Azariah - God Has Helped

Chapter 2

Chapter two - The price of existence

Kiara opened her eyes slowly to darkness—thick, heavy darkness that told her she had slept far longer than she intended. Her neck ached. Her arms were stiff. And her eyes... her eyes pulsed with the swollen aftermath of crying herself to sleep.

She rubbed them gently, wincing at the tenderness. She wished, for a fleeting moment, that she hadn't cried so hard—that her tears hadn't betrayed her, exposing the pain she tried so hard to hide.

The house was silent. Too silent. That stillness felt dangerous.

She got up carefully, brushing dust from her legs, preparing to leave her corner—her only shelter.

But before she could take a single step, a voice split the silence.

"Kiara!!! KIARA!!!"

Her mother's voice.
Sharp. Furious.
A voice that tore through her chest and made her whole body tense.

Kiara's heart dropped like a stone.
She closed her eyes for one fragile second, because she knew—she knew—what would come next.

Her mother's footsteps came like thunder.
And then she was there.
Right in front of her.

With fire blazing in her eyes.

Kiara didn't even have time to breathe before the slap came.
A blistering sting across her cheek that sent tears spilling instantly.

She didn't lift a hand to her face.
Didn't step back.
Didn't ask why.

She already knew.

"Why did you destroy your sister's things?!" her mother shouted, spit flying.
"Why did you throw away her jewelry? Her pictures? Why are you so evil, Kiara?! WHY?!"

Kiara didn't answer.
She couldn't.

But she didn't feel guilty. Not even a little.
If anything... she felt satisfied.

Because earlier that day, while the house was buzzing with praise and smiles for Paris—while Kiara sat invisible in her shadow—she reached her breaking point.

She had crept quietly into the bedroom, eyes landing on the framed photographs, the tiny bracelets, the ribbons, the baby shoes. All the things kept so lovingly. Displayed so proudly.

Her hands moved before her mind could stop them.

The first picture tore with a crisp, cruel sound.

For a moment, she froze.
Not because she regretted it—
but because she remembered the day the photo had been taken.

Her mother had dressed Paris in a fluffy brown dress, calling her "my perfect little princess," while Kiara stood to the side, unnoticed... again. Not one picture of her existed in the house. Not one memory of Kiara was framed or celebrated.

The pain stabbed deep, sharp and raw.

But she swallowed it fast—biting down on the hurt before it could drown her.

Then she tore the next picture.
And the next.
And the next.

Each rip brought a twisted sense of relief.
A whispered, bitter joy.
A silent revenge.

If they wouldn't see her pain...
She would make them feel something.

Kiara's mind snapped back to the present when her mother grabbed her by the collar, yanking her forward so roughly her feet nearly left the ground.

Kiara struggled—but her mother was too strong.
She was only seven.
Seven wasn't strong enough for battles like this.

Her mother dragged her toward the mess, toward the broken pieces of Paris's belongings scattered across the floor.

Kiara caught herself smirking—just a flicker at the corner of her mouth.
She didn't mean to smile.
But she did.

And deep inside... she laughed.

Her mother saw it.
And that only pushed her deeper into rage.

"Kiara, you evil child! What has your sister ever done to you?! She's your baby sister—you're supposed to protect her, not destroy her things!"

Kiara trembled at her mother's voice.
But she refused to cry.
Not now.
Not after this.
Not in front of them.

She stood there, silent and stiff, refusing to break.

Words would only make everything worse.
Silence was her only shield.

Her mother shouted for the others.
One by one, the siblings poured into the room, their footsteps quick, their expressions eager for drama.

Catherine arrived first—the eldest. Fourteen. Innocent-looking. Quiet. Well-loved.

She and Kiara shared a birthday, but that was all they shared.
Catherine was the angel of the family.
Kiara, the disappointment.

The comparisons were endless, cruel, and exhausting.

"Mommy, what's happening?" Catherine asked, glaring at Kiara like she was a rodent scurrying on the floor.

"Are you blind?!" her mother snapped.
"This little scum destroyed Paris's things because she's jealous!"

Catherine gasped dramatically, hand on her heart.
"Then beat her, Mommy! She's wicked! She must pay!"

She turned to Kiara, pointing a finger inches from her face.

"You're ruthless, Kiara! She's a baby—you're a big girl! Grow up!"

Kiara felt something dark ignite inside her.
A heat that rose from her stomach to her throat.

Yes—Paris was a baby.
But Kiara deserved love too.
She deserved affection.
She deserved fairness.
She deserved to exist without having to fight for scraps of attention.

Romario and Kalil arrived next, laughing loudly—too loudly—mocking her like she was entertainment.

She stood still.
Staring at them as if they were strangers.
Because they were.
They had always been.

One big family—
Just without room for her.

Her mother's grip finally loosened, fingers sliding off her shirt as she exhaled in frustration.

"You're wicked, Kiara. And I promise—you'll pay for everything you destroyed."

With that, she stormed off, her siblings following behind, still muttering insults and giggling.

Finally.
They were gone.

Kiara breathed, long and slow, relief cooling the hot fury in her chest.

She looked at the destroyed items, the torn photos, the scattered pieces.

And she smiled.

Quietly.
Softly.
Satisfied.

Then she crawled back into her corner—her home, her only safe place.
The only space where she didn't have to compete, or prove, or pretend.

And the house returned to silence.