Prologue

The knife slips from my shaking fingers—then I catch it just before it hits the floor.

My breathing is harsh and uneven, far too loud in the dark. I stop and listen. Nothing. The house is still asleep, which is a relief.

I clutch the door handle, heart pounding, and push the front door closed behind me. The effort nearly makes my legs give way, and pain flares through my ribs and arm. A gasp escapes, and I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. I can't make a sound or wake her. She can't see me like this.

Leaning against the wall, I feel my vision darken at the edges. I could collapse right here, but I make myself move. My body feels heavy, numb, and on fire, as if it belongs to someone else. The staircase looms above me, too long and too steep, but staying isn't an option.

I grip the banister and a sharp pain shoots up my arm, forcing out a cry. Again I freeze and listen. The house stays quiet. I'm still safe, but only just.

Blinking back tears, I haul myself up, half crawling, with my knees knocking on the wood and my fingers slipping. When I reach the top, I'm shaking all over. I don't remember crossing the hallway or reaching my room, only that I'm suddenly inside with the door clicking shut, a sound that feels final. I lean against it, panting as if I'd outrun something. Maybe I have.

I don't turn on the light, because seeing what they did to me might break me completely. But I'm already breaking. I drag myself along the wall, leaving faint smears I refuse to look at, until I reach my desk. My trembling fingers barely find the switch.

The light comes on, and I regret it at once. My hands look like they belong to someone else: bruised, swollen, marked in ways I can't bear to understand. This time I let the tears fall.

My eyes land on the notebook my sister gave me this morning, with her instruction to write my dreams in it. I laugh bitterly, and the laugh turns into a sob. The first page is blank and untouched, just as today was supposed to be. Even holding the pen hurts, but I write anyway: *Dear diary, today was my eighteenth birthday.* The words look like someone else's, and a tear smudges the ink.

My chest tightens and I can't breathe. I don't deserve to live. The memories flood in all at once, and I write that I was raped and drugged, and that I've decided I have to die today. The pen slips from my hand and clatters down. I stare at the words, but nothing feels real. I feel like I'm floating outside myself, watching a stranger fall apart.

I close the journal and wonder what the point of anything is. Without thinking, I open the drawer and my fingers touch something cold: a small pocket knife. I look at it, strangely calm, with no panic or fear, only emptiness. Tears keep falling and I don't wipe them away.

In the mirror I see a pale, broken stranger I don't recognize. Maybe Maria Eduarda has already died, and this is all that's left of her.

Gripping the knife, I head toward the bathroom, and every step feels like crossing a line I can't uncross. But stopping would mean feeling everything again, and I can't do that. The bathroom door stands slightly ajar, as if waiting. I push it open and it creaks. The light flickers, and for a moment everything goes dark before it returns. My reflection looks closer now, too close.

I raise the knife slowly. My hand trembles once, then steadies. Maybe this is the only way it can end.

Then a soft but unmistakable sound comes from outside the room, a floorboard creaking. I freeze and stop breathing. Someone is awake.

If you'd like a different angle, such as third person, past tense, or a tighter word count, tell me and I'll redo it.