Chapter 1

Zyra's pov~

"You guys should dump her somewhere. I think it failed."

I scream as they lift a pale looking girl off the bed but it doesn't look like they can hear me.

"Please stop! Stop!"

~~~

“Get out of bed you fool!”

It's the same nightmare every night. You would think I would be used to it by now. Rip to my three hours of sleep, I guess.

My body reacts faster than my mind. I sit up very quickly, my heart already racing like I’ve done something wrong just by sleeping. The door swings open with force, slamming against the wall. I don’t have time to adjust before my foster father is already in the room.

He doesn’t speak again as his hand closes around my arm and drags me out of bed. My feet scrape against the floor as I try to steady myself, but I don’t resist. I never resist. I learned what happens when I do.

“You think you can be lazy in my house?” he snaps, his grip tightening.

It starts small. It always starts small.

A shove, hit or insult. I keep my eyes down, focusing on the floor instead of him and the heat spreading across my skin where his hand lands again.

My body knows this rhythm too well. Wait, endure and stay quiet.

Behind him, I hear movement from the living room. My foster mother is already there, slumped on the couch like she never left it. She probably didn't anyways.

The faint smell of alcohol mixes with something stronger. Pills, maybe. She laughs at nothing, her head tilted back, eyes half open but not really seeing anything.

She doesn’t look at me.

“Useless,” my foster father mutters, not sure if he’s talking to her or me. Maybe both of us.

Another hit lands on me, sharper this time. My shoulder stings. I bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard I can taste iron. I don’t make a sound. Making sound makes things worse and invites more attention. Attention means more pain.

He finally lets go of me as if he forgot he was holding me.

“Clean this place,” he orders, already turning away. “And don’t make me come back in here.”

The door slams shut behind him. I stay still for a moment, waiting for the next thing. Sometimes the silence is worse because it tricks you into thinking it’s over.

It never is.

My foster mother lets out a low laugh from the couch. “He’s in a mood,” she says casually, like she didn’t just watch it happen.

I don’t answer anyways. I start cleaning up instead.

Carefully, I step over scattered clothes and broken things on the floor. The house always looks like this in the morning. Like something exploded quietly overnight. I start cleaning without being told again. It is easier that way. Less noise.

I wipe surfaces first. Then I pick up bottles. I avoid the kitchen until I have no choice because the smell there is always worse. Ughh..

I know this house like the back of my hand.

My hands work without me really thinking. My mind drifts, but never too far. I never let it drift too far. That’s when I make mistakes.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like not to calculate every step. The thought disappears as quickly as it comes.

By the time I finish, my body already feels tired again. I change clothes in the bathroom, pulling on long sleeves even though the house is warm. I check the mirror once, briefly.

There’s a faint mark on my arm. I adjust my sleeve over it. I don't want anything that will make anyone ask questions. School is basically like a second survival zone.

It looks normal from the outside. That’s the worst part. People laugh in hallways like all is well with the world. They sit in groups, talk loudly, complain about things that feel distant to me. I walk through all of it like I’m underwater.

If you stay quiet enough, people forget you exist.

I sit at the back of the classroom. Always the same seat and near the window so I can see outside if I need to ground myself anytime I start drifting. I copy notes without really reading them. My mind stays alert anyway. It always does.

I notice everything in school. A teacher calls my name once during the lesson. I look up slowly.

“Are you following?” she asks.

I nod.

She studies me for a while longer.

“I can help you after class if you need it,” she adds.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Her expression shifts slightly, but she lets it go. That is how it always ends.

People see something. Then they decide not to pay attention to it anymore. I keep my gaze down for the rest of the lesson.

At lunch, I sit alone not because I have no one, but because I choose not to have anyone. People talk to me sometimes, but I don’t let it go further than surface level answers. It is safer that way.

There’s a girl who tries today. She sits across from me without asking. She smiles too easily.

“You’re Zyra, right?” she asks. I nod once.

“I’m Maren. You’re always alone.”

Well, that's certainly not a question so I don’t respond. She waits anyway, like my silence doesn’t bother her.

“That’s kind of sad,” she says softly.

Okay...

I look at her then trying to figure out if she’s dangerous or just stupid. She doesn’t feel like either. Still, I don’t trust it.

“I like being alone,” I say. It sounds enough that she should leave but she doesn’t.

Instead, she just studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Okay but if you ever want company, I’m here.”

I don’t answer. Eventually, she leaves. That is what most people do.

After school, I walk home alone. I always take the longer route not because I enjoy it, but because it avoids certain streets. Certain groups, that is.

The sky is already starting to dim when I reach the house. Something feels wrong to me immediately.

The street is too quiet and there are no sounds from inside.

Then I see them. The police cars.

At least two or maybe more. Lights are flashing but no sirens. Officers are moving in and out of the house. My steps slow down without my permission. My mind doesn’t understand what it’s seeing at first.

I stop at the gate.

One officer notices me and says something into his radio. Another looks over. I should turn back but I don’t.

My legs move anyway closer to the house.

The front door is open. Furniture is visible inside. People are speaking, but I can’t make out the words properly.

Then I see them.

My foster father is being led out in handcuffs. His face is twisted with anger, shouting something at the officers. My foster mother is stumbling behind him, barely able to walk straight, being held up by someone else.

She looks hella confused and lost. I stand completely still. This doesn’t feel real. It feels like watching someone else’s life through glass.

An officer steps toward me. “Are you Zyra?”

I nod.

He says something to another officer. I catch fragments. Words like custody, investigation and charges.

I look at the house again. It feels unfamiliar suddenly like I never lived here at all.

A female worker approaches next. She has a soft expression that doesn’t match the scene behind her.

“Zyra,” she says gently. I don’t answer.

She takes a step closer, careful like I might break. “We need you to come with us for a moment.”

I follow her without thinking. We move away from the house. My mind feels blank, not calm.. just empty. I don’t ask questions. Questions are dangerous.

We stop near one of the cars. She turns to face me fully now. Her expression has changed to being more serious and careful.

I notice that immediately. My stomach tightens slightly.

“Zyra…” she says again.

A pause follows like she is trying to choose her words carefully.

Then she says it clearly.

“Zyra… we found your real family.” The world doesn’t move for a second.

I stare at her, trying to understand what she means. The words don’t connect properly in my head. Real family. The phrase feels foreign like it doesn’t belong in the same sentence as me.

My throat feels tight and I don’t speak. I can’t because for the first time in a long time…

I don't know what next to do and that terrifies me more than anything that has happened before.