Chapter 3: The Invisible Scars

Physical wounds heal with time, but the scars of the soul are eternal. My skin bore the traces of his rage, but the worst wounds were inside me, in the memories I couldn't erase.

I remember the first time my father hit me with true intent. It wasn't a punishment, nor a reprimand. It was an act of pure brutality, of unchecked power. I fell to the floor, tasting the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I didn't cry. I had learned that crying only made the blows worse.

That night, I understood something important: I wasn't his daughter—I was his possession. My existence was nothing more than an extension of his will.

My mother knelt beside me after he left the room. She ran trembling fingers through my hair, whispering an apology that meant nothing. In her eyes, I saw guilt, fear, and exhaustion as deep as the ocean. "You have to be strong," she said, as if strength were a choice.

As a child, I used to see her as a goddess. Her laughter brightened the days when there was still sunlight in my childhood. I remember her bedtime stories, the way her voice wrapped around me like an unbreakable bubble of peace. But that bubble had burst, and she had become just another shadow in that house of nightmares.

I watched her and knew that one day, I would become her if I didn't escape.

But even as he marked me with his violence, I clung to one thought: one day, this would all end. One day, I would find a way out.