Chapter 1

Content Warning: This story depicts themes of emotional abuse, family neglect, trauma, and psychological stress. Reader discretion is advised for the overall series.

Where is it?

Suffocating.

Hard to breathe.

All dark.

I try to move. My hand touches my left arm. I feel the texture of my skin. The burn texture. I know this place. The suffocating dark basement. The palace of my nightmares.

I pull my legs close to my chest.

God. When am I going to wake up?

The alarm screams in my ears.

I open my eyes, gasping for air.

God.

It’s hard to breathe. My heart is beating so loudly thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I look at my trembling hands. They won’t stop shaking.

It’s been three days.

Three days ago I was locked in the bathroom stall of the school restroom until the cleaning staff came after school. That triggered the nightmare. That suffocating feeling triggered everything. My old scars.

I haven’t slept in three days. And when I finally passed out from exhaustion, the nightmare came to me like a wave, the nightmare I buried in the darkest corner of my mind.

Because whenever I close my eyes, I feel it again. The feeling of being locked. Trapped. Like I was when I was seven years old.

I stand up on trembling legs and walk toward the bathroom.

Can’t be late. This morning routine has to be robotic. Efficient. The only way to survive.

I look at my left forearm. The burn scar. It constantly reminds me of that nightmare, even when I try to forget.

I pull the glove over my hand.

I won’t be able to breathe if I keep looking at it.

The stairs creak under my feet.

One step. Two. Three.

Everyone else lives downstairs. I have the room at the end of the upstairs hallway. The smallest one. The one no one wanted. A blessing in disguise. The only blessing I’ve ever known.

The smell hits me before I reach the bottom. Fresh bread. Warm. Golden. Buttery.

My stomach twists. A sharp, hollow ache I’ve learned to ignore.

Maids move through the dining room, setting the table. Silver against porcelain. Crystal glasses catching morning light. Napkins folded into perfect triangles.

The table is beautiful. A painting of abundance.

Not for me.

I walk past the dining room. Into the kitchen. My footsteps are silent. Years of practice.

I search for leftovers. Last night’s dinner? Yesterday’s lunch? Something forgotten at the back of the fridge? Anything.

Nothing.

The counters are clean. The trash is taken out. The refrigerator is full—but full of ingredients. Raw meat. Vegetables. Eggs. Waiting to be turned into meals for them.

Not for me.

I stand there for a moment. The kitchen is warm. The oven is still hot. The smell of bread fills my lungs. It makes my mouth water. It makes my stomach twist again.

Stop it. Don’t feel this. Don’t want this. Wanting makes it worse.

I’m about to walk away when I see it.

A small milk carton. Branded. Name brand. Blue and white. Still sealed.

In the dustbin.

Resting on top of coffee grounds and eggshells. Something discarded. Something not good enough for them.

I glance around. No one in the kitchen. The maids are in the dining room. I hear them talking. Laughing. They don’t care about me. No one does.

I reach into the bin. My fingers touch the cold carton. I pull it out. Check the date. Still good. Still fresh.

They threw it away. A perfectly good carton of milk.

For them, it’s trash.

For me, it’s breakfast.

I wipe it off with my sleeve. Slide it into my bag. Deep inside. Hidden.

I walk past the dining room again. The table is set. Eggs. Pastries. Fresh fruit. Warm bread.

I can’t touch it.

Because I tried to snitch on the bullies. Four days ago.

I step outside. The morning air hits my face. Cold. Sharp. It makes me blink.

I think about the officer. His face. His smirk.

Stop trying to file fake reports just for attention.

I gave him evidence. Photos. Videos. Everything. He looked at it. Then he deleted it. Right in front of my face. One by one. Swipe. Delete. Swipe. Delete.

His finger moved like it was nothing. Like my suffering was nothing.

If you do this again, you’ll be in custody for trying to trick the police.

He told them too. The bullies. Called them on his phone. Right there. His voice was cheerful. Friendly. Like they were old friends.

“Young ladies, it seems there’s been a misunderstanding. Someone filed a complaint against you. But we’ve handled it. Don’t worry about it. Have a good day.”

Among those bullies: my twin sister, Iva. My older cousin, Lia.

I forgot this.

I don’t have any power.

I forgot this.

How dare I forget this.

If Mother knew if she knew I tried to tarnish the reputation of her precious Iva I’d be dead by now. Dead or worse.

How dare I. How dare I forget my place. How dare I think I could ever win against them.

The next day after reporting: locked in the bathroom. All day. Dark. Cold. Smelling of bleach and despair.

The day after that: pushed into a desk. The edge caught my stomach. I still have a bruise. Dark purple. Spreading. It hurts to breathe. Every breath is a reminder. Every breath says: you lost.

I walk toward the bus stop.

The luxury cars gleam in the driveway. Polished. Waiting for them.

Not for me.

Iva and Luke. Their darling daughter. Their youngest prince. They won’t be seen with me. A quiet weirdo. That’s what I am at school. That’s what I am everywhere.

Three days. I’ve been forbidden to eat anything from home. Three days of watching them eat. Three days of smelling their food. Three days of hunger gnawing at my insides like a living thing.

Because I dared. Because I thought I could fight back.

But I forgot.

I’m nothing.

The bench is cold. Metal bars. No cushion. Air seeping through my clothes. I sit there, waiting. Waiting for the bus that will take me to the next hell.

The milk is in my bag.

Small carton. Blue and white. Name brand. The kind they buy for Iva. The kind that sits in the fridge with her name on it.

I found it in the trash.

I should drink it.

I need to drink it.

I haven’t eaten in three days.

But I don’t. I just hold it. My fingers wrapped around the cold cardboard. Condensation dampens my skin.

A boy sits at the other end of the bus stop.

Younger. Maybe eight or nine. Worn shoes. A school bag too big for his shoulders. His clothes are clean but faded. Hand-me-downs. I know the look.

He’s staring at the milk in my hands.

I know this look. I really know it.

He’s hungry. He’s trying not to show it. But his eyes keep drifting to the carton. Then away. Then back.

He catches me looking. He looks away. His ears turn red.

I’ve seen that look before. In the mirror. Every morning. Every night. Every time I watch them eat while I starve.

I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to care.

But something inside me, some part I can’t kill makes me stand. Makes me walk over to him. Makes me hold out the milk.

“Wanna try this?”

He looks up at me. Eyes wide. Wary. Like he’s waiting for a trick. He knows people don’t give things for free. He’s learned that lesson too.

“It’s extra,” I say. “I’ve tried this flavour before. It’s really yummy.”

He hesitates. His stomach growls. The sound is loud in the quiet morning.

He takes the carton.

“Really?” His voice is small.

“Really.” I nod. “It’s extra. I have more at home.”

A lie. A big, beautiful lie. I don’t have any more at home. I don’t have anything at home. But he doesn’t need to know that.

He holds the carton. Small hands. Small fingers. He looks at it like it’s a treasure.

“Thank you.”

I crouch down. My knees ache. I’ve been sitting too long. I’m too tired. But I crouch anyway.

“Hey.” I look at him. “Kid, don’t take food from strangers again, okay?”

He blinks.

“We don’t know their intention.” I point at the milk. “This time it’s safe. But next time… just be careful. Okay?”

He nods slowly. I can tell he doesn’t really understand. But he nods anyway.

I reach into my bag. My fingers touch the money. The money from my part-time job. The money I’m saving to escape. Not much. A few crumpled bills. Coins.

I press them into his small hand.

“Eat something at school. A proper meal. Not just scraps.”

He looks at the money. Then at me. His eyes are wide. Shiny.

“Thank you,” he whispers. His voice cracks.

“Go on,” I say. “Your bus might come soon.”

He nods. He turns. He runs to the other side of the street. To his own bus stop.

He waves at me. I see his small hand in the air. The milk in his other hand.

I don’t wave back. I can’t. If I wave if I let myself feel this moment, this warmth, this small fragile thing I’ll break.

And I can’t break.

Not yet.

I sit back down. The bench is still cold. The air is still sharp. My stomach still aches. The milk is gone.

I watch him until his bus comes. Until he disappears.

My bus comes. I stand up. My legs are heavy. Everything is heavy.

I step inside. Find a seat near the back. Away from everyone.

The engine rumbles. The bus moves.

I look out the window.

The boy is gone.

But I remember his smile.

For one moment one small, fragile moment I was someone who could give.

I gave.

Even when I had nothing. Even when I was starving.

I gave.

And no one saw. No one will ever know.

But I know.

And I hold that thought tight. Like a candle in the dark.

Because one day one day I’m going to get away from all of this.

I will.

I have to.

Or I’ll die trying.