Silent Half

Chapter Nine: A Memory Etched in Blood

Flashback~

The garden was in full bloom the day it happened—roses and hibiscus and summer sun. I was three years old. Amara and I were playing, or so it was supposed to be. She had one of my dolls. I wanted it back.

“Give it back, Amara,” I had said, tugging at the hem of her dress.

Amara had yanked away, face twisted in something darker than just playfulness. “It’s mine now. You don’t get to have nice things.”

She shoved me hard. I stumbled back, the world spinning. My foot caught a rock. My head hit another.

Blinding pain. Then warmth. Something trickled down my forehead.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw red dripping past my lashes. I tried to sit up. My legs felt weak.

Amara screamed—but not at me.

She dropped to the ground beside me, fake tears pouring down her cheeks. “She pushed me! She pushed me and now I fell!”

Our parents came rushing from the house. My mother reached for Amara instantly, cradling her like porcelain.

“Oh my baby!”

“My head’s bleeding,” I tried to say. “Mom—”

My father loomed above me. “Stop acting pitiful, Alina. This is your fault.”

“But—”

“Inside, now!” he barked at me, then turned and walked Amara back into the house, followed by my mother, still soothing the fake sobs from her favorite child.

They left me there.

Bleeding.

Alone.

I don’t remember passing out, only the way the sky shimmered above me before it went dark. An hour must have passed before I woke again. I stumbled into the house, forehead caked with dried blood.

I went straight to my room. Crawled into bed. Cried into my pillow.

Nena came in half an hour later, grocery bags still in her hands. The moment she saw me, she dropped everything.

“Oh, my poor baby,” she whispered, rushing to my side. She knelt, wiping away the blood with practiced gentleness.

“Don’t tell them,” I begged. “Just ointment. Please.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Alina, your head—this needs stitches. You need a doctor.”

“No! Please, Nena. They’ll be mad. They’ll think I made it up. Or blame me again.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Please,” I said, clutching her hand. “Just clean it. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Her lips trembled. She nodded, reluctantly. “Alright. But if it swells, or you feel dizzy again, I’m taking you in whether you like it or not.”

She cleaned the wound with gentle care, applying antiseptic and ointment, then wrapped a small bandage around my head. All the while, she hummed—soft, familiar lullabies from my earliest years.

“You didn’t deserve this,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You never did.”

I cried then—not from the pain, but from the kindness.

That night, I lay in bed, head pounding, heart heavier than it had ever been. I knew something then, something no child should ever know.

I would never be safe here.

Not unless I made my own way.

And that meant learning how to endure the pain with silence.

Because love, in this house, was a currency I could never afford.