Chapter 2
1546 Words
Ayra’s POV
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Mornings are the quietest part of my day or maybe not. Not peaceful, never peaceful but quiet enough to pretend the world isn’t as cruel as it really is.
The sky was just beginning to turn a soft gray when I got out of bed, my body sore from yesterday’s cleaning and… everything else.
The slap still burned faintly on my cheek, but I’d learned to ignore pain the way people ignore beggars on the street, look away, keep walking.
I moved carefully, silently, like a mouse trying not to wake the wolves.
After washing up in the cracked bathroom sink and tying my hair into a rough bun, I stared at my uniform hanging on the rusty nail by the door.
It looked too small now.
But it was all I had.
I slipped into the navy-blue skirt and white shirt, smoothing it down as best as I could. The buttons on the shirt strained a little, but I prayed no one would notice.
As I knotted my faded tie, I hummed softly.
Curious why I’m still in secondary school?”
Well, that’s a long story… but let me give you the short version.
My dad stopped me from going to school for three or two years. Said it was a waste of money on someone who'd never become anything. I missed everything, senior exams, summer classes, friends I never really had.
I grabbed my old bag, the one missing a strap, and slung it over my shoulder.
But somehow, through begging teachers, extra lessons, and a few kind strangers, I made it back. And here I am. Final year. Final term. I’m almost done.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
Almost free.
I took a deep breath and peeked out of my room. Silence.
Good.
I tiptoed out, careful not to step on the loose board that creaked like a scream. The stairs were just ahead. If I could get down quietly, I’d be out before my dad or Marla woke up.
One step.
Two.
Three…
Suddenly, something shoved me hard.
I gasped, arms flailing, and then crash. I tumbled down the stairs.
Each step hit like bricks against my spine, elbows, knees, until I landed flat on my side with a thud that shook the floor. My breath left my lungs in a painful whoosh.
I groaned, trying to sit up, but a sharp, unbearable pain shot through my left thigh. I whimpered, looked down—and screamed.
There was a nail, a long, rusted one, lodged deep in my upper thigh. A hole tore through the fabric of my skirt and my skin, blood spilling out, thick and red.
The pain was blinding.
I clutched my thigh, heart pounding, breath trembling. My eyes blurred with tears.
Then I heard it.
Laughter.
That shrill, high-pitched cackle I could recognize anywhere.
Marla.
She stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, a cruel grin spread across her face like a trophy.
“Oh dear,” she said mockingly. “Did you fall? Aww… such a clumsy rat.”
I blinked back the tears, my fingers gripping the bloody wound as my body trembled. “Why… why did you?”
She walked down slowly, each step deliberate, like a villain in some twisted fairytale. “Oops. Guess you should watch where you walk next time.”
“You pushed me,” I whispered, trying not to sob.
She squatted beside me, her perfume, cheap and too strong, making me nauseous. She leaned close to my face and whispered, “So what if I did? You think your Dad would believe you over me? And even if he do believe you, do you think he will suddenly care for you? How silly of you to think that”
She stood again and walked away casually, humming as if she hadn’t just tried to ruin my life or end it.
I lay there in silence, every breath burning, my blood pooling on the floor.
No one came.
No one would.
And still, all I could think was, I have to get up. I have to make it to school. I have to finish. I have to leave.
I have to live.
Even if the world wants me broken.
Even if it’s trying to kill me first.
I would survive.
**
Authoress POV
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The moment Ayra stepped out of the house, the bright morning sun stung her eyes.
It wasn’t the light that made her flinch but the pain throbbing in her thigh, and the slow drip of blood trailing down her leg. She stood still on the gravel path, barely able to breathe.
She clench her jaw, then closed her eyes tightly as hot tears slipped out from beneath her lashes.
Her chest heaved, trembling from pain and shame, but she didn’t scream again. She had no more screams left.
Slowly, she looked down, then reached for the sharp, rusty nail impaled deep into her upper thigh. She inhaled sharply and yanked it out.
Blood poured.
Her breath hitched. Her hand trembled, and her vision blurred.
She didn't have bandages, of course not. But survival had taught her one thing: use whatever you had.
Without hesitation, she peeled her torn and wear out socks off, ignoring the sticky warmth of her own blood. She folded it roughly and tied it tightly around the wound. Her fingers worked fast, ignoring the sting.
She gritted her teeth through it, wincing as the knot pressed against the open hole in her flesh.
When she was done, she leaned back against the gate, taking in deep breaths. Her eyes slowly drifted back to the house.
The house she hated. The house where monsters lived. The house that had never been a home.
She limped away, every step heavy, slow, painful.
She had to make it to school.
**
The walk felt like forever. Every bump in the road, every uneven tile, every stone sent a new jolt of pain shooting up her body.
She barely looked up. Her head was low, her arms wrapped around her books, and her wounded leg dragging slightly behind her.
By the time she reached the school gate, sweat had drenched her face and back, and her breathing was shallow. Her limbs ached, her skirt was stained, and her soul felt raw.
She stepped into the hallway. The familiar walls, the chipping paint, the soft echoes of students in classrooms, it should’ve felt like an escape. But the moment she opened the door to her class, the noise halted.
Everyone turned to look.
And just like that… the taunts began.
“Yo! What happened to granny’s leg?” someone laughed from the back.
“She looks like she got beaten by her shadow,” another student jeered.
“Maybe her walking stick broke and she fell off her rocking chair!”
The class erupted in laughter.
Ayra didn’t look at them. Her eyes found her seat, and she headed straight for it, ignoring the whispers, the laughter, the pointing fingers. Her wound throbbed with each step.
But one thing froze her for a second.
A gaze.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
Just… quiet.
Confused.
From a boy. One she didn’t know well. He was new, transferred in the last term. Tall, with a mop of curly hair and sharp eyes that watched her more closely than anyone else.
His brows were furrowed, like he was trying to understand her, not laugh at her. She quickly dropped her gaze, awkward and unsure.
And then the mockery continued.
“Eww, do you smell that? I swear she smells like the inside of a trash bin.”
“Musty. Like a wet dog that’s been crying!”
“She probably hasn’t bathed since 1900. Look at her clothes.”
Ayra’s heart sank.
But before she could crumble completely, the same boy’s voice cut through the air, calm but sharp.
“ Just a year or two older than us at most. So what’s the big deal?”
The room stilled for a second.
Then a girl with curly blonde hair scoffed, the school Barbie, “Really? You’re defending her now? Wow. Sounds like you like the grannie.”
Vanessa.
“Or maybe he has a thing for trash,” another chimed in.
“Are you sure you guys aren’t jealous of her smartness in books and her smartness in looks. No doubt she’s pretty than all of you in here” the same boy repeated calmly.
And they all went still, all fuming in their seat and sending daggers at Ayra.
Feeling the states were too much, Ayra lowered her head, rested her forehead against her desk, and closed her eyes.
Her thigh pulsed with pain. The sock was wet now, sticky with blood. The smell was faint but she could sense it. She hoped no one else noticed.
Then finally, salvation.
The door clicked open, and the teacher walked in.
Silence.
The class snapped into order like nothing had happened. Desks straightened, whispers ceased, and pens came out.
But Ayra stayed still for a second longer before raising her head slowly, her face blank.
She had survived one more moment.
But she didn’t know how many more she could take.
- Writer
