Marco I think I'm going to kill myself.
Sent 10:56am

Marco tell Aunt Kenzie I love her.
Sent 10:57am

I'm sitting in a dark alley near a grocery store, the chilly air of winter night seeping through my thin clothes. I've never seen the world this late before.

Dad never let me stay out past sundown. The cold bites at my skin, making me shiver uncontrollably. I hug my knees tightly, trying to retain some warmth. It's ironic, isn't it? I claim I want to die, yet here I am, desperate for body heat, clinging to life in the smallest way.

I looked down at my bloody toes, they were bleeding from all that running, each cut is a proof to the frantic escape I had just endured.

I should have at least worn my slippers. It was funny, in a twisted sort of way, how I didn't feel the pain at all. The nerves in my feet seemed to have gone numb, perhaps overwhelmed by the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

My eyes stayed dry, refusing to shed even a single tear. I wondered if I was broken, if something fundamental within me had snapped.

Normal people would cry, wouldn't they? They would ask for help, call out in desperation. I tried to picture myself doing that, raising my voice and pleading for someone, anyone, to come to my aid. But the thought felt foreign, like a scene from a movie I couldn't quite relate to.

Is this what Aira Hart felt when she hang herself?

The thought gnawed at the edges of my mind, a shadow that refused to be ignored. Aira Hart. What a pretty name.

I always liked Mom's name, it fits her perfectly well. There was something ethereal about it, something that hinted at beauty and grace.

But I don't remember her face and the details had long since blurred into an indistinct haze. What I remember is her body, pale and lifeless, swaying gently on that rope in our bedroom.

That image had seared itself into my memory, a permanent scar that time could never heal. When was it again? Was it yesterday? A month ago? The passage of time felt irrelevant, a blur of days and nights that stretched endlessly.

I'm fifteen now, so was it when I was ten? I struggled to recall, my mind a jumble of fragments and half-formed memories. I don't remember, or rather, I don't want to remember.

At a young age, I already knew what caused Mom's agony. It was my dad's constant beating, endless screaming, and relentless harassment. And when Mom finally gave up, I was there, standing in the doorway.

I knew everything-how she did it, the methodical way she tied the rope, the finality in her eyes as she stepped off the chair. I watched in stunned silence. I didn't cry, didn't shout, didn't ask for help. I just thought, maybe she'd finally be free. And then I passed out.

When I woke up, I didn't say anything. Not a word. And Dad, of course, like he always did, blamed it on me.

His accusations were venomous, laced with a hatred that cut deeper than any of his blows. Since then, I filled Mom's shoes, becoming her more and more with each passing day. The beatings, the screams-all of it was directed at me. I became the target of his rage, his grief, his twisted sense of justice.

Tonight was the worst night yet. Dad's friend was over, both of them drunk. While Dad passed out on the living room floor, his friend made his way to my bedroom.

I can still feel his hands gripping my body, rough and invasive, like he was trying to rip my skin off. I laid there, paralyzed with fear and pain, praying for it to end. I hoped he would kill me, just to make it stop. But he didn't.

Somehow, in that moment of sheer terror, my body acted on its own. I managed to kick him away with a force I didn't know I had. Fueled by a desperate need to survive, I bolted out of the house, running as fast as my legs could carry me until I reached this place.

I am confused as well. I defended myself to survive, yet I wanted to die. I want to live, yet death clings to me like a shadow.

Maybe this would all be over if I could just be a little braver. With trembling hands, I reach for the liquor bottle by the side of the trash bin and smash it against the ground. As it shatters into pieces, I grab the sharpest shard. Blood drips down my hands as my grip tightens around the glass. I point it to my neck, feeling a sharp sting against my skin.

A little deeper, a little braver, and this will all be over.

"Don't do that here." A voice startles me, and the glass slips from my hand. I whirl around in fear, my heart racing. Is it Dad? Am I going back to that hell again?

To my relief, I see a boy standing there. He's dressed ridiculously rich for his age. What is he doing here at this time of night?

"If you're going to die, don't do it in front of me," he says, his voice calm and devoid of any comfort. It's more of an order than a mere statement. I just stare at him, blinking twice, unsure of what to do and surprised by his reaction.

He isn't normal either. Most people would be worried and show care, but he didn't. He just said those words and then left. His odd behavior makes me laugh, a bitter, hollow sound that echoes in the empty alleyway.

I guess I'm not dying tonight.