Shadows Of The Past
Chapter 1: Shadows Of The Past
Melinda had spent years burying the past, but the memories never truly faded. They clung to her like a second skin, whispering in the silence, resurfacing when she least expected them. Tonight was one of those nights.
She sat curled up on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting elongated shadows on the walls. Her fingers traced the faint, silvery scars on her wrists—ghosts of a battle she had once fought with herself. Each mark was a reminder, a testament to the pain she had endured, the suffering she had survived.
Her torment had begun early. Middle school was supposed to be a place of learning and laughter, but it had been a battlefield for Melinda. She had always been a quiet girl, bookish, shy, a little too different for the comfort of her peers. At first, the taunts were small, almost insignificant. They mocked the way she dressed, spoke, and clutched her books as if they were her only friends. But cruelty is a thing that festers, and before long, the whispers turned into shoves, the laughter into jeers, and the isolation into something unbearable.
They called her names, left cruel notes in her locker, and spread rumors so vile that even teachers began to look at her differently. Lunch hours became a torturous countdown. She learned to eat quickly, to find a corner where she wouldn’t be seen. But no matter how hard she tried to disappear, they always found her.
Then came the darkest night of all.
She had trusted him. A senior boy, older, charming in a way that made her feel seen for the first time in her life. He told her she was special, that he understood her. And like a moth to a flame, she wanted to believe him. That night, under the guise of friendship, he led her away from the party, down darkened hallways where the music faded, where no one could hear her scream.
The memory of it made her stomach lurch, bile rising in her throat. She remembered his weight pressing down on her, the roughness of his hands, the suffocating scent of alcohol on his breath. She had said no, pleaded, fought, but he was stronger. When it was over, she lay there, broken, her body foreign to her, her soul shattered. And when she finally managed to crawl away, she realized the world had not stopped spinning. The stars still shone, the music still played, and no one had noticed her absence.
After that, the world became a blur. The whispers at school grew louder, the judgment in their eyes sharper. She was no longer just the outcast—she was the girl with the rumors, the girl who “asked for it.” She tried to speak, to tell someone, but the words wouldn’t come. The shame swallowed her whole, and soon, she could no longer bear the weight of existence.
One night, alone in her room, she made a decision. She was tired of hurting, tired of existing in a world that had only ever been cruel. The blade was cold, the pain sharp but fleeting. She closed her eyes, ready for the silence to take her.
But fate had other plans. Her mother had found her just in time, the panic in her voice piercing through the haze. She had woken up in a hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling her nostrils, the faces of concerned nurses hovering above her. She had survived, but in that moment, she hadn’t wanted to.
Now, years later, she ran her fingers over her scars, inhaling deeply. The past would always be a part of her, a ghost that lingered in the corners of her mind. But she had lived. And maybe—just maybe—that meant she was stronger than she had ever believed.
