Page 50 of Eternal

AZRA

“Breathe Me” by Sia

Past

I hate when it’s loud.

The school hallways are always so fucking loud.

Everyone laughs, and screams, and hugs, they watch and judge, they mock people.

How I hate them all.

Always pretending to be interested in the weird people to look mysterious and approachable.

Too many voices, too many eyes, and I keep my head down, my hoodie up, my hands buried deep in my pockets.

Don’t look. Don’t react.

I know how this goes, I know the looks on their faces, I know how they feel about me. Do I care? Not really, but it’s pissing me off.

“She smells like an ashtray.”

“Should’ve stayed where she came from.”

Ah, that one. Classic . Like I wasn’t born right here, like I haven’t been breathing their air since the day I was dragged screaming into this world, like my mother’s blood didn’t stain their soil.

Kids can be so much worse than adults, it’s almost sad in a way.

My jaw tightens, but I don’t stop walking, I’m used to it, the muttered insults, the whispers loud enough for me to hear.

Because my skin is a shade they pretend not to want when they bake themselves in UV beds.

Because my name rolls off their tongues with too much weight, too much unfamiliarity.

Creep. Psycho. Orphan slut, they’ve called me worse.

I make it to the bathroom, the smell of cheap disinfectant and mildew hitting me as I push the stall door shut.

God, I’m tired .

I dig through my bag, hands shaking, fingers curling around the little baggie. The powder glows white against my bruised skin, just enough to take the edge off.

I really need that right now.

The first hit burns pretty well, the second sinks in deeply in a few seconds, by the third, the world softens, and everything is blurry for a second. Light .

It’s light.

I close my eyes, leaning my head against the cold metal of the stall waiting to calm down, my heartbeat slows, my breathing evens out, the weight on my chest eases off. It’s not gone, but it’s distant, like it belongs to someone else for now.

Like I could step out of my body and leave it all behind.

Being high… Never knew I’d end up like this.

But then the anger creeps in.

I fucking hate myself for this. I hate how fucking weak I am, how I let him do this to me, how I let him take everything from me without even putting up a fight. Every goddamn day, I try to bury it all deep, but it’s still there, scratching at my insides like a wild animal.

I should be stronger than this.

I should’ve fucking fought back.

But what am I now? A fucking shell, a fucking mess.

And the worst part? I can’t even remember her smile. My mother’s smile, the way she used to light up the room like it was the sun. I can’t even picture the warmth anymore.

It’s gone, and I hate myself for not holding onto it.

The sun . I can’t even imagine it in my head anymore, it's like I’ve erased everything that ever mattered.

I can’t remember her clearly. I hate it.

Fuck.

I close my eyes and try to think of her. I try to remember how her hands used to feel on my face, soft and warm. I try to bring back that fucking warmth, but it’s all cold now.

Everything’s fucking cold. She’s gone. I’m gone. Everything’s gone.

Now all I’m left with is numbness. The haze. The fog. It doesn’t make it better, but it helps, doesn’t it?

At least when I’m high, I can pretend, pretend I don’t care, pretend I’m not the fucking wreck I am. It’s just an escape.

Maybe that’s why she did it too… to stop remembering the mess, the struggles you don’t have a hand on.

I used to hate being weak. Now, I don’t even have the energy to fight anymore, I don’t care enough to, it’s all a blur. A fucking blur.

The worst part of this is that I don’t even care that I can’t remember.

The bell rings but I don’t move. I stay until my legs feel steady again, until the feeling settles deep. Then I pull my hoodie back up, splash cold water on my face, and walk out like I haven’t poisoned myself a few minutes ago.

I’ve always been like this, they know my name but don’t know anything about me.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to school, I’ll hear the whispers, the slurs. Some asshole will make a joke about my hoodie, about my body, about why I never wear skirts, about my scar on my face or my different eyes, or maybe my hair again, or how skinny I look.

And maybe, if I’m not high enough, I’ll snap, maybe I’ll bury a pencil into someone’s throat, maybe I’ll finally let them see the monster they already think I am.

Repeat the mantra, Azra.

“I’m the iris of your world…” I whisper to myself as I walk back to hell.

The walk home is quiet, I know what’s waiting.

The house sits at the end of a dead street, paint peeling, windows cleaned by my own hands. I see the car in the driveway. He’s home.

I need to keep walking.

There’s no point in running, there’s nowhere to go. There was before. A home, before it turned into its own kind of hell.

But it’s not here anymore, it’s in my head, I don’t even remember how it looked.

When I get inside, I exhale slowly, maybe he’ll forget I even exist today… but I hear the TV blaring, the deep rumble of his voice.

My body tenses on instinct. Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.

A hand grabs my arm, too tight. “Where the fuck have you been all day long?” His breath is hot, reeking of whiskey, his fingers dig into my wrist.

Stupid asshole.

“School.” My voice is steady, bored.

He hates that.

A slap, hard enough to make my teeth clack together, hard enough to leave an ugly mark, I’d have to cover myself with makeup, the one I stole from his wife.

“Lying little bitch,” he mutters, already losing interest, his hand slides lower, rough fingers ghosting over my hip, then my ass.

My skin crawls, nausea rising in my throat. Not tonight. Please, not tonight. I’m too tired.

Then, mercifully, he lets go. “Get me a beer.”

I turn, walking to the kitchen on autopilot, I don't cry, I don’t shake, I simply breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I grab the beer from the fridge, the cold can slick against my shaking fingers.

One step at a time.

Don’t rush. Don’t react.

I walk back into the living room, set it on the table in front of him, and turn to leave before he can say anything else.

Upstairs . I need to get upstairs.

I take the first step when Brittany’s voice stops me. “Hey.”

I swallow hard, turning, and she stands in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. She isn’t big or strong, but her voice is so cold.

“There’s dishes in the sink,” she says. “And the laundry’s still in the machine.”

I clench my fists. “I have homework.”

She scoffs. “I don’t care. Do it.”

I grit my teeth. “I have?—”

The slap comes fast. “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE RAISE YOUR VOICE AT ME. I NOURISH YOU AND YOU SLEEP AT MY HOUSE!”

I don’t make a sound, I lower my head, let my hair fall over my face, and nod.

She watches me for a second before turning away, muttering something under her breath. Disrespectful. Ungrateful. Useless. I don’t listen, I move.

The dishes, the laundry, sweeping the floor that’ll never be clean.

By the time I’m done, my arms ache, my fingers raw from the cold water.

My stomach twists in hunger, but I’m too tired to eat… I want to disappear.

I head upstairs, to the tiny, stale room that belongs to me, the thin mattress, the pile of dirty clothes, the window that barely lets in any light.

The stars on the ceiling.

I miss the sun.

Not the real one, but the warmth.

I hate it all. I hate myself . I hate them .

I reach under the bed, fingers finding the cheap bottle of vodka and the tiny baggie I hid in the torn lining of my backpack.

One sip. Two. Then a hit.

The burn spreads through me, dulling the edges, softening the parts that are too sharp, too broken.

My soul is elsewhere, it’s peaceful there.

Maybe I should die like that.

Alone and high.

I let my body sink into the mattress, my head spinning, the world fading. Maybe I’ll sleep through the night. Maybe I won’t wake up at all.

Then—

A knock, it’s a routine, a pattern, a script I’ve been forced to follow for years.

I don’t move, I don’t breathe. If I stay still enough, maybe I’ll sink into the mattress, and really disappear this time.

The door creaks open, heavy footsteps across the room, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The smell hits me first, beer, sweat, something sour that clings to him no matter how much he showers, I keep my eyes on the ceiling, counting the cracks.

Anything but him.

Anything but him.

The bed dips as he sits beside me, I feel his stare before I hear his voice. “ Sixteen ,” he murmurs, almost like he’s marveling at it. “Such a dangerous age, little one.”

His fingers grazed my leg through the blanket and I got rigid, that’s the game. If I flinch, I lose, but I do flinch. My body knows before my brain does, curling in on itself, muscles going tight.

Don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t exist .

He chuckles, low and lazy. “Pretending to be asleep again?”

The mattress dips deeper.

Oh God.

A thick hand lands on my thigh, fingers pressing through the blanket like he has every right on me. He always did, like I belong to him, my skin crawls, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop from shaking… he likes it when I shake.

“I take care of you,” he murmurs, voice slurred. “A little appreciation wouldn’t kill you.”

I want to vomit. I want to disappear.

His fingers move, creeping up, searching for anything… I jerk my leg away, barely thinking, my breath soft. He stills, then the slap comes, sharp and fast across my thigh, burning through the blanket. My throat tightens, but I don’t make a sound.

Don’t give him that.

The cuts I did last night are still between my legs, he knows they’re there, he likes it.

He exhales, long and slow, like I’m exhausting. “You always make shit so difficult.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting. For more. For worse .

He sighs, rubbing a hand on my chest. “Remember it’s God’s will?”

I nod, once, tired.

He chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

He’s on top of me, I can feel him but I’m too high to care now.

It’s just my body.

He’s only abusing a body.

My mind is already gone, I’m on a cloud, and nothing brings me back down, not when I feel him between my legs, not when my head hits the wall every time he pushes inside me.

I’m not here anymore, the same cross is still dangling down my neck.

Then he’s up, swaying toward the door, the floor creaking under his weight. The second it clicks shut, I move, shoving my hand under the pillow, fingers closing around the little almost empty baggie, I tear it open, shaking, scattering powder over my hand.

Enough to make it foggier.

Enough to not be here.

Maybe enough to kill me.

I sniff hard, feeling the burn, the numbness crawling in, then I grab the bottle from under my bed, taking a long, desperate gulp, I don’t even like the taste.

But I like forgetting, it’s less real then.