My childhood was always rough. I was never allowed to do what I wanted. There were too many restrictions on me-so many that even playing outside wasn't an option. I was only allowed to go out for an hour in the evening, and even then, only under my parents' watchful eyes.
During summer vacations, when all the kids would rush outside early in the morning to play, I'd watch them from my house. Sometimes they'd call me to join, but I wasn't allowed. All I could do was stand by the gate or peek through the windows, listening to their laughter and the sounds of their games, feeling completely left out.
I was sent to home tutors and coaching classes from a very young age. Until I was in first grade, I at least got to ride my cycle to class. But my teacher there was cruel. She would hit me, not because I misbehaved, but because I struggled to understand things quickly. Instead of teaching me with patience, she'd slap me-hard. My cheeks would burn red, my eyes filled with so many tears that I could barely see my notebook. But I had to keep writing, keep solving questions through blurry vision, because if I got another answer wrong, there'd be another slap. And they weren't small slaps-they'd land right across my face, making my head jolt to the side.
My parents didn't care. It didn't matter to them if I was hurt, as long as I studied.
I remember one day when I was about seven. After finishing my coaching class, I was finally allowed to go to the park for a little while in the evening. My mom was there too, walking with another woman, deep in conversation. I was playing on the merry-go-round with some other kids. It was old, rusted, and broken on one side.
We were spinning the merry-go-round as fast as we could. Some kids sat on it, laughing as they whirled around, while the rest of us pushed with all our strength, waiting for our turn. After getting it to full speed, we all knew to step back together so no one would get hit. But I wasn't paying attention.
I was distracted-terrified, actually. My eyes kept flickering toward my mother. What if she saw me? What if she caught me playing like this? The thought alone made my stomach churn. And in that moment of fear, I didn't notice the rusted, broken metal piece sticking out. It sliced right into my leg, just above my ankle.
A sharp, choked scream slipped from my lips. I looked down, gripping my leg tightly, trying to stop the bleeding. But before the blood even came, something else oozed out-thick, white, and unfamiliar. I had no idea what it was, but it terrified me. My body had reacted first, pushing out infection, dead cells-whatever it was, I didn't care. All I knew was that the pain hit me next. And then, the blood came.
It dripped. Everywhere I stepped, small dots of red marked my path. But I didn't cry. Not because it didn't hurt-it did. It hurts like hell. But because I was more afraid of what would happen when I got home. If my family saw this wound, I wouldn't just be in pain-I'd be punished.
So I ran.
I ran as fast as I could, my leg throbbing with every step, leaving behind a trail of blood along the road. By the time I reached home, I was gasping, but I didn't stop. I rushed to wash the wound, biting down on my lip as the water burned through my torn skin like fire. My hands trembled as I wrapped a towel around it, pressing down to stop the bleeding. Then, I hid. Curling up in a corner, shaking, watching as the blood refused to stop.
And then, I looked up.
My mother was standing there.
Her face twisted with rage, her eyes burning as she took in the sight before her. But she wasn't looking at my wound. She was staring at the bloodstains-on the bedsheet, on the towel, on the floor.
"This girl has ruined everything!" she screamed. "She's wiped her blood on the towel we use for our faces! Now we have to wash everything because of her!"
And that was it.
That was the moment I broke.
Tears streamed down my face, my whole body trembling, not from the pain, but from the realization that even now, even like this, I didn't matter. The mess did. The house did. But not me.
And then, she grabbed a comb.
And she hit me. Over and over. Hard enough to make my scalp sting, my hair yank at the roots, my skin burn. She didn't stop. Not even when the woman standing next to her-some random lady who had been chatting with her in the park-watched in silence. That woman, who could have stopped her, who could have said something, just stood there. Watching.
When my mother was finally tired, when her anger had settled, when she had beaten me enough to satisfy whatever rage she held inside, then-only then-she called my father.
Not because she was worried. Not because she cared.
But because I needed a tetanus shot.
I went to the hospital still crying, my whole body shaking from exhaustion, from fear, from pain. The doctor had to pull out the rusted metal from my leg, piece by piece, while I lay there, my face turned away so I wouldn't see the needle.
I didn't need to.
The pain was enough to remind me that it was real.