When you're floating in the darkness nothing hurts. Nothing weighs down on your soul crushing it little by little. Nothing aches or starts reminding of your past. When you're floating in darkness you're at peace.

But this peace is never acquired naturally. This is a darkness given to you by those who supply your nightmares. You will learn to savour it but also dread it. Because the worst part of floating in the darkness is coming back to light.

My eyes fluttered open, and I found myself sprawled out on the cold, hard bathroom floor, a blade loosely clutched in my hand. My left was covered in fresh cuts mingling with the older scars that had long since faded into pale, jagged lines. A wave of disgust washed over me. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

I forced myself to look at my phone, blinking through the haze. 7 a.m. Oh no. I was late, and I still had to make breakfast for my brothers. Dad was probably already pissed, stepping in to handle what I should have done. My heart raced as I scrambled to my feet, quickly washing the dried blood off my arm. There wasn't enough time to cover the wounds properly, but I had to move. If Dad had to do my job again, I knew there'd be hell to pay.

The dread hung over me like a storm cloud as I got dressed and hesitated before heading into the kitchen. Dad never hit me in front of my brothers-never said a word to suggest what happened behind closed doors-but the fear was always there, gnawing at me. I braced myself for whatever awaited me.

When I finally walked into the kitchen, my brothers were almost done eating. Elijah, the eldest, looked up first. His eyes flickered over me but said nothing. I offered a weak smile, pretending everything was normal. I couldn't let them see my pain. I grabbed some food and ate quickly, my stomach churning. By the time I finished, Elijah, Lorenzo, and Maxim were already grabbing their bags and heading out the door. I was supposed to go with Ethan today, but as usual, he didn't wait for me. He probably thought I was still in bed.

The door closed behind Ethan, and my heart sank as I realized what that meant-I was alone with Dad.

Before I could even move, I felt his presence behind me, radiating fury. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His hand shot out, gripping my hair and yanking me backward. I barely had time to react before the sharp pain of my head hitting the wall made everything go blurry.

My vision swam as I struggled to regain my balance, the sharp ache in the back of my skull pulsing with each heartbeat. Dad's hand remained tight in my hair, his grip unrelenting. I tried to stifle a wince, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. I knew what was coming, the routine always the same-no words, just rage.

"You think you can get away with being lazy?" His voice was low, seething. "Leaving me to clean up after you, again?"

I didn't answer. I'd learned long ago that words wouldn't help, wouldn't stop him. Instead, I braced myself, hoping he'd lose interest soon.

But he didn't.

His grip tightened, and I was dragged across the room, barely able to keep up with his pace. I stumbled, catching the edge of the counter with my hip, but I didn't cry out. He threw me forward, slamming my chest into the counter, pinning me there with one hand on the back of my neck. My breathing quickened, but I forced myself to stay still, willing the moment to pass.

"Look at me," he spat.

I hesitated. Looking him in the eye always made it worse, but I turned my head slightly, just enough to meet his glare. His face was twisted in disgust, as if I were something worthless, something broken beyond repair. And maybe I was. I felt that way most of the time.

"You disgust me," he muttered. "Worthless."

I clenched my teeth, swallowing the rising bile in my throat. Tears threatened to spill over, but I blinked them away. I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

After what felt like an eternity, his hand left my neck. For a brief moment, I thought it was over, but then his fist collided with my side, the sudden pain ripping through me. I gasped, doubling over, clutching my ribs as I tried to hold myself together. He hit me again, and then again, each blow more vicious than the last.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. He stepped back, breathing hard, looking down at me with that same cold contempt.

"Clean yourself up," he muttered, wiping his hands on his pants like I was something filthy he needed to rid himself of. "And don't let this happen again."

I waited until he left the room before I allowed myself to collapse to the floor, clutching my ribs, trying to catch my breath. My body ached, and I felt like I was falling apart inside, but I knew the bruises would fade, just like they always did. The pain would dull, and I'd go through the motions of pretending everything was fine.

But how much longer could I do this? How much longer could I survive like this-trapped in a cycle of fear and pain, each day bleeding into the next without hope of escape?

I forced myself to stand, my legs trembling beneath me, and grabbed a rag to clean up the mess from breakfast. My hands shook, but I couldn't stop. If I left any sign that I'd fallen behind again, it would only get worse.

As I scrubbed the counter, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the kitchen window. My face was pale, eyes hollow, and my arm throbbed where the fresh cuts had been reopened during the struggle. I looked away quickly, unable to bear the sight of myself. It was easier to pretend I didn't exist than to face the reality of who I had become.

With the kitchen finally clean, I slowly made my way back to my room, each step sending a sharp pain through my ribs. The house was silent now, and for once, I was grateful. At least here, in the quiet, I could retreat into myself, if only for a little while.

I sat down on my bed, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. I knew I had to go to school, but my body ached too much, and I couldn't bring myself to face the day. What was the point? No one there knew, or cared. I was invisible. I could show up battered and bruised, and no one would ask.

I reached for my phone again, scrolling through my contacts. Ethan, Elijah, Lorenzo, Maxim-my brothers. I could text one of them, maybe ask for a ride or just tell them I wasn't coming today. But I didn't. They didn't need to be dragged into this. They had their own lives, their own worries, and I didn't want to be another burden on their shoulders.

Instead, I put the phone back down and stared at the ceiling, my mind drifting. How many times had I thought about just... not being here anymore? It wasn't that I wanted to die, exactly. I just wanted everything to stop. The pain, the fear, the constant pressure of trying to hold myself together-it was all too much.

But deep down, I knew I wouldn't go through with it. Something inside me still fought for survival, even if I didn't understand why. Maybe it was for my brothers, maybe it was for some faint hope that things would get better. I wasn't sure.

For now, I just needed to breathe. To survive today, and tomorrow, and the day after that. One step at a time.