Echoes Of Destiny | Multicouple ✓

50. ECHOES OF INJUSTICE

~A dark symmetry in the scales of justice

Avya
TW: Self-harm
(Two months ago)

Cold, that's what I felt.

The constant shivering wasn't just from the chill in the air-it was the dread that seeped into my bones, an unyielding reminder of where I was and why.

The basement was suffocatingly dark, the kind of darkness that clung to your skin like damp clothes.

What had once been a simple storeroom had become a chamber of horrors, a twisted sanctuary where I was meant to atone for my sins.

A faint sound broke through the silence, the haunting song of mockingbird, replayed over and over on the old CD recorder in the corner.

It was warped, a distorted loop that had long since lost its original melody.

"Count," my father's voice boomed, the sound crashing through the silence like a sledgehammer.

It made me jump, the sudden movement causing the blade in my hand to dig deeper into my flesh. I hissed, biting back a cry.

"Thirteen," I whispered, my voice barely audible as I swallowed the lump in my throat.

My hand trembled slightly as I carefully marked my wrist with the blade, the familiar sting sharpening my focus.

But this time, the cut went deeper than usual, and I sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the hot rush of blood.

"Tsk tsk," his cold voice cut through the silence, and I flinched as he reached out, his fingers surprisingly warm against my cold, pale skin.

He held my hand firmly, stopping me from making another mark.

"Be careful, Avya," he mocked, his tone laced with dark amusement. "You are a doctor." The word was a bitter reminder of who I was-who I used to be-before all of this.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing it at the fresh wound with a precision that was clinical. "That's enough for now," he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper.

I wasn't sure if those words were meant for me or for the silent figure standing across the room.

My stepmother turned without a word, her face expressionless as she left us alone.

She knew the routine too well by now.

It had been a month since the accident.

The accident-the mere thought of it-covered my skin with goosebumps.

I took a shaky breath as I looked at my father, whose gaze was fixed on my wrist, an almost blank look in his eyes.

He continued to caress my wounds gently, his fingers moving with an unsettling tenderness as he tried to stem the flow of blood.

The contrast between his actions and the situation made my head spin.

I was half-conscious, half-exhausted from it all.

For the past month, all I had done was sleep, haunted by nightmares, eating just enough to stay alive, and regretting every breath I took.

And then there was this-atoning for my sins.

That's what he called it.

And in my twisted mental state, I believed it.

At first, the pain was raw from the wounds, the scars a mocking presence, like a bracelet decorating my wrist.