I walked home, wincing each time my bag brushed against the fresh wounds from yesterday. The dull ache had become a part of me—almost routine. By now, I had grown used to the sting, the reminder of countless blows that landed on me day after day. If nothing else, I could at least be useful for something… even if it was just as a punching bag for Mom and Dad to vent their frustrations.
The flickering streetlights cast a cold glow on my skin, and through the thin walls of the neighborhood, I could hear my neighbors fighting again. I had never met them, but I knew their voices by heart—loud, harsh, always filled with anger.
As I approached home, a heavy sigh escaped me. I had no choice but to go back, no matter how much I dreaded it. The door was left ajar—another sign that Mom and Dad had been at it again, and likely, Mom had stormed off. I stepped inside and dropped my bag, but before I could settle, a rat darted across the hallway. My dad was chasing it, swearing under his breath.
I tried my best to go unnoticed, sidling quietly to my room—the garage.
"So, everybody hates us…?" I mumbled to myself, my voice thick with sorrow. My eyes roamed the room, landing on the cardboard box I used as a bed. I slumped into it, feeling the weight of my thoughts.
"Why am I even alive?" I thought, the question sinking deep into my chest. The air in here smelled of rubber and cleaning supplies—a constant reminder of the mess, the violence, the begging I had to endure just for a room to sleep in.
I couldn't believe how brave I had been, asking for something from them, anything at all.
Mom hated me because Dad got her pregnant against her will. Ma and Ba forced her to marry him. Not that I blamed her for hating me.
After some time, I noticed the shattered pieces of my phone scattered around the floor—fragments from when Dad had broken it. I slid off the cardboard bed, trying to avoid the sharp glass, but I still felt it jab into my leg.
"Ouch," I grunted quietly, wincing, trying not to make any noise that would annoy Dad.
I flinched to the loud noise – somebody was banging on the garage door.
I hobbled to the garage door and opened it – it was my dad, he got me some stale food, I was glad that he cared that much.
"Why didn't you eat yesterday?" He demanded my answer, his voice rough and harsh.
I couldn't afford to tell him that I was trying to starve myself as punishment.
"You are trying to make everybody think I'm some monster aren't you?" He growled at me, "The nerve you've got," He shoved the plate in my room and stormed off.
I took small, measured bites, lost in thought. The stale spaghetti crumbled in my mouth, tasteless, like everything else. My fingers curled around the fork, its chipped handle pressing into my palm. The metal prongs glinted faintly under the garage's dim bulb, cold and sharp against my thumb as I traced them absentmindedly. I would die to have somebody to finally care about my existence. The thought looped, heavy, sinking deeper.
My eyes fixed on the fork, and the world blurred at the edges. Suddenly, I wasn't just holding it—I was gripping it tighter, the prongs hovering over my arm. In my head, I saw it: the skin giving way, a quick jab, then red blooming across the scars already there. The sting felt real, sharp and bright, cutting through the dull ache I carried everywhere. My breath hitched, and I pressed harder in the vision, watching the blood trickle down, warm and alive—proof I could still feel something. It was quick, messy, quiet. No one would hear. No one would care.
A loud clatter snapped me back—Dad banging something in the house. The fork was still in my hand, untouched, prongs barely grazing my skin. My chest heaved, and I dropped it onto the plate, the sound swallowed by the garage's emptiness. My leg throbbed where the glass had cut me earlier, and I stared at the food, wondering why my hands were shaking.
What if I really just did it? It would just end all my sufferings. Nobody likes me, they all hate me anyway. I make them all suffer, no matter how hard I try.
Everyone would most probably, no, will be happy if I didn't ever exist. Mom wouldn't have to marry Dad and maybe, she would've been happier.
I bit the inside of my mouth, Trying to push those thoughts aside. Even if I wanted to do it, I don't have the guts to do so. No matter how bad life gets or how much others suffer because of me, I can't just… end it.
That's what I am – selfish and an absolute coward.