They say names are mirrors of destiny—fragile echoes of who we are and faint blueprints of who we're meant to become.
But perhaps that's just a pretty lie we tell ourselves, a lullaby to soothe the chaos of chance.
From the moment I inhaled life's first breath, my existence has stood in quiet rebellion against my name.
No blooming, no flourishing, no radiant unfolding—only the slow, deliberate art of withering.
Like a flower that mistook the night for dawn, I've grown in shadows, learning to survive where sunlight dares not linger.
I stared out the cracked window of what I call home, though cage feels more fitting.
The glass was smeared with dust and fingerprints, blurring the city beyond into shifting shapes—buses groaning down narrow streets, the faint sound of children laughing somewhere I could never reach.
Inside, the air tasted stale—like regret left too long in the sun.
My thoughts drifted, as they always did, to the moment my life turned inside out.
I am just a girl scraping through school, breathing just enough to say I exist.
Invisible most days. Mocked, trampled, forgotten.
Even my own father saw me as nothing but a mistake—a shadow that should never have been born.
He never hid it.
He said it often enough that the words became an echo lodged inside my skull.
"I wish it was you who died that day."
Sometimes I wondered if the universe made him my punishment instead of my parent.
I used to blame my mother for leaving me behind in this colorless world.
She died when I was six.
A car accident.
Just the two of us inside.
*flashback*
I remember crying because my bunny had fallen.
"Mummy, my bunny!" I screamed, kicking the back of her seat.
She didn't pick it up. She just kept driving, eyes distant, fixed somewhere far beyond the road.
"Okay, okay, Blossom—calm down," she said finally, one hand reaching back toward me, the other still clinging to the wheel.
Then there was a horn.
A scream of metal.
A flash of light—and silence.
When I woke, there were voices, flashing lights, rough hands pulling me out through shattered glass.
But Mommy wasn't moving.
No matter how many times I called her name, she stayed still.
I clutched Bunny to my chest—dirty, torn, but mine.
The only thing that survived with me.
When the funeral ended, my father didn't look at me.
He looked through me—like I was the ghost that took her place.
From that day, he stopped being a parent and became something else.
A man carved from grief and resentment.
He beat me for her absence and hated me for her reflection that stared back at him through my face.
Every mistake earned a bruise.
Every silence, a slap.
Every empty wallet, a storm.
And yet—somehow—I survived.
My only escape from the vile corners of this world was art.
In colors, I found fragments of peace.
Through sketches, I learned to breathe again.
Now I study Fine Art at NYU on a scholarship.
I work part-time at a small restaurant downtown.
The pay barely keeps me alive, but it keeps his hands off me—for a while.
Groceries, toiletries, rent—and whatever's left, I surrender to him.
My offering for a night without bruises.
This morning, the sky outside is pale and empty.
A quiet before the noise.
No classes today. My shift starts at two.
That gives me a few hours to work on my project—and to avoid crossing paths with the man I call my father.
….
After my bath, I wrap a towel around myself, steam clinging to my skin like a second layer of fear.
I pull on black leggings and a worn-out top.
In the mirror, my reflection stares back—eyes heavy, hair rebellious.
I tie it into a ponytail, slide into my faded Crocs, and pause.
Before opening my door, I take a deep breath—the kind that feels like a final prayer.
Because on the other side of that door, hell usually waits with a bottle in its hand.
The stairs creak under my weight as I descend.
He's there, slouched on the couch, eyes fixed on the flickering TV.
A half-empty bottle glints beside him.
When he notices me, his glare sharpens.
I drop my gaze.
Eye contact is an invitation to disaster.
"You better come back with some money," he grumbles.
"There's no groceries, and I'm running out of beer."
I bite my lip. "But I bought groceries last weekend," I whisper before I can stop myself.
The silence that follows is heavier than thunder.
He stands—slow, deliberate.
The air thickens. My pulse races.
"Did I just hear you question me?"
My throat tightens. "N-no, sir."
"I didn't quite hear you." His footsteps close the space between us.
"No, sir."
"Better." His lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"Then you heard what I said. Now get lost."
I turn before he changes his mind, his words trailing me like the echo of a curse.
I don't tell him my paycheck doesn't come till Friday.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath as I step outside.
The wind hits my face—a reminder that the world, for now, is still mine to walk in.