Page 2 of Eternal

AZRA

“Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens

Present

Eighteen today.

Happy birthday to me.

It’s been two months since my last pill, weeks since I felt the sting of a blade around my thighs.

Because one night, I almost died, overdosing on tears, abuse, and opioids.

My hands still tremble, I can’t sleep at night, but nothing new. Xanax, Adderall, Oxy, the holy trinity that turned into heroin, and heroin into nothing. I mean, I’m two months clean, right?

I still sweat through my thin pillow like I’m detoxing all over again every night, it’s not as bad now… but it’s not gone either.

When it happens, I try to focus on the stars I drew on my ceiling and it helps a lot.

But tonight, my veins itch like they remember the feeling. The ache doesn’t go away; it just shifts into a weird anger, it sits under my skin, behind my eyes, around my soul, slowly begging for something to take the edge off.

Something to drown it all out.

And today I needed to drown.

I press my fingers to my temples, my head feels heavy, and the music around me is too loud. I’m tired. It’s always like this.

Quiet, then loud. Soft, then rugged. Normal, then chaotic.

The cravings come next, just after some memories come back to me. It’s not a craving for the pills or the alcohol, not exactly, it’s more for the numbness they bring, that sudden and calm nothingness.

I still drink a bit, but I can't stop completely, I think I’d die.

Today I brought my past back, and it hurts. Unconsciously, my nails are digging crescents into my palms. I’ve come too far for this.

The mantra comes after, soft and familiar. “Family is who stays.”

But no one stayed, not her, not anyone.

I have to stop thinking about it, but nothing calms the rage.

The pills would, the voice in my head says, tempting like the bitch she is.

I shove the thought down, bury it with the others. But the itch doesn’t stop, and somewhere deep inside, I know it never will.

I’m eighteen now, not the girl I was when I lost it all, but some nights, she still wins.

Because I know no one is going to be happy about my birthday in this house, they don’t care, they never did.

The alley in front of me felt like a graveyard, empty, and silent, and I am alone there.

Crying. Angry. Enraged .

I was just a child then, I should stop thinking about these images. The blood, the horror…I should be able to stop focusing on that scar on my neck, stop thinking about my life since then, the bruises, the bleeding and tears, the torture and abuse.

But it never left.

It was following me during my sleep, during my fights, my runs, everywhere my consciousness was, my demons followed.

So fucking weak.

It’s been years, and no one knows who I am, no one knows what I saw.

They thought I was dead, and maybe I am, maybe it was the end that night.

They were supposed to protect me, but at that moment, I learned that it was an illusion. They told me I was safe after that, but protection was nothing more than an empty promise.

Celebrating my eighteenth birthday alone feels wrong in so many ways.

In my new home, this day was never meant to matter.

They lied when they told me to call them family, it was never home.

They lied, all of them… empty fucking promises.

But I kept it quiet, even when he started creeping into my room at night, it stopped hurting.

At first, I cried, but then, everything felt hollow. I was numb, a shell of what I used to be… a kid.

The thing is I never wanted their kindness and pity, I wanted to scream, to fight back, to show them that I was still alive in this chaos.

They didn’t care, not really, and that made it worse.

Now, I stood on the edge of a precipice, staring into the dangerous void of my past, feeling its pull like gravity. I wanted to dive in, to let it consume me.

I need answers. I need the pain.

I need the ache to feel real.

Because forgetting … forgetting was worse than remembering.

I can’t be her anymore; the girl who let herself fade, who drowned every scream with pills and alcohol to silence the noise.

I can’t be her, not again, not now that I have their things back.

I need to remember life . The rage. The fight.

I stormed out of the boxing gym, heart pounding and adrenaline still surging through me like wildfire. As I strapped on my helmet, the cool old and dirty metal of the buckle pressed into my bruised jaw.

I finally had my bike after years of stealing and putting money aside.

I just went three rounds in this underground fighting club and looked like a total mess.

Bruises and scars painted across my skin, some old, some fresh.

The white fabric of my t-shirt drinks deeply of the blood of my last opponent.

Deadly red roses bloom on my chest and it felt almost beautiful to look at.

I can hear them, the screams in my head.

They’re so loud lately, ever since the officers called and handed me remnants of my mother’s life. I found that stupid journal she always kept. So many names scrawled in fear, as if she always knew her faith, as if she knew she’d become the shell of her being. Like me, drugged and sad .

As if she knew that they would come for us.

And tonight, right in the middle of the fight, this guy had the nerve to spit out a curse, like it wasn’t obvious how close I was to snapping. So, I almost killed him. Almost. I wanted to hold onto this high, this surge of power, the violence, the fear in his eyes, not with drugs.

But now I had to face the real world. Home.

The thought twisted my gut, because I didn’t want to go back there.

No , I had a mission tonight.

Darkness enveloped me as tears blurred my vision. I know where I want to be, I know who I want to see. I was so scared to go back there, so scared to go back to this life as if this one was better. I needed to see if he was still there, if he was still alive, if he could help me save myself.

I rev the engine and race through the streets, feeling the rush of adrenaline.

I need to know. I need justice. I need blood.

Ahead, I see the towering gates of the heavily guarded complex.

I’ve always been fascinated by this since I was a kid.

It’s like a fortress of steel and stone, encircled by guards in dark uniforms, yellow lights subtly illuminate the compound and I feel like I’m ten again, waiting for my mother and stepdad to come pick me up from this place.

I’ve never come back here after that night.

I think they all believe I’m dead, but I’m not, not yet.

I slow my motorcycle as I approach the gates, my gaze empty, lost in denial, lost in a grief I was never fully able to experience, because retribution will be the only phase of my sorrow.

The journal, the names, the things I’ve read… everything she had to endure, everything that killed her long before her death, everything she turned against me.

And I only skimmed the final pages.

Barely a drop of her pain, her fears, her hopes, buried beneath layers of betrayal.

And mine, too.

I can’t let her story end here, I owe it to little me to dig deeper, to unearth the truth behind every name, every secret she left behind, to understand why my mother hated me before her death.

My boots echo on the pavement as I remove my helmet, the tears have dried, mingling with the blood stains, as if it has become one with my skin.

Flowers don’t cry.

Don’t ever cry again. Stop feeling.

The guards would never let me in now, but I remember a narrow passage from my childhood. I used to play with the dogs here; Viktor always found me hiding in this very spot whenever we played hide-and-seek.

The passage remains on the complex’s backside, unguarded, visible, the hole is still full of mud, and seems carelessly overlooked by everyone.

I head to the back of the towers, where the passage still exists, my body squeezes through, and I push myself deeper into it.

I had names, the names of people who hurt my mother and my whole family.

I can finally do something.

Minutes later, I emerge breathless into the courtyard. Two Dobermans greet me, I remember them, and they seem to remember me. A faint smile breaks through my tears. They… they recognized me.

Azra.

Why do I want to cry even more now?

“Hi, you two. It’s been a while,” Years .

I greet them with a rasping, broken voice, stroking them as they lick my boots. “Shh, stay calm. I’ll come back for you later.”

They comply quickly, allowing me to slip past the yard, evading the guards. I dodge two of them and sprint past them, and it’s late, perhaps 1 a.m., but I spot a light in an office upstairs.

Someone is here.

My feet move, my body follows, but my soul and heart feel detached.

The long corridors are less guarded than the exterior.

Why do I feel like it’s a shame? Coming back here, I mean. It’s been so long, they might kill me, they will if I can’t prove who I am.

I advance, only to hear footsteps behind me.

Fuck. A guard.

“Where the hell are you going?” he demands in a heavy Russian accent.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Stay calm, stay fucking calm.

I turn to face him, but his weapon is already aimed at me. “Is Viktor here?” I whispered it like a plea.

I’m not scared, I don’t think I can be anymore.

Violence isn’t new, it’s home , and his gun was just another room in it.

And so, he smiles coldly and says, “I’ll kill you.”

Do it. Please.

I step closer, the end of his weapon pressing against my head, I feel the cold metal against my skin, but I don't care, I need answers. And I’ll have them, no matter what.

“Take me to him. I knew Volk.”

Volk…

His eyes widened in surprise… He knew him too. He murmurs something in Russian to his companion who has arrived, and then nods “Follow us, malyshka ,” he instructs next.

I follow, one guard beside me, one behind, watching my every move. They led me upstairs, walking around this home where I laughed, ran, and played with my friends, where I cooked with my mom and saw my brother for the first time.