera, distorted faces, and a life I wish I didn’t live.
I am not being cynical, I am being realistic. There is a difference between giving up on hope and learning not to expect miracles, and I learned that the hard way. If you knew what kind of life I lived, every moment that broke me down and built me back up in the wrong shape, you would not look at me with admiration or sympathy. You would look at me with pity, the quiet, uncomfortable kind that people try to hide behind polite smiles. And that pity wouldn’t mean poor thing; it would mean thank goodness that isn’t me. That’s the kind of world we live in some arrive cushioned in bubble wrap, others land on pricks and pins.
The morning sunshine met my face. Again. The sharp sting on my cheek tells me last night’s “family bonding session” ended exactly how it always does, with Mark (my stepdad) swinging and Belinda (my failed excuse of a mom) cheering from the sidelines like it’s the Olympics of disappointment.
I peel myself off the bed, more like a dirty thin and second-hand mattress, the same one that smells like tragedy and disappointment had a baby and give my reflection in the broken mirror a little smile. Perfect. Just the right mix of bruised and bored. Someone should really give me an award for the best actor in a pretending I’m fine Drama.”
The clock says it’s half past 5, too late for sitting in silence but too early to start caring, in my timetable anyways. Another wonderful day in paradise. I stretch, crack my neck, and whisper a good-morning speech to my imaginary audience: Thank you, thank you! I dedicate this performance to every broken bottle that made me who I am today.
Then I grab my bag — the one that’s held together better than my so-called family and head out the door. The air outside bites, but it’s safer than the hell I call home.
Maths smells like cheap disinfectant and the faint despair of teenagers pretending to be alive before 9 a.m. I drop into my seat by the window, close enough to look engaged yet far enough to avoid questions. Strategic placement.
Miss Smith breezes in “Good morning, everyone!” I raise a hand.
“Morning, Miss! Great weather for algebra, isn’t it?” I say.
She gives me the usual tight smile, the “please don’t start this early” one, basically her signature at this point. Mission accomplished.
Liam throws a paper ball at my head. “Oi, Nico, tell her your theory about the government controlling the vending machines!”
“Not a theory,” I say solemnly, turning in my chair. “A proven fact. How else do you explain a Mars Bar costing a dollar fifty? That’s taxation without representation.”
The class laughs, but Miss Smith sighs her head like she’s done with me, which I suppose she is, before turning to write on the board.
I laugh too because it’s easier that way. But when I reach down for a pen, my sleeve slips back, and I see it again—the bruise. It’s not as dark now, more yellow than purple, but it still makes my chest tighten. I pull my sleeve down fast, hoping no one saw. They never do. And that’s a good thing, right?
