They left me on the cold floor.
No blankets. No apologies. No light.
Just me—curled up like a broken question mark, body aching, soul cracking at its seams. The floor was hard, but not as hard as the words they'd carved into me. Their anger had burned itself into my skin, but it was their silence afterward that blistered the deepest.
I lay there, limbs trembling, eyelids too swollen to fully close. My breath shallow. My mind replaying every second—the screen lighting up, the words they read aloud, the look in their eyes when judgment replaced concern.
Then came the prayer. The irony.
We prayed.
We prayed like redemption was a pill you could swallow before bedtime. Like spiritual mumbling could unbruise a teenager's skin or stitch up a torn self-worth. I bowed my head because that was expected. But my heart wasn't bowing. My heart was curled up in a dark corner, rocking itself, whispering over and over:
"You're not safe here. You're not safe. You're not safe."
When the final "Amen" echoed, everyone dispersed. Like nothing happened. Like the night's horror had been a scene from a passing dream. The aunt who spat fire into my veins was already rummaging through her work bag. The uncle who had whipped me like I was sin incarnate now hummed as he adjusted his shirt collar in the mirror.
And then—just when I thought the script had closed—he walked past me.
His cologne hit before his words did. That woody, musky scent that once smelled like comfort now made my stomach twist.
"Prepare your body," he whispered. "I'm coming back."
He didn't stop walking. He didn't look at me. But the smirk in his voice—God, it clung to me like cigarette smoke. His next words slithered down my spine, venom wrapped in velvet.
"I only beat you for staying up last night. Trust me… next time, you'll wish you were dead."
My soul hiccupped. My breath caught mid-throat. My vision blurred—not from tears this time, but from the sheer weight of the realization.
This wasn't just about discipline.
This was about control. About power. About breaking me.
The room blurred.
And so I did what trauma often demands—I dissociated.
My mind yanked me into a memory so loud, it drowned out the present.
Let's take a step back.
Before the whip.
Before the betrayal.
Before the silence that screamed louder than thunder.
Let's rewind.
I was kissing him.
Him—lips like soft sin, hands like warm danger. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget your name and remember every heartbeat. I didn't just kiss him. I melted into him. It felt like the world paused its rotation just so we could have that one, stolen moment.
Nature stopped breathing just to watch.
He was carved from daydreams—God's cruel joke on good girls who try to be responsible.
But even further back—before the kiss—there was Mary.
Mary, my complicated best friend. The "sister" who held my secrets and buried her own. Our friendship was messy in that we-love-each-other-but-might-strangle-each-other kind of way. Sometimes soulmates. Sometimes strangers. But always something.
She trusted me. Whispered her secrets into my ear like prayers.
And her biggest secret?
She was in love.
Not puppy love. Not campus crush kind of love.
Obsessed.
And the target of her obsession? The literal hottest boy on campus. One year above us. Charisma on two legs. The boy who walked like he owned the air. Who laughed like storms. Who could make the queen of England rethink her vows.
And Mary—poor, sweet Mary—was convinced he was her destiny.
So she did what girls like us always do: asked her best friend to help.
Of course, I agreed.
I mean, I was the school's unofficial Love Consultant™. Chelsea Cupid. The girl who could get you a date, decode mixed signals, and craft the perfect text in five minutes or less. I helped build love stories. Never starred in them.
So, we launched Operation Hot Crush.
We rehearsed greetings. Curated outfits. Timed "accidental" meet-ups between Mary and him. We even devised fake study groups to bring them together.
But then… it happened.
The first time I mentioned Mary to him, he just smiled politely.
The second time, his eyes found mine and lingered.
And then he said it.
"I don't want Mary. I want you."
I thought I misheard.
I laughed. Because sometimes laughter is your body's way of saying, "This is dangerous. Abort mission."
But he wasn't joking.
He chased. I dodged.
He called. I ignored.
He texted. I left him on read.
But he kept coming.
And each time he did, he chipped a little more at the wall I'd built around myself.
He was relentless. And not just in the cocky way most boys are. He listened. He noticed. He remembered things I forgot I'd said. He asked how I was… and waited for real answers.
I started to slip.
And Mary noticed.
She asked me if he ever mentioned her.
I lied.
Said, "All the time."
I told her he smiled at her the other day. He didn't.
I told her he liked her laugh. He didn't even know what it sounded like.
And then came the day—the rooftop. My Sweet Sixteen.
Classes had ended. My friends told me they had a surprise. I followed blindly, cheeks already sore from smiling.
Then I saw him.
Roses in hand.
A gift box by his feet.
A tiny silver key glinting like hope in the sun.
He looked at me like I was the only girl who'd ever existed.
And then—he kissed me.
Soft. Sure. Soul-shattering.
It wasn't my first kiss.
That honor went to someone else.
My girl best friend. It was a curious moment, a laugh-turned-lip-touch that we swore to forget.
But this kiss? It was the first one that felt like it came with a future.
Then…
A gasp.
Not loud.
But sharp.
Like a blade across silk.
I turned.
Mary.
She was there.
Eyes wide.
Expression blank. But her silence thundered.
I tried to step forward.
To speak.
To untangle the betrayal.
But she didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She just looked. At the flowers. At the key. At the boy who was still holding my waist like I was his to keep.
Then she turned.
Walked away.
Each step a death knell in my gut.
He whispered behind me, "She'll get over it."
But I knew better.
Mary wasn't the kind to get even. She was the kind to get ahead.
A girl who never forgets.
A girl who bakes revenge slowly—like bread that rises overnight.
And just like that, I wasn't the Cupid anymore.
I was the villain.
The traitor.
The girl who betrayed the only person who ever truly trusted her.
And suddenly, I was more than just a girl with a boy problem.
I was a girl standing on the edge of a betrayal avalanche.
Back in the present, I blinked away the memory.
I was still on the floor.
Still shaking.
Still not okay.
The room was silent now. But that silence… it was alive.
It pulsed with memory. With secrets. With ghosts.
I pressed my hand to my chest. My ribs ached where the koboko had landed. But the pain was deeper than that.
Because I wasn't just hurting from bruises.
I was hurting from guilt.
From betrayal.
From being seen.
From being misread.
My phone was gone.
My freedom was gone.
And worst of all, my peace… had packed up and left long ago.
I knew the truth would surface eventually.
And when it did?
Mary would rise.
He would deny.
The school would feast.
And I?
I would drown.
In shame. In rumors. In secrets I never meant to carry.
But I wasn't just carrying a secret anymore.
I was carrying a warning.
Because what came next?
Would change everything