lights Born Of The Wound

A sudden splash of cold water slapped against my skin. I gasped, blinking up into the hard, furious eyes of my stepmother. “Wake up!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to cut. “You worthless dog. Do you still think you’re living in your father’s house? I regret ever agreeing to raise you. I should’ve dumped you in an orphanage—at least then I wouldn’t be suffering like this.” Before I could even sit up, another voice cut through the tension. My younger sibling. “Mom, don’t say that,” they pleaded softly. “Remember—she’s the daughter of the man you loved. The man who gave you shelter, food, happiness… back when we were nothing.” My stepmother pressed her hand to her forehead, shaking with rage. “Oh, Cara… so now you choose her? You defend the girl who killed your father?” “Mom, I didn’t do anything,” I whispered, trying to hold my voice steady. “Shut up!” she snapped, mimicking me cruelly. “‘I didn’t do anything.’” She rolled her eyes dramatically, opening and closing them as though she couldn’t stand the sight of me. “When I open my eyes again,” she hissed, “you’d better be out of this room and on your way to the café. Move, you disgraceful daughter.”