A day called Life

She sat at her desk, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of a desk lamp, a sketchpad open in front of her. Her hand moved mechanically, pencil scratching against paper, but the lines she drew felt lifeless, empty. She used to lose herself in her art, finding peace in every stroke, but now even this, her last refuge, seemed hollow. The face she was sketching—a girl with tired eyes and a forced smile—felt too close to her own, and she found herself pressing harder, the lines growing darker, more jagged. It was as if the weight of everything she couldn't say was pouring out onto the page, but it brought no relief. She stopped, letting the pencil fall from her fingers. Staring at the unfinished drawing, she felt a lump rise in her throat. Even here, in her safe space, she couldn't escape the crushing sense of emptiness that had taken root inside her.

She tried to push the feeling away, but it clung to her like a shadow. The girl in the sketchpad stared back at her, and for a moment, she wondered if this was all she was now—a hollow figure on a page, defined only by the darkness around her. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

With a sigh, she tore the page from the pad and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it onto the growing pile of discarded drawings by her feet. Each one was a failed attempt to capture something real, something that might help her make sense of the mess her life had become. But none of them did. They only seemed to reflect the confusion and despair swirling inside her.

She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the world outside—cars passing by, muffled voices from the street, the occasional drip of rain from the eaves. It all felt so far away, like she was watching life from behind a thick pane of glass.

Her chest tightened, and she forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She didn't want to cry. She was tired of crying. But the tears came anyway, slipping down her cheeks in silent streams.

She wiped them away with the back of her hand, frustrated with herself. Crying wouldn't solve anything. It never did. But what else was left? She had tried so hard to keep it together, to push through the days and nights that blurred into one another, but it was getting harder to find a reason to keep going.

She glanced at the clock. Hours had passed since she'd sat down to draw, and she had nothing to show for it but a handful of failed sketches and the same gnawing emptiness she'd started with. The day was slipping away, and soon night would fall, bringing with it the long, lonely hours she dreaded most.

With a deep breath, she wiped the last traces of tears from her face and pushed herself up from the chair. The crumpled sketches at her feet could wait. For now, she just needed to move, to do something—anything—to keep the darkness at bay, if only for a little while longer

She lay in the darkness, the silence of the house weighing on her like a blanket that was too heavy, too suffocating. The argument had ended, but the echoes of it still rang in her ears. She could hear the faint rustling of movement from the living room, the way her mother's voice had trembled, the way her father's anger had sharpened into something colder, more dangerous.

This wasn't the first time she had heard them like this. She had lost count of how many nights she had listened to their fights escalate into something worse, something that left her mother with bruises she tried to hide. But tonight felt different. There was a tension in the air that made her stomach twist with dread, a feeling that told her things were about to get much worse.

She flinched as a sharp crash echoed down the hallway, followed by her mother's stifled cry. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she buried her face in her hands, trying to block out the sounds. But they wouldn't stop—the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor, the muffled whimper of pain, the low, venomous hiss of her father's voice as he spat out words she couldn't make out but knew all too well.

She wanted to run, to burst through the door and make it stop, but she couldn't move. Fear rooted her to the spot, paralyzing her with the knowledge that there was nothing she could do. She was just a girl—small, powerless, and terrified.

The minutes dragged on, each one heavier than the last. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she forced herself to breathe, to stay quiet, to stay hidden. She couldn't let him hear her. She couldn't draw his attention. That was the unspoken rule—stay out of sight, stay out of his way, and maybe, just maybe, she would be safe.

When the sounds finally stopped, the silence was almost worse. It stretched on, thick and suffocating, until she could barely stand it. Her mind raced with images she didn't want to see, fears she didn't want to face.

Slowly, she slid out from under the blankets, her movements careful and quiet. She crept to the door, pressing her ear against the cool wood. Nothing. Not a sound. Her heart hammered in her chest as she slowly turned the handle, the door creaking softly as it opened. She held her breath, listening for any sign of movement, but the house was still, eerily so.

She stepped into the hallway, her bare feet silent against the cold floor. The darkness pressed in around her as she made her way to the living room, each step filled with dread. When she reached the doorway, she hesitated, fear gripping her so tightly it hurt.

Taking a deep breath, she peered around the corner. The scene that met her eyes made her stomach drop.

Her mother was lying on the floor, her body curled in on itself, as if she was trying to disappear. Her father stood over her, his face twisted with an anger that hadn't yet cooled. His fists were clenched at his sides, the tension in his body radiating like a dark aura that filled the room.

Her mother's face was turned away, but she could see the marks—red, angry welts that would soon bloom into bruises. Her breath caught in her throat, a wave of helplessness washing over her. She wanted to scream, to rush to her mother's side, but she couldn't. She knew better. If she made a sound, if she drew his attention, it would only make things worse.

So she stayed in the shadows, watching as her father finally turned and walked away, leaving her mother crumpled on the floor. She waited, not daring to move until the sound of his heavy footsteps faded into the distance.

Only then did she step forward, her heart breaking as she knelt beside her mother. She reached out with trembling hands, gently touching her mother's arm.

"Mom?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Her mother flinched at the touch, but when she looked up and saw her daughter's face, her expression softened, the fear in her eyes mingling with something else—something like shame.

"I'm okay," her mother whispered, though they both knew it wasn't true. Her voice was hoarse, strained, as if every word hurt. "It's okay, baby. Go back to your room."

But it wasn't okay. It was never okay. And they both knew that, too.