A sharp gasp broke the silence of the night as Ethan jolted awake, his chest rising and falling in frantic rhythms. His body trembled, soaked in a cold sweat, the remnants of his nightmare clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes darted around the room, half-expecting to see shadows of his past lurking in the corners, but there was nothing—only the oppressive darkness and the distant hum of the world outside.
Yet the silence didn’t comfort him. It felt loud, like it was pressing in on him, suffocating, a cruel reminder of what he could never truly escape. His heart pounded against his ribs, as if trying to tear itself free from the prison of his chest, the same way he wished he could escape from the grip of his memories.
He lay there for a moment, his muscles aching with the tension that had taken root during the nightmare. The sheets tangled around him, a twisted mess, much like his thoughts. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out any hope of calm. Slowly, he forced himself to sit up, his body heavy with exhaustion and dread.
The nightmare had been worse this time. More vivid, more real. He could still hear them—his aunt’s cold, mocking voice, his uncle’s derisive laughter, his cousins’ jeers that sliced through his very soul. It was as if they were standing over him, their presence lingering in the dark corners of his mind, waiting to drag him back into that suffocating pit of cruelty and abuse. He hadn’t lived in that house for years, but the emotional scars were as raw and painful as ever.
The shadows of his past were persistent, merciless.
His bare feet touched the cool floor, grounding him as he stood and made his way to the bathroom. The small space offered no comfort, only a mirror that reflected back the image of someone who no longer recognized himself. Ethan stared at his reflection, his face gaunt, eyes hollowed by sleepless nights and untold burdens. His skin, pale under the faint bathroom light, held the faintest traces of old scars, faded but not forgotten.
Slowly, he turned his back to the mirror, lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal the patchwork of scars crisscrossing his back and arms. The lines told stories, each one a whisper of the past, a permanent record of every insult, every blow, every moment that had broken him. His uncle’s belt, his aunt’s cruel hands, his cousins’ taunts. They were all still there, etched into his skin and his soul.
His breath hitched as he traced one of the longest scars with trembling fingers. It ran down the length of his spine, a constant reminder of the day he’d finally broken in their eyes. The day they’d stripped away the last shreds of his dignity and left him a shell of himself.
You’re worthless.
Weak.
Nothing.
Their words echoed in his mind, louder than the quiet around him, louder than his own thoughts. He couldn’t stop hearing them, couldn’t stop feeling them, and it made him feel small again. Vulnerable. The water he splashed on his face did nothing to quell the storm inside him, did nothing to wash away the invisible dirt that still clung to his skin, like a stain he could never scrub away.
He clenched the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as the waves of memories crashed over him. He had fought so hard to keep this part of himself hidden from his friends, to show them only the parts of him that were strong, capable. But beneath that façade was a boy who was still haunted by the cruelty of his past, a boy who couldn’t let anyone see just how broken he truly was.
In the reflection, his eyes burned with unshed tears, and he forced himself to look away, ashamed of the weakness staring back at him. But even as he walked back to his bed, the tension in his chest didn’t ease. The weight of his nightmares hung heavy on his shoulders, dragging him down, deeper into a well of doubt and fear that he could never seem to climb out of.
