Page 1 of Eternal

AZRA

“Daydreaming” by Radiohead

T he human mind is so cruel.

When you're tired, it shows you beauty, even when you're suffocating in destruction and loss, like it’s trying to mend the reality you live in. Carefully.

I used to believe in beautiful things, too, before the world showed me otherwise. I dreamt of different worlds, different emotions, and different relations.

I miss that feeling.

That’s why I prefer daydreaming, because I can't figure out how to escape during my nights. Too busy thinking about things I shouldn’t think about, too busy worrying about things I shouldn’t worry about.

Daydream, Azra.

Sometimes, it’s too much. That’s when I reach for something to quiet it all, to make the thoughts tolerable.

He’s the one who taught me how to stop thinking.

Taught me the substance’s magic, as he called it the first time he forced it into my mouth, probably too young for this, but he said it was the only way to make the pain go away.

And so, I tell myself it’s to take the edge off again, just for tonight, but tonight turns into every night.

Is that why people love being high? Probably…

Because it does help, and I hate that I know it works. I think that humans prefer to rewrite reality rather than live in it, they prefer to build something softer than what they’ve known all their lives. That’s what I do, at least.

I’m no one, I haven’t known life, I’m only fourteen, so why am I so angry already? I don't know…

But that’s okay to daydream. I need a way to rest my mind, even if for a single breath.

My eyes are closed, not to sleep, but to escape again, because in my dreams, no door locks me in, not the one in my room, not the one in this house. There’s no voice telling me to hush and stay quiet, no rules holding me back.

Now I’m somewhere else, somewhere softer, where no one’s yelling, and I’m just... me . I hold onto that place because it feels like the only part of me no one can touch.

Daydream, Azra, and always remember.

I can almost hear the melody in my thoughts.

“ I’m the iris of your world, pure and tender, and I have always been your breath. ”

Her sweet voice is still murmuring these lines; she wanted me to learn them, to never forget. As long as I remember her favorite quotes, I’ll never be lost, and my mind is mine.

But then I remember… It’s not real.

I open my eyes, and I see him, he’s here. I didn’t even hear him come in, but I know it’s him , the door’s locked, and now it’s just us.

He starts undressing, and I close my eyes again. I’ve been doing this for years, finding a way to escape for a little while.

I don’t want to feel him . His hands, his breath, his heavy body on mine, his smell, the sound of him . I don’t want to play this game anymore. It was never amusing, it hurt , it always did, and I always bleed after he’s gone.

But I lay there quietly, trying to keep my thoughts away, dreaming that maybe one day I’ll have the strength to hurt him back, to make him feel what he’s doing to me.

He keeps moving, breathing heavily, and I want to throw up, I want to push him away.

But I’m just a kid. And he’s a man.

“Kept it quiet again, little one. Good .” His voice is cold, like it always is.

I did keep it quiet, I always do. Who would listen if I screamed? No one. Because his wife knows, and she doesn’t do anything.

“You’re a woman now,” he says, pulling away and putting his pants back on.

Not a kid, I’m a woman now.

I close my eyes again, and I’m somewhere far away, somewhere where no one can hurt me, where I don’t have to be this girl. But when I open my eyes again, I’m still here, still in this room, still trapped.

The door closes behind him, and I can finally breathe again. I can finally come back even if I don’t want to. I wish I could stay where I’m not me, where I’m not his anymore. Maybe one day, I won’t open my eyes at all. Maybe one day, I’ll be far enough away that I’ll never have to.

I lay there in silence and darkness, hearing his footsteps fade down the hall.

I can almost hear the sound of his cross jingling against his chest, and I feel it all over again on my face.

I used to wonder what it meant for him to wear a cross when I came to this house.

Was it really about faith or about tradition?

Because the way he treated me… that was never sacred, that had nothing to do with God. But I don’t care about that anymore.

Keep daydreaming.

I’m still here.

I close my eyes again, but the door is locked, and I can’t find a way out.

I stumble out of bed, my limbs heavy, so heavy it hurts.

My feet drag across the floor, rage and pain spiraling in my chest, but it’s not enough to make me move faster.

The small old bathroom in my room feels miles away, but I force myself forward, one step, then another. I don’t care if I’m tired, I need it.

I need something. Anything.

The door’s still locked, and I need it gone, I need it all gone, the weight of it, the filth of it all.

So, I take the knife.

Three cuts on my thigh, left, then right. Purification , I tell myself, redemption carved into skin, I continue convincing myself.

The blood flows, slow and warm, tracing lines of crimson forgiveness down my legs. I don’t think about it, I just do it.

One, two, three. Deep.

The sting is nothing, and the ache means nothing to me. So I press harder, as if I can carve out the memories he left behind.

His hands, his words, the cross around his neck.

Maybe he was right, maybe I need this. “This is the will of God , little one.”

The will of God . Because I survived when I shouldn’t have.

But it doesn’t stop, it never stops. The pills sit there, silent witnesses to my failure, Oxy, Xanax, little white promises.

I swallow one, two, three. “ She’s not me ,” I whisper, trying to reassure myself.

One punch with my fragile bones against the glass.

The girl in the mirror, the one who can’t stop, who can’t let go…she’s weak, she’s dirty, she’s not me .

But she’s still there, her bloodied hands are mine , her empty eyes are mine .

I don’t want her to be me.

I smear the blood across my face, trying to erase her, to bury her beneath the red mask.

Why do I see her, this broken, ruined girl, and want to laugh? Pathetic.

GET AWAY!

I punch the mirror again, but her reflection doesn’t crack. It stares back, mocking me.

I’m still here, but not clean, not pure, not enough. Never enough.

But her voice comes back in my head. “ I’m the iris of your world, pure and tender, and I have always been your breath. ” I whisper it, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s just noise now.

I hate her. I hate me .

More pills, more numb, thoughts too loud, too heavy. Anger, pain, confusion , I swallow them down.

Maybe this is it, maybe I’ll just... stop the anger.

More. More. More.

I’m fourteen, and I still need to daydream .