[This book is Mature and has a lot of triggers! Viewer discretion is advised]

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K A E L A N I

A small yawn escaped my lips as I woke from my slumber.

It was another day.

Unfortunately.

I slipped off the mattress and onto my feet. I checked the clock on the wall and saw that it was just after six. I had enough time to clean and prepare breakfast before they got up.

I fixed the sheet on my mattress and then adjusted my hand-made pillow. Once I was finished, I dug through my clothes bag and picked out some simple clothes. It didn't matter what I wore, my work outfit always covered it up.

I hurried to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and then hopped in the shower. The water was ice cold but it didn't bother me. I was used to it. The house had warm water, but I wasn't allowed to use it. My aunt had passed that rule and I had no choice than to follow it.

The water was enough to cleanse my body, but it wasn't enough to drown the thoughts from consuming me. The thoughts I'd always tried to push away.

Why was my life like this? Why did my mom had to leave... to leave me alone in the hands of these monsters? These monsters who I'm supposed to call my family. These monsters who are making my life a living hell.

I get up every day, and it's the same thing.

Make breakfast. Get insulted. Sometimes get hit. Go to work. Come home. Sleep without dinner.

Repeat.

That's my life.

Nineteen years old, invisible, unlovable, ugly—or at least, that's what I've been told.

I had vitiligo—a condition that made the world see me as different. A freak of nature. Someone who looked like half-human, half-alien. Dark-skinned, riddled with insecurities, weighed down by trauma… I was everything the world seemed to reject.

I was no one. Just a girl living—without feeling alive.

I quickly scrubbed myself with my small sponge and then rinse the soap off. I only get to shower once a day because by the time I get home, I'd be so exhausted that showering was off the list.

About three minutes later, I left the bathroom, my blouse covering me. I didn't have a towel or a robe.

I know it might seem strange — she works, so why doesn't she have anything decent? The truth is, every time I get paid, most of it goes to my aunt. She claims I have to pay for my stay in her house, but the truth is, I barely see any of it as mine.

Some nights, I lie awake listening to the creaks of the floorboards above me and wonder if things will ever feel like they belong to me.

Maybe.

But maybe was just hope, and in my case, it was false hope.

I slipped into my clothes and twisted my hair into a messy bun. It wasn't the silky kind that fell perfectly over shoulders—dry, stubborn strands stuck out where they wanted. And I didn't own any hair products.

I left my room and made my way to the living room. It was untidy as usual. I fixed the cushions on the couch, adjusted the glass table, took up any garbage and then grabbed for the broom. I swept every corner carefully. My aunt does an inspection—as she calls it—everytime I do the chores.

Next it was the kitchen. I sighed as I examined the sink that was full of dirty dishes. If I didn't wash them and prepare breakfast in time, I will surely get a beating.

Ten minutes later, I was finally done with the dishes. I dried my hands then started preparing breakfast. I made scrambled eggs with toast, fried sausage and also some herbal tea.

The floorboards upstairs suddenly creaked.

They were up.

I quickly shared a small portion of food and wrapped it in tin foil, stuffing it into my bag just as footsteps approached.

My aunt waltzed in, her expression grumpy as usual.

"Good morning," I said, taking a few steps back.

She scowled. "What's good about the morning? You're still in my house."

I lowered my eyes. I should've gotten use to this by now. But words cut deep, and every insult adds salt to the wound.

Seconds later, Uncle Richard and their daughter came in. Pale skin, light hair — a reminder I didn't belong here. They didn't spare me a glance as they joined my aunt at the table.

Uncle Richard was evil. Not loud like my aunt, not cruel with words—but his belt spoke for him.

He beat me twice.

Hard enough to leave scars that will never disappear.

Maya, their daughter, wasn't that bad.

She only talked to me when her parents weren't around. She would slip into my room like a ghost, quiet and quick, closing the door behind her as if the walls themselves could tattle.

She never stayed long. Never sat on the mattress. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes darting to the door every few seconds.

"Are you okay?" she would whisper.

I always nodded. Lying had become second nature. Easier than explaining bruises that were already fading, easier than admitting I was afraid in a house that was supposed to be home.

Sometimes she brought food. An extra roll wrapped in a napkin. A piece of chicken hidden in her pocket. Small mercies stolen from a full table I wasn't allowed to sit at.

When footsteps sounded in the hallway, Maya stiffened first.

"I have to go," she'd say, already reaching for the door.

And just like that, I was alone again, just listening to the house breathe.

"Have you cleaned the living room?" My aunt asked, eyes cold and hard.

I nodded quickly.

She huffed and went back to her food. My eyes darted to the clock on the wall — it was almost eight. I couldn't miss the last bus.

"I... I have to go now," I said, clutching my bag tighter.

My aunt raised a brow. "Who cares, Kae? No one."

I swallowed the tears and hurried from the kitchen and out the front door.

Once I got on the bus, I slipped into the back and pulled out my breakfast. I was starving. I ate slowly, keeping my eyes fixed out the window.

My life was depressing. I couldn't remember the last time I felt happy. Not just on the outside, not the kind you fake so people stop asking questions—but real happiness. The kind that settles in your chest and makes breathing feel lighter.

Instead, there was an empty void in my head… and my heart.

I missed my mom. I missed us.

I remembered her lying on that hospital bed, skin pale, fingers cold in mine. Her voice was weak, but her eyes were still fierce when she made my aunt promise to take care of me.

She did... At first.

Then the promise cracked. Then it shattered.

My dad hadn't been around from day one. A name on a birth certificate. Nothing more. My mom never dated again. Never brought another man home. She chose me every single day.

It was just us.

And now it was just me.

Living in a house that never felt like mine, carrying grief no one acknowledged, counting the days like they might eventually mean something.

Some nights, I pressed my hand to my chest and wondered if my heart was still there at all—or if it had gone with her when she died.

I pressed my forehead to the cold glass, watching reflections blur into streaks of gray. Work waited at the end of the line.

The bus kept moving, and so did I.

But inside, I was still standing in the house behind me, staring at scars that would never disappear.