Each sentence that left Marcus' lips felt like another wound—deeper, sharper than the scar I had worn for years. The kind of pain he inflicted couldn’t be stitched shut or numbed with time. My chest heaved with silent grief, my insides twisted like knots, and my hands clenched so tightly I thought my bones might shatter.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask him why. I wanted to crumble right there. But I stayed still. Instead, my thoughts were dragged back to that terrible night—one I had buried under smiles and masks for half a decade.
It was supposed to be a quiet, uneventful evening. I was walking home after completing a group project at school, the kind that drained your energy but left you relieved when it was over. The neighborhood was silent, streetlights casting shaky shadows as I made my way forward. My backpack sagged from my shoulders and I clutched my phone tightly, thumbs flying over the screen as I messaged my mother that I’d be home soon.
Then, without warning, everything changed.