need help

2

Macau sat in the dimly lit corner of his room, books scattered across his bed, open to pages he hadn’t touched in hours. His fingers clenched around his pen, but the words on the page were blurred, lost behind the overwhelming thoughts swirling in his mind. The looming exams were pressing down on him like a physical weight, each deadline a reminder of his growing failures.

He couldn't focus. How could he? The voices in his head were louder than anything written in his textbooks. The weight of the family's hatred, the cold stares, Chay's cruelty—it all piled onto him, suffocating him more each day. He tried to study, tried to distract himself with the small hope of at least passing his exams, but it felt pointless.

Every attempt to concentrate brought flashes of the past, the memories he had tried so hard to bury. His father’s face, those twisted moments when Macau was just a boy, came flooding back—moments when his father had used him, broken him in ways no one ever saw.

It wasn’t just emotional neglect. His father had hurt him in the worst ways possible. Macau still remembered the cold touch, the unbearable shame, and the suffocating fear of being trapped in his own home, his own body.

Now, with everything spiraling out of control, the memories surfaced again. Every time he looked at the family that now hated him, the shadow of his father lurked behind their eyes. He could feel the same disgust his father had shown him—the same feeling of worthlessness.

Macau’s hands shook as he tried to turn the page of his book, but the tremors wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t control it. His mind kept pulling him back into the abyss of his past, the trauma of those years tearing through him. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, trying to ground himself, trying to hold on.

But it was too much.

The room seemed to close in around him, the walls pressing in, and the silence was suffocating. He wanted to scream, to break everything in the room, to just make it all stop.

His heart raced as the familiar darkness crept over him, pulling him deeper into the memories. The smell of his father’s cologne, the sound of his footsteps, the cold, invasive touch that Macau had spent years trying to forget. But it was still there, lurking just beneath the surface, always ready to devour him.

Macau pushed his books aside and staggered toward the bathroom, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, but he didn’t recognize himself. He was thinner, paler, his eyes hollow with exhaustion and pain.

The guilt from what had happened with Chay, the hatred from his family, and now the resurfacing trauma—it was too much to carry. He opened the bathroom cabinet, his hand trembling as he reached for the hidden blade tucked in the corner. The small, sharp object was the only thing that seemed to give him control, the only way to drown out the noise in his head.

He dragged the blade across his skin, the familiar sting bringing a brief moment of clarity, a temporary escape from the torment inside. But even that didn’t last. The pain, though sharp, couldn’t dull the deep ache in his chest, couldn’t silence the voices that told him he was worthless.

Macau sank to the floor, the cold tiles pressing against his skin as he pulled his knees to his chest. His arms stung, the cuts fresh and bleeding, but the emptiness inside remained.

He thought of Kim. How Kim had once been his everything. He had loved Kim with every fiber of his being, had looked up to him, wanted nothing more than to be loved back. But now, Kim hated him too, and the one person who could have pulled him back from the edge was the same person pushing him toward it.

And then there was Chay.

The cruelty of Chay’s smile as he taunted Macau, as he turned the family against him, cut deeper than any blade. Chay was supposed to be the innocent one, the baby of the family, but he had become something darker, something Macau couldn’t recognize. He wasn’t just being ignored by Chay—Chay actively enjoyed seeing him suffer, watching him break.

Chay was the star of the house now, and Macau was nothing more than a shadow, an afterthought.

Hours passed, but it felt like days. When Macau finally dragged himself off the bathroom floor, his legs were numb, his head spinning from the exhaustion. He stared at the bloodstained towels on the floor, the mess he had made of himself.

But then, a flicker of resolve stirred in him. He couldn’t live like this forever. He had to do something, even if no one cared. He had to try to heal himself, even if his body and mind screamed at him to give up.

He limped back to his room, his steps slow and painful. He pulled out the one notebook he kept hidden, not for school, but for himself—a journal where he had written every dark thought, every painful memory. The pages were stained with ink, some crinkled from the tears that had fallen as he wrote, but it was the only place where he had ever been honest with himself.

He picked up the pen, his hand trembling, and started writing.

**“I’m still here. I’m still alive.”**

The words were shaky, barely legible, but they were the truth. He was still alive. He hadn’t let his father destroy him, even after everything. He had survived that, and he could survive this.

**“They hate me. They’ll never believe me. But I won’t let them take me down. Not again.”**

He didn’t know if he believed his own words, but he needed to write them, to see them on the page, to remind himself that there was still something left inside him worth fighting for. Even if no one else saw it.

Macau sat back, staring at the words. His past had broken him in ways no one could see, and his present was tearing him apart. But he wouldn’t let them win. Not his father, not Chay, not even the family that had abandoned him.

He wiped his eyes, his breathing still shaky but steadier now. This was the beginning. It had to be.

For now, the weight of the world still pressed down on him, but maybe—just maybe—there was still a way out. A way to heal, even if it would take everything he had.