Page 4 of Eternal
The pills would, the voice in my head says, tempting like the bitch she is.
I shove the thought down, bury it with the others. But the itch doesn’t stop, and somewhere deep inside, I know it never will.
I’m eighteen now, not the girl I was when I lost it all, but some nights, she still wins.
Because I know no one is going to be happy about my birthday in this house, they don’t care, they never did.
The alley in front of me felt like a graveyard, empty, and silent, and I am alone there.
Crying. Angry.Enraged.
I was just a child then, I should stop thinking about these images. The blood, the horror…I should be able to stop focusing on that scar on my neck, stop thinking about my life since then, the bruises, the bleeding and tears, the torture and abuse.
But it never left.
It was following me during my sleep, during my fights, my runs, everywhere my consciousness was, my demons followed.
So fucking weak.
It’s been years, and no one knows who I am, no one knows what I saw.
They thought I was dead, and maybe I am, maybe it was the end that night.
They were supposed to protect me, but at that moment, I learned that it was an illusion. They told me I was safe after that, but protection was nothing more than an empty promise.
Celebrating my eighteenth birthday alone feels wrong in so many ways.
In my new home, this day was never meant to matter.
They lied when they told me to call them family, it was never home.
They lied, all of them…empty fucking promises.
But I kept it quiet, even when he started creeping into my room at night, it stopped hurting.
At first, I cried, but then, everything felt hollow. I was numb, a shell of what I used to be…a kid.
The thing is I never wanted their kindness and pity, I wanted to scream, to fight back, to show them that I was still alive in this chaos.
They didn’t care, not really, and that made it worse.
Now, I stood on the edge of a precipice, staring into the dangerous void of my past, feeling its pull like gravity. I wanted to dive in, to let it consume me.
I need answers. I need the pain.
I need the ache to feel real.
Becauseforgetting… forgetting was worse than remembering.
I can’t be her anymore; the girl who let herself fade, who drowned every scream with pills and alcohol to silence the noise.
I can’t be her, not again, not now that I have their things back.
I need to rememberlife. The rage. The fight.
I stormed out of the boxing gym, heart pounding and adrenaline still surging through me like wildfire. As I strapped on my helmet, the cool old and dirty metal of the buckle pressed into my bruised jaw.
I finally had my bike after years of stealing and putting money aside.
