Chapter 1: Monday – The Beginning of the End
The alarm didn't wake her. She'd been lying awake long before it buzzed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling where a small crack traced itself like a growing vein. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of her blanket before she peeled it away and stood. Her bed was made within minutes. Everything folded, arranged, aligned. A system she had built not to please others, but to give her some control over a life that rarely felt like her own.
She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She already knew what she'd see—ugly. No reflection could change that. She washed her face. Wiped it with the same soft towel she used every day. Then, she faced the mirror. Pale skin, tired eyes, a loose braid falling over one shoulder. Not ugly. Not beautiful. Just—average. A word she had grown to resent. A word uttered by her parents every time they went out. Those girls look so pretty unlike the average you, her mother would say.
As she tied her school tie, snug and too high on her neck, she stared at her reflection. It's the last week of school, she thought. Who would even notice if I never came back?
There was a knock on the door. She didn't answer. She didn't need to, because she knew they'd just yell for her to get the hell down.
Downstairs, the kitchen was warm with the smell of toast and butter. Dustin was already sitting at the table, giggling at something on his tablet. Justin was reading a science journal aloud, explaining complex ideas that made their father nod in proud approval.
Her mother slid a plate in front of Dustin, cut the toast diagonally, and kissed the top of his head.
She walked in quietly. No one turned. No one asked if she slept well, not even a good morning. Her plate was already there—plain toast, no jam. Cold tea.
Her father glanced at her in disgust. "Don't forget your biology test this week. It's your weakest." She said nothing. Just nodded and chewed slowly. Inside, her thoughts churned. It's not my weakest. I just hate it. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm not like them at least, selfish and sided people.
Across the room, her grandmother sat with her prayer beads, silent, observant. Their eyes met for a moment. A single soft smile from her—the only part of the morning that didn't feel sharp.
The school gates loomed like prison bars. Uniform check. Tie straight. Shoes polished. Hair pulled back tight. She passed inspection as always.
She walked alone through the courtyard, one earbud tucked under her scarf, playing something soft, something no one else listened to. Music wasn't escape. Just a muffler against the noise of reality.
The classroom was already half full. She spotted her immediately—Amelia. A girl of bright skin as shiny and smooth as a fine jade, with dark brown hair tucked behind her high, long ponytail. Sitting near the window, doodling hearts on her notebook.
"Hey," Amelia beamed as she approached.
She sat beside her and smiled—really smiled. "Hi."
It was a quiet exchange, but real. Amelia was the only one who made her laugh without trying, the only one who noticed when her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"You brought the colours today?" Amelia whispered.
She nodded, opening her pencil case to reveal a neat row of gel pens and pastel highlighters.
"You're the prettiest note-taker I know," Amelia whispered with a grin.
Her cheeks warmed. "That's because it's the only thing I'm good at."
Amelia leaned closer. "That's not true. Who was the one who helped me fight that git yesterday? Girl, don't underestimate yourself."
She didn't answer. Just looked at her notes and drew a small flower in the margin.
Chemistry class was loud and draining. The teacher asked her a question. She hesitated for two seconds too long.
"Still daydreaming, are we?" the teacher barked. A few students laughed.
She muttered the correct answer. The teacher had already moved on.
I don't even hate chemistry. Chemistry hates me.
At lunch, Amelia shared her chips. They talked about nothing and everything. Their shoes. The school dance they weren't going to. A new song. A drawing she'd made of Amelia last week that she hadn't shown yet.
"You okay?" Amelia asked softly.
She nodded. "Yeah. Just tired."
Amelia didn't push. She never did.
Home was loud. Dustin was bragging about a robotics project. Justin got a message from a science club he applied to. Her father congratulated them both. Her mother joined in with tea and snacks.
She, however, stood at the edge of the room, invisible.
Later, at dinner, she tried to say something about a sketch she made. Her mother cut in: "Can you stop wasting time on those drawings and open your biology book?"
Her father added, "Be like your brothers. At least they know what they want." He then gave a hearty laughter as her brothers snickered uncontrollably.
"I do know," she said, more sharply than she meant to. "I want to be an architect."
Silence. Then laughter.
"Buildings?" her mother scoffed. "That's not a real future."
Something cracked inside her.
Her chair screeched. The door slammed behind her—loud enough for the neighbours to judge, but never loud enough for her parents to understand.
In the dim light of her room, she quietly opened her drawer, as she heard her family talk about her.
When will she ever listen to us? I never have seen a girl more misbehaved than her. She wants to build houses. Pfttt… Houses my foot!
After the loud and hoarse voice from her father, then came her mother—gentle, but sharp enough to cut through
We can't change her. She's just like that, considering us as her enemy from the start. And talking about a broken and unrealistic future.
The blade lay tucked beneath her sketchbook. She took it out slowly, like it was fragile. Oh really so I am the wrong one here?
She gripped the knife as hard as she could till her whole hand turned red. Would they even care if I were to die. No God would be troubled then.
Sat on the edge of the bed. Rolled up her sleeve.
One cut. Two cut. Three cut. She didn't stop till the fifth.
Warm blood gushed. She smiled faintly, head lowered, bangs covering her eyes.
The pain was real. Controlled. Hers.
She walked to the sink. Ran her wrist under cold water. Flinched hard. Cleaned it with tissue. Wrapped it in gauze from her school kit.
Not the first time.
And definitely not the last.
That night, she wrote in her journal:
"I'm not lazy. I'm not broken. I'm just tired of being who they want. I'm scared that if I show them who I really am, they'll never look at me the same. But maybe they never really looked in the first place."
She closed the book, tucked it under her pillow, and lay down, still fully dressed.
The fan whirred above. Outside, the night didn't care. Inside, she felt the ache of being almost seen.
Tomorrow is Tuesday. Six days left till the grand Monochromatic Week in Oscraps.