It was a normal day. Her mother woke her up. She brushed her teeth, tidied her room, and got ready for college. Her father gave her lunch money, and she packed her bag. Everything seemed normal—just another day in her daily routine.
But deep inside, she felt something strange, as though a shadow was waiting for her. Still, she ignored the thought and went to the bus stop.
The same people were there: the old man with his briefcase, sitting on the bench as always; a young man reading his book while waiting; a mother cradling her baby, smiling faintly. Everything was ordinary—until suddenly, it wasn't.
Out of nowhere, a bike came speeding toward her. In a blur, a bottle of acid flew across the air and splashed directly onto her face.
Her skin burned instantly. Her screams echoed through the street. She collapsed, clutching her face, begging for help. People rushed toward her, horrified. Someone called an ambulance, someone else noted down the bike's number. But by then, she had already fainted.
When she woke up in the hospital, half her face was covered in thick bandages. She couldn't see through her right eye. The mirror beside her bed revealed the cruel truth—her once bright and beautiful face was gone, replaced with scars that no medicine could erase.
Her life shattered that day.
The boy who did this was sentenced to twelve years in prison. Twelve short years. But her sentence was for life.
Day after day, she was reminded of her ruined face. Strangers stared at her like she wasn't human anymore. Children cried at the sight of her. Some even threw stones and called her names. They whispered that it was her fault—perhaps she had "provoked" the boy, perhaps she "led him on."
No one saw her pain. No one saw her heart.
Marriage proposals never came. Job offers were rejected. Wherever she went, people avoided her, as though her scars were contagious. They didn't see her soul—they only saw the melted skin, the missing eye, the broken face.
Every night, she cried herself to sleep, clutching her pillow to silence her sobs. Many times, she tried to end her life—by jumping in front of a bus, by swallowing poison, by tying a rope around her neck. But each time, fate pulled her back, forcing her to live with her scars.
Her parents died one after another, leaving her completely alone. The children in the neighborhood whispered cruelly whenever she walked past. They called her "The Witch of Burned Skin."
She grew bitter, broken, and hollow. Her small apartment echoed with silence. She cursed her fate, cursed the boy, cursed the world that had stolen everything from her.
In old age, she became a woman everyone feared, not because she was dangerous, but because her face reminded them of cruelty, of punishment, of ugliness they could not bear to look at.
People forgot her real name. They only called her "The Witch of Burned Skin."
She had once been a girl full of dreams, laughter, and love. But the world reduced her to a cruel nickname, leaving her to die in loneliness, carrying scars both on her skin and in her heart.
And when her time finally came, there was no one to cry for her .