The words sliced through me like broken glass, sharp, merciless, leaving wounds no one could see but that bled all the same.
"Get out of my presence, you witch! I don't want to see you again. You are nothing but bad luck—you jinxed my life!"
His voice was filled with venom, each syllable heavy with hatred, each word like a curse hurled straight at my chest.
Before I could respond, before I could even gather the air to defend myself, he turned away. His hand gripped the doorknob, knuckles pale with fury, and he slammed the door so hard the walls trembled. The sound echoed through the hollow spaces of the house, leaving behind an unbearable silence that screamed louder than his rage.
I stood frozen for a moment, staring at the wooden door that separated me from him, from the world, from everything I thought I had. My throat tightened, as though invisible fingers wrapped themselves around it. My chest ached, not just from his words, but from the way he walked out—as if I was nothing more than a piece of trash he had grown tired of stepping over.
Something inside me shattered. My knees gave out beneath me, and I crumpled onto the cold floor. Pain shot through my side as I hit the ground, but I couldn't bring myself to move. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring the edges of the world, making it spin until all I could do was curl up, hugging myself as though my own arms were the last fragile shield I had left.
I tried to breathe, but the air was heavy, thick, laced with despair. It burned in my lungs, making me cough, making me choke. My body trembled with the effort to hold myself together, yet I felt like sand slipping through cracked fingers—pieces of me falling apart with no one to catch them.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours. Time lost all meaning in the abyss of sorrow. Finally, with every ounce of strength I could summon, I dragged myself to my feet. My legs were weak, shaky, as though they belonged to someone else. Step by step, I stumbled toward the bathroom, leaving faint drops of blood trailing behind me from a cut I hadn't even noticed.
The mirror above the sink caught my reflection. I almost didn't recognize the person staring back at me. A pale face streaked with tears. Eyes red and swollen. A split on my lip, trickling crimson down my chin. My hair was tangled, sticking to damp cheeks. I looked like a ghost, a hollow shell of the girl I used to be.
I turned on the tap. Cold water gushed out, splashing against the porcelain, echoing in the tiny room. I cupped my hands under the stream, letting the water pool before pressing it against my face. It stung when it touched the wound, and I winced. Slowly, carefully, I washed away the blood, the dirt, the stains of my fall. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't wash away the pain etched deep inside me.
Afterward, I walked back to my bedroom. The house was cloaked in silence, the kind of silence that feels alive, as if it is watching you, judging you. Outside, the night had reached its darkest hour. The air was heavy, pressing against the walls, seeping through the cracks. From somewhere far away, I heard eerie sounds—distant howls, the rustling of trees, the whisper of the wind carrying secrets I wasn't ready to hear.
I plugged in my earphones, desperate for escape, desperate to drown the noise both outside and inside. I played my favorite song, letting the familiar melody cradle me. My lips moved, singing softly, though my voice trembled and broke. The music was the only thing that kept me tethered, the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
And then, as often happens when the world grows quiet, memories came flooding back. Memories I had buried, memories that still haunted me in the dark.
"Daria! Stop running! Please, baby, stop running. I can't catch up anymore!"
My mother's voice. Breathless, trembling, filled with love and exhaustion. I could hear her calling after me, each syllable dragged out, laced with desperation.
But I hadn't listened. Rage had fueled my legs that day, making them move faster, pounding against the earth as if I could outrun my anger, as if speed could carry me away from the truth. I ran so fast that her voice began to fade behind me, growing smaller, weaker, until finally, there was silence.
I stopped. Something inside me froze. The absence of her voice was deafening. I turned around, expecting to see her smiling weakly, catching her breath. But instead, I saw her clutching her chest, her face twisted in agony.
"Mom?" My voice cracked as panic surged through me.
She was coughing violently, each cough shaking her fragile body. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled, collapsing to the ground. The world around me blurred as fear took hold. My mother, my anchor, my everything, was slipping away right before my eyes.
I rushed to her side, kneeling on the hard earth, my hands trembling as I tried to hold her. "Mom! Please, stay with me! Please!"
But there was no response. Her lips moved faintly, but no sound came out. Her eyes fluttered, glassy and distant.
I had no phone. No one was around. The road was dark, empty, unforgiving. Panic tore through me, but I knew I had no choice. I had to run. I had to get help.
So I ran—this time not out of rage, but out of sheer desperation. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears. My lungs burned, but I didn't stop. I ran all the way home, bursting through the door, fumbling for my phone with trembling hands.
The numbers blurred on the screen, but somehow, I managed to dial. My voice shook as I begged the dispatcher to send an ambulance. They told me to stay calm, to wait, but every second felt like an eternity.
By the time the flashing red lights pierced through the darkness, my body was numb with fear. I led them back to her, praying, begging under my breath. Please, please let her be okay. Please don't take her from me.
But fate is cruel.
At the hospital, under the harsh white lights that seemed too bright, too unforgiving, the doctor looked at me with eyes filled with pity. His lips moved, but his words barely reached me. All I could hear was the one word that shattered my world forever:
"Dead."
My legs gave out beneath me again, just as they had tonight. The floor welcomed me in its cold, merciless embrace. My cries echoed in the sterile room, but no one could soothe the storm inside me.
I blamed myself. I still blame myself. If I hadn't run so fast, if I had stayed by her side, if I had carried a phone, if I had acted quicker—maybe she would still be alive. Maybe she would still be here to hold me, to comfort me, to remind me that I wasn't alone.
But instead, all I had were memories. Memories that cut deeper than any blade. Memories that haunted me each night, when the world grew quiet and the past came crawling back.
Now, lying in my bed with my earphones still in, I let the tears fall freely. They soaked into my pillow, warm and endless. I clutched the blanket against my chest, wishing it was her arms instead. Wishing I could go back in time, just once, to hear her voice calling my name—not in desperation, not in pain, but in love.
The night pressed on, heavy and unrelenting. And somewhere between the music, the tears, and the memories, I drifted into a restless sleep—my heart still broken, my soul still aching, carrying the weight of words, wounds, and regrets that might never heal.
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