Just take of

IV.

Another day, another alarm clock. I get out of bed and, I don't know why, but I look at myself in the mirror. I felt something strange about my appearance, as if something was different. I took off the sweatshirt I was sleeping in. Bruises were clearly visible all over my body, and I panicked. It was clear that if someone saw it, it would be a problem. I didn't need that right now, but only later. I did my daily morning routine and rummaged through my closet. I wore long jeans and a sweatshirt, and luckily we don't have gym today. I picked up my cell phone, another "million" notifications from people I couldn't convince myself to talk to, or just answer. If this thought makes any sense at all, because lately my head has been full of thoughts that unfortunately do not want to be silenced at any cost.

I was already holding the door handle, my other hand on the key in the lock. That fear haunted me more and more every day. "Inhale and exhale," I whispered to myself, a mantra to calm myself down. I took another breath in and out, then quietly turned the key in the lock, pulled it out, and put it in my sweatshirt pocket. I took one more breath in and out and then turned the doorknob and walked out of the room.

Like every morning, Dad was sitting on the couch and I prayed in my mind that I was invisible. Unfortunately, my prayers never work, and his hand landed on my face. It was so strong that I flew face-first into the wall in front of me and hit my head. "Aww," I yelped as he pushed me to the side and cut off my oxygen supply.

"But kampak, you fucking piece of shit," there was a hint of laughter in his voice. "I guess where." I snapped, which I probably shouldn't have done because another slap landed on my face. I'll probably get a sticker there. Only now did I wonder how he got to me so quickly. Tears rolled down my face, and I couldn't catch my breath. After he finally let me go, I fell to the ground gasping for air.

"Weak... just like your mother," he muttered, walking back into the living room and leaving me on the floor. When I somehow calmed down, I picked myself up and went out. Sometimes I'm really glad I get up early, if only because I'm at school earlier and still have plenty of time before class starts.

I got ready and went to the girls' restroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, tears streaming down my cheeks again. When I saw myself, I was a completely different person. Instead of seeing the optimistic and cheerful girl I might have once been, I saw only the ruins that were left of her. I saw someone broken. Suddenly, I couldn't start breathing. I knew that feeling very well—a panic attack. I locked myself in a stall and tried to calm down, distract myself, breathe deeply, but it was too strong.

The door opened, and a bunch of girls came in. I don't know who it was or what they were talking about; I had a more important task, and that was to calm down. When they left, I remembered the pills I always had in my bag for this. I found them and took one; it helped. The rest of the day, except for a few questions if I was okay and a few strange looks, was the same as always.

It was getting dark, and I was listening to music on the roof of a tall block of flats. I looked down at the city below me and thought about everything that had happened recently. I didn't want to go back "home," even though it was no home. I must have fallen asleep for a while because I didn't wake up until the sun came up. I guess I needed the sleep. Moreover, I discovered that it is easy to run away from reality in sleep, and that is exactly what I want—to run away.