Chapter 1
Have you ever felt like you were drowning? Like you’re free‑falling off a cliff of melancholy, and the ground is collapsing beneath you. You gasp for air but inhale fire instead; the smoke is burning your eyes and throat and lungs, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. No amount of water could put this fire out. This flame in my chest.
I choked down oxygen, forcing my lungs to remember how to work. As soon as I caught my breath, anotherfistslammed into my stomach, knocking every trace of air out of me.Icollapsedonto the floor.Abooted footcrashed into my shoulder with a sickening crunch, and I screamed. He kept going — hitting, kicking, punching — until any strength I had clawed back was stolen again by another blow.
When it was finally over, I stumbled into my room — my tiny,box-shapedrefuge — and collapsed onto my bed. Pain shot through my destroyed shoulder when it hit the mattress.I’dneed a doctor for that. I could still smell the alcohol on his breath in my head. I could feel every punch and slap all over again, but worse now, like the memory itself bruised deeper.
The pain drained me. Not just my body — my essence. Exhaustion wrapped around me like a wet blanket,heavyand suffocating. I drifted into sleep quickly, dreaming of a day when Iwasn’tpraying for the end of my existence. A day when healed bruisesweren’treplaced with new ones the moment they faded. A day when my bonesdidn’tbreak underhisfoot and my earsdidn’tring withhisscreaming.
I dreamt of a life where Iwasn’tdrowning.
Iwokethe next morning aching everywhere. The pressure of my wounds felt like someone was pressing down on my entire body. I groaned and forced myself off the lumpy mattressI’dfound in a dumpster two years ago. It was still better thanthe battered couch I used to sleep on — the springs would poke my back at night like they were mocking me.Look at what you have; nothing. You havenothing.
My dad had already left for work.
I shuffled to our claustrophobic bathroom, tripping over nothing. The man in the smudged, greasy mirror was familiar. A large black‑and‑blue flower bloomed across his jaw. A small cut on his eyebrow had dried, leaving thin streaks of blood down to his eye. His dark, pathetic eyes. Eyes that had seen too much to belong to someone this young. Eyes that were tired and hopeful at the same time, expecting change every day and returning empty‑handed.
“Today will be different,” I whispered to the person trapped in my mirror.
But I knew better.
I would keep suffering through these brutal beatings. I would keep drowning in my own sorrow and shame. My bones felt like shattered glass, my soul like shredded fabric. And yet I kept walking the treacherous path, hoping for a pot of gold at the end. I kept surviving for the sake of not dying. Because you never really die if you haven’t lived — and whatever I was doing, no one could call it living.
My heartbeat. That was all. It stuttered and creaked as the days went on, echoing like sirens in my skull, sending ripples into the lake my mind drowned in.
Time for school.
Marcus picked me up. He didn’t ask about my face or the way I barely moved my left arm. He just stared ahead at the road, jaw tight, biting the inside of his cheek. We were silent the whole ride.
He parked near the back of the lot and cut the engine.
“I can’t keep seeing you like this,” he said, still staring forward. “You look like you fought a bear and lost.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered, harsher than I meant.
He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. The horn beeped. “Dude, you are not fine. Your dad beats the crap out of you. That’s not fine.”
I flinched at the volume. Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back. Icouldn’tcry. Not in front of him.
“What am I supposed to do if one day you just… don’t get back up?”hewhispered, voice cracking.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just… Where am I supposed to go if they take me away? I have no family. I’m almost eighteen. Three more months, okay? Three months and I’m out. I don’t care if I have to live in a tent.”
Marcus shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “I’mnot mad at you.I’mjust scared, man.”
I nodded and opened the door. A light on the dash blinked and a quiet alarm sounded. I shot him an apologetic look before stepping out.
Kids stared as I walked through thehalls. I ignored them. I listened to gossip instead —apparently therewas a new girl in our grade. That was it. Nothing about me. Good.
On my way to first period, I brushed past a girl holding books to her chest like a shield. Our shoulders bumped, and her notebooks fell.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, bending down. She bent at the same time and we knocked heads. Pain exploded in my skull. She rubbed her forehead.
“Ow.”
I apologized again and handed her the books. Her mouth fell open when she saw my face. My bruises. Her expression softened into something solemn.
“You don’t deserve this.” she whispered.
Her words sliced through my heart like a serrated knife. Kindness always hurt worse than fists. I suddenly wanted to cry — to hand her every secret I’d ever buried. But she walked away quickly, head down.
The halls were almost empty.
The day dragged. Good. The longer school lasted, the longer I didn’t have to be home.
I decided to walk instead of riding with Marcus. Six miles didn’t scare me. However, being trapped in a car with his worried eyes did.
I jogged until my lungs burned, walked when my legs shook. After twenty minutes, I slowed. Kids played in nearby yards. I probably looked like a creep.
Then I saw it. The cemetery. My mom was buried there.
My breath hitched. My chest tightened. I didn’t know why I was here. I didn’t know what pulled me across the street, ignoring honking cars, pushing open the iron gates.
I ran to her grave and collapsed to my knees. I clawed at my shirt, my arms, anything to distract from the ache inside me. Tremors rolled through me as I sobbed, choking on grief so thick it felt physical. I gagged and vomited onto the dirt. The smell burned my nose.
A cold wind dragged its fingers through my hair. The world blurred at the edges.
“Mom,” I whispered. The word cracked in half. I hadn’t said it out loud in years.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said. “I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I’m okay.”
Silence answered.
I pushed myself up, legs shaking, and steadied myself on her headstone. My shoulder throbbed. My chest felt hollow.
I turned away.
At least I was moving.
