Signed away by my step father

The mattress beneath me didn't have springs anymore, just flat, compressed stuffing that let the cold from the floorboards seep right into my ribs. I lay perfectly still, my eyes tracking the thin c***k in the plaster ceiling, trying to hold my breath. Then it came. A high, ringing peel of laughter from the room next door. Monique. It was 6:00 AM, and she was already awake, probably watching videos on her phone or texting her friends. That laugh was my alarm clock, but it wasn't a gentle wake-up call. It was a countdown. If Monique was awake, it meant my stepmother, Helen, wouldn’t be far behind. And if Helen found me still in bed when she opened her door, the day would start with a hand wrapped in my hair or a hard shove into the drywall. I threw off the thin blanket, my movements practiced, silent, and frantic. I grabbed my school uniform from the plastic hanger—the one I had washed by hand in the sink the night before—and slipped out into the hallway. The bathroom was freezing. I didn't dare turn on the light because the switch made a loud, plastic snap that echoed through the thin walls. Instead, I showered in the gray, murky dark of the early morning. I kept the water pressure low, just a trickle, shivering as the lukewarm stream hit my skin. I couldn't risk the pipes rattling. Rattling pipes meant Helen would complain about her sleep being ruined, and a ruined morning for Helen always translated to bruises on my shoulders. I washed quickly, dried off with a towel that smelled faintly of mildew, and dressed in under four minutes. By 6:15 AM, I was in the kitchen. This was the most dangerous part of my day. The kitchen was a minefield of potential noise. A dropped spoon could mean a black eye. A burnt piece of toast could mean missing dinner. I moved like a ghost, slipping across the linoleum, avoiding the specific spot near the refrigerator that creaked if you put too much weight on your left foot. I pulled the heavy cast-iron skillet onto the stove, easing it onto the burner so softly it didn't make a sound. I cracked four eggs against the counter, using my thumb to split the shells silently, ensuring not a single fragment clattered. Next came the bacon, laid out in neat, even rows. As the grease began to pop, I used a wooden spatula to press it down, muffling the sizzle. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every footstep from upstairs made me freeze, my shoulders hunching in anticipation of a blow. Just let me finish, I prayed, my eyes darting toward the clock. Just let me get out the door. I plated the food—perfectly cooked eggs, crispy bacon, toasted bread with exactly a tablespoon of butter on each slice. I set the table for three. Monique, Helen, and my dad. There was never a plate for Sylvia. If I wanted to eat, I had to swallow a piece of dry bread while standing over the sink, choking it down before anyone saw me. At 6:45 AM, I heard the heavy, lumbering footsteps of my dad moving down the stairs. Panic, sharp and cold, flared in my chest. I grabbed my backpack from the floor by the back door. I didn't slide the deadbolt; I turned it millimeter by millimeter, easing the door open just enough to slip my body through. I clicked it shut behind me, the latch catching with a tiny, agonizing tick. Only when my feet hit the cracked sidewalk of the driveway did I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. I was safe. For now. But as I walked the two miles to school, the knot in my stomach didn't loosen. Escaping the house just meant trading one hunting ground for another. By the time I reached the iron gates of Oakridge High, the morning sun was burning through the haze, but it did nothing to warm me. I kept my head down, my bangs falling forward to shield my face, clutching the straps of my backpack like a shield. I tried to blend into the sea of identical plaid skirts and navy blazers, but insignificance was a luxury I rarely got to enjoy. "Look, she managed to wash herself today." The voice was like honey dripping over glass. Selene. I froze halfway up the concrete steps. Selene was standing at the top, surrounded by her usual court of sycophants. Her uniform was tailored perfectly; her blonde hair was gathered into a high, flawless ponytail. She looked like a magazine cover, and she looked at me like I was something she had stepped on. "Barely," one of her friends, a girl named Chloe, chimed in. "Still smells like grease, though. Did you sleep in the kitchen, Sylvia?" A few people nearby laughed. I kept my eyes fixed on Selene’s shiny black loafers, trying to step past them. "Excuse me, Selene. I need to get to my locker." Selene didn't move. Instead, she took a deliberate step forward, completely blocking the double doors. She reached out, her manicured fingers catching a strand of my hair. She tugged it—not hard enough to make me yell, but enough to force my chin up, forcing me to look into her cruel, mocking eyes. "Where are you rushing to?" Selene whispered, her voice dropping so the passing students couldn't hear. "You think because you hide in the back of the class, you're invisible? You owe me the algebra homework, Sylvia. You didn't drop it off at my locker yesterday." "I... I didn't finish it," I lied, my voice trembling. If I gave her my homework, the teacher would notice the matching handwriting. If I didn't, Selene would make sure the rest of my week was a living hell. Selene’s grip on my hair tightened, a sharp spike of pain flaring across my scalp. "Don't lie to me. I know you did it. Hand it over, or I'll make sure everyone in the locker room sees what's under that oversized blazer of yours. I'm sure they’d love to know where those purple marks on your arms come from." My breath hitched. The world seemed to tilt. The threat was a physical blow, knocking the wind right out of me. She knew. She had seen the bruises from Helen, and she was going to use them to destroy the last shred of dignity I had left. "Leave her alone, Selene."