Entry. 24/09. 10:30
I think the ceiling is laughing at me.
I stared at it for what felt like forever. I kept expecting it to crack open and swallow me whole. But no, it just stared back like I was the joke.
I was supposed to be at school.
I was supposed to have a chill Wednesday.
Instead, I'm on the floor again.
Every breath is a reminder. Every wince is proof.
I keep trying to remember the last time I felt safe in this house… or anywhere, really.
I used mum's concealer again. Bet she doesn't even notice.
I think that's what makes me saddest — the people who should be protecting me are the ones I have to hide from. Or hide because of.
It's funny how hickeys feel like shame.
And fists feel like routine.
But it's cool.
I'll heal again.
And next time, maybe I'll remember not to hope for a soft morning.
—Ezra 🖤
I closed my diary and stared at the words on the pages.
Like I wasn't the one who wrote them, like they were just casual pieces of literature.
I had lost count of how many entries I made now. It had all become normalcy for me.
Go to school. Come back. Get beat up. Sleep. Wake. Repeat.
But my diary was the only silver lining amidst the dark clouds that governed my life.
It was a way for me to breathe.
To grieve without risking being heard, because being heard had consequences.
I never and will never tell anyone about my journal.
It's far too important. To vulnerable.
If HE discovers it, it's just going to give him more power to ruin me.
And I have no friends to tell either way, so there's also that.
I closed the diary. Pulling it close to my chest.
It symbolised everything I wasn't allowed to be.
Alive and free.
I cracked a smile at the irony of it all.
Eventually, my eyes started to droop.
Being assaulted had its effects on the body. So I laid down, making sure I tucked my journal under the mattress for extra security before I drifted off into a restless sleep for the second time in a span of hours.