Amy

Alive

They told me I was bad, a stain, a burden. That I deserved it, that no one would ever want me. And for a long time, I believed them. Belief, I learned, is a potent weapon, a shackle that binds you to their reality. It can wrap around you like a shroud, suffocating your spirit, blinding you to any glimmer of hope.

Now, looking back, through the fog of years and the haze of what they did, I see things differently. Not clearer, perhaps, but with a wider, more encompassing perspective. Like discovering a hidden crack in a wall you never knew existed, a glimpse into another dimension.

This room, this empty, desolate shell, was my first prison, my first stage. Here, I learned the language of survival, a language whispered in bruises and screamed in silence. I learned to read the subtle shifts in their moods, to anticipate their needs, and to become invisible.

Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if… if there had been another way. If someone had seen me, really seen me, beyond the dirt and the fear, beyond the label they had branded on my forehead. But “if” is a ghost, too, a phantom limb, a constant ache for what might have been, lost in the swirling dust and echoing silence of a life lived on the fringes of darkness.

The sun is setting now, casting long, distorted shadows across the room, painting the dust motes in shades of orange and blood red. Like tiny, ephemeral flames, burning bright for a fleeting moment, then fading into the encroaching shadows. Just like me, I suppose. A flicker in the dark, struggling to keep the flame alive