In The Face of Death
When I was three years old, my parents became infamous in our social circle as a mutually destructive couple for a misunderstanding that led them to cheat on each other. To get revenge on each other, they didn’t hesitate to hurt me just to hurt one another.
Over the next five years, my mother beat me until my bones broke three times. My father “lost” me on purpose five times. And once, during one of their arguments, they threw me straight into the ocean.
Eventually, they grew tired of that life, but instead of stopping, they changed the game. They got divorced, and each of them adopted a new child, showering them with affection as if it were some kind of competition
As for me? I became the unwanted piece of trash. The only time I mattered was when they thought of each other, and they needed someone to take their anger out on.
The only thing that kept me going was a small locket pendant they gave me when I was born. Engraved on it were the words: peace and joy. It was the only source of comfort I had.
That was until I turned ten and someone tried to take this last piece of something that felt like it belonged to me away from me. I fought back with everything I had, and for that, I was beaten until my spleen ruptured.
By the time my parents arrived, the ground was soaked in blood. However, their faces twisted with disgust.
“Daisy, how did you end up like this? You’re just as disgusting as your father.”
“What did you say? Say that again! Just look at her, dressed like that. If anything, she’s just as shameless as you!”
My cries for help were drowned out by their argument. My body grew heavier and heavier, and before I realized it, the world went quiet. They finally stopped arguing, too.