Loving her scars

Fresh start

Chapter 3

Annabelle’s POV — Age 13

Starting over was becoming a habit, and not the kind anyone would want. Every time I began to adjust, life found a way to reset everything again. So when I got into a new school, I didn’t know how to feel. Part of me wanted to believe that maybe this time would be different, that maybe I would finally find a place where I belonged. But another part of me was already tired—tired of trying, tired of adjusting, tired of feeling like I didn’t fit anywhere.

My first day was exactly what I expected and somehow still exhausting. The constant attention drained me more than anything else. People kept asking questions—my name, where I came from, why I left my old school. I answered politely, but inside, I just wanted to disappear. I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to explain anything. I just wanted to exist quietly.

By lunch, I had already run out of energy. I sat alone, staring at my food, barely eating. My appetite hadn’t been the same for a while now, but I ignored it like I ignored everything else going wrong in my life.

“Hi!”

The voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked up to see a girl standing in front of me, smiling like she had known me forever.

“My name is Simone. It’s so nice to meet you.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how warm she seemed. “Hi… I’m—”

“Annabelle,” she cut in, giggling softly. “I know. The teacher introduced you this morning.”

I felt a little embarrassed for forgetting, but I nodded. “Yeah… that’s me.”

“Ana,” she said, testing the name. “Can I call you that?”

Something about the way she asked made it hard to say no. “Sure,” I replied, a small smile forming without me realizing it.

And just like that, something shifted.

She sat with me during lunch, talking about random things—teachers, classes, even little jokes that didn’t really matter but somehow made the moment feel lighter. I didn’t have to try so hard around her. I didn’t feel like I was being judged. For the first time in a long time, someone had chosen to sit with me, to talk to me, to know me. It felt… nice.

After lunch, she insisted on showing me around the school. I followed her through the hallways as she pointed out different places—the principal’s office, the gym, the lockers, the field. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but to me, it meant something. It was a small act of kindness, but it stayed with me.

By the end of the day, I found myself thinking something I hadn’t thought in a while. Maybe this school could be different. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone here.

But the moment I got home, reality settled back in.

The new house still didn’t feel like home. It felt unfamiliar, temporary, like we were just existing in it rather than living. My mom was barely around, always working, always tired. So after school, I stepped into a role I didn’t ask for but had already accepted.

I took care of Johnson.

I fed him, changed his diapers, bathed him, and tried to make him laugh whenever I could. At first, it felt overwhelming, but eventually it became routine. Something I did without thinking. Not because I was forced to, but because I wanted to help.

Victoria and I handled the house chores together. Cleaning, cooking, making sure everything stayed in order. We didn’t complain. We just did what needed to be done.

But at night, everything felt heavier.

I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that had happened. The fights, the shouting, the way my mom cried, the way my dad begged. It all lived in my head, repeating over and over again. Sometimes, I cried quietly, making sure no one could hear me. I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me when they already had so much to deal with.

I prayed a lot during those nights. I prayed that everything would go back to normal, that one day I would wake up and all of this would just be a bad dream. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

I started losing my appetite completely. Food didn’t feel the same anymore. I ate because I had to, not because I wanted to. Slowly, I began to lose weight. My clothes didn’t fit the same, and my reflection started to look unfamiliar. I looked tired. Weak. Not like myself.

Even my hair started falling out.

At some point, I stopped paying attention to it.

My mom changed too. The stress she was under began to show in ways I couldn’t ignore. She became more aggressive, more impatient, more… distant. Sometimes, her words hurt more than anything else.

“Can’t you do anything right?”

“Why are you so careless?”

“Do I have to do everything myself?”

They were just words, but they stayed with me. They echoed in my head long after she said them. Sometimes, it was over small things—breaking a mug while washing dishes or adding too much salt to the food. Mistakes that shouldn’t have mattered that much, but somehow did.

There were moments I wished she would just hit me instead. At least physical pain fades. Words don’t. They stay. They settle somewhere deep inside you and refuse to leave.

The hardest part was that I had no one to talk to about any of it.

Simone tried, in her own way, to bring me out of that darkness. She encouraged me to join extracurricular activities. At first, I resisted. I didn’t want to go through what I experienced before. I didn’t want to be laughed at again.

But eventually, I gave in.

I joined the dance club, the cheer squad, and the cooking club. Out of all of them, the cooking club became my favorite. There was something calming about it, something that allowed me to focus on something other than my thoughts. For a few hours, I could forget everything.

School became my escape.

I stayed longer than necessary, sometimes finding reasons to delay going home. It got to a point where I dreaded walking through the door, knowing what waited for me on the other side.

My dad would call occasionally. Not to really check on us, but to try and get us to convince my mom to take him back. Sometimes, he sent food after calling, like that would make up for everything. Like pizza could replace responsibility.

He didn’t support us financially. Not even a little.

Watching everything unfold changed something in me.

I made a quiet decision.

I would never depend on anyone.

Never allow myself to be that vulnerable.

Never fall in love.

At thirteen, I stopped being just a child.

I became a caregiver, a listener, a support system. My mother’s emotional outlet, my sister’s safe place, my brother’s caretaker. And somehow, I became my own strength.

There were days it felt like too much, like I was carrying a weight that didn’t belong to me. But every time I felt like breaking, I stopped myself.

“Annabelle Mercedes,” I would tell myself, “you’re not allowed to fall apart. If you do, who’s going to hold everything together?”

So I endured.

I carried it all.

And I kept going.

I don’t remember what it felt like to be a normal teenager. I didn’t go to parties. I didn’t hang out like my classmates. I didn’t get to just be carefree.

I was surviving.

Not living.