Beyond the pain and loneliness

As she turned the doorknob, her arm faltered, trembling violently. Pariz's breathing quickened as she tried to tense her body, searching for a spark of energy to keep moving forward. Finally, with a push, she managed to open the door.

A low murmur came from the television in the living room, mingling with the sound of a pot boiling in the kitchen. The fragrance of spices floated in the air, but it couldn't mask the invisible weight that filled the house.

From the kitchen, her mother was chopping vegetables with skilled, though visibly tired, hands. Upon hearing the noise from the entrance, she looked up, her dull expression lighting up in an instant smile.

—How was it, sweetie? Did you have fun? —she asked gently.

Pariz dropped her backpack to the floor with a dull thud, shrugging.

—Uh… yeah, I guess. —Her voice sounded empty, barely a whisper that cracked as a lump formed in her throat. Her gaze wandered around the room until it settled, almost by instinct, on a new bruise visible on her mother's neck. She quickly tried to look away.

—Can I watch TV? —she asked without meeting her mother's eyes.

—Oh, of course, but don't forget to do your homework —her mother replied, trying to maintain a kind tone.

Pariz dragged her feet to the living room, placing a book and a notebook on the coffee table, pushing aside a couple of empty cans carelessly. She switched the channel as she sunk into the couch.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a rehearsed routine: doing homework while waiting for dinner. They ate in silence; neither of them took the initiative—it was normal. When the clock struck nine, her mother broke the quiet.

—Sweetie, it's time for you to go to your room. —Her tone was tense, almost pleading.

—But, Mom…

—I said go! —she interrupted abruptly, raising her voice with a tremor that betrayed her fear.

Pariz stood up without protest, climbed the stairs, and closed the door to her room, making sure to lock it. She sat on the floor, hugging her knees, as the echo of her mother's footsteps downstairs faded away.

Then, the sound she feared came.

The front doorknob creaked as it opened, followed by uneven footsteps pounding the floor. Each movement felt like a blow to Pariz's chest as she curled into a fetal position, her body trembling in rhythm with her ragged breaths.

Downstairs, a loud thud announced that the man had collapsed onto the couch. The thin walls of the house hid nothing.

—I told you not to come home drunk… —muttered her mother, trying to sound firm but with an evident tremor in her voice.

—And what's the problem? —he growled, slurring his words—. You know work stresses me out. Can't I have a moment of happiness, at least? Now, hand me a beer!

—There's none left… —she replied, averting her gaze.

The man jumped up, knocking over the small coffee table in the process. The liquid from a half-empty can spilled, mixing with the mess on the floor. His wife stood in front of the fridge, raising her hands as a shield.

—Please… stop drinking.

The response was a slap that sent her to the ground.

—I just want one more! —he roared, yanking open the fridge. Vegetables rolled onto the floor as his hands searched for what he wanted. Finally, he pulled out six more cans.

—See! I told you there were some! —he exclaimed, holding them up like a trophy as he returned to the couch.

The snap of a can being opened echoed through the house. He drank greedily, emptying half of it in one gulp before throwing the can against the wall. It flew dangerously close to his wife, who stepped back with a stifled whimper.

—See? There were more! —he yelled as the sound of cans being opened and drained mingled with his wife's cries and pleas.

Upstairs, Pariz remained motionless, clutching herself tightly as every sound pierced the walls like a knife. The screams, the blows, the clinking of empty cans hitting the floor… it all seemed endless.

Her eyes welled with tears as she buried her face in the pillow, muffling her cries and sobs. A storm of emotions raged inside her, but among them, one stood out with overwhelming weight: helplessness.

—Stop… leave her alone… —she murmured through her sobs, words barely loud enough to break the silence of her room.

Suddenly, an itch took over her forearms. It wasn't a normal sensation; it didn't ask to be scratched it demanded it. It was as if her skin itself screamed in a silent language, begging for relief.

Pariz clenched her fists, holding her breath as the discomfort grew. Her arms felt like they were burning with an unbearable need, every fiber of her body pleading for action. Finally, as if her will crumbled, she tore off the bandages from her forearms and began scratching furiously.

Two sensations overwhelmed her instantly. A searing, burning pain that scorched with every scrape of her nails, and a strange, almost disturbing pleasure that seeped through the agony.

Meanwhile, the shouting and arguing downstairs seemed to draw closer, each word reverberating like a terrifying echo in her mind. But suddenly, they stopped. Silence took over the house, replacing the yelling with the hum of the muted television and the distant noise of trucks on the street.

Pariz glanced at her phone and realized two hours had passed. Everything seemed frozen in time. Rising cautiously, she headed to the bathroom. Turning on the light, the scene before her filled her with revulsion.

Her hands were soaked in blood. Pieces of skin hung from her arms, while crimson droplets fell to the floor. Her nails, cracked and sore, still had small fragments of skin trapped beneath them.

With trembling hands, she opened a drawer behind the mirror and pulled out a disinfectant along with a fast-acting scar gel. She rinsed off the excess blood with cold water, shivering as she peeled away the hanging pieces of skin. The pain was sharp, but she endured it silently. She sprayed disinfectant on her wounds, gritting her teeth as the sting intensified, and finally covered them with fresh bandages.

When she looked up, her reflection stared back at her from the mirror. Seeing herself, she instinctively covered her face, disgusted by the sight. Slowly, she uncovered her face, clenching her jaw. She repeated her mother's words to herself.

—You're a strong girl… You must smile,— she whispered, forcing a smile that barely formed before fading away entirely.

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek, sliding softly until it fell into the sink with an echo that seemed to reverberate in the loneliness of the room.

—It's not that easy... It's not that easy to smile,— she said in a final sob.

She returned to her room, closing the door behind her carefully. She lay softly on the bed, avoiding the fresh bloodstains on the floor. Her gaze fixed on the window, where the faint glow of the moon filtered through the curtains.

—Forgive me…— she whispered, her voice cracking, —but it's getting harder to see a reason to stay here.—

More tears began to flow, silently streaming down her face. She closed her eyes, wishing for the crushing weight to lift, even if just for a moment. The darkness of the night enveloped her, mercifully pulling her into its shadows, allowing her to rest for a moment.