I looked at my uncle, sprawled on the couch with empty alcohol bottles beside him. If I wasn't miscounting, there were five in total. He lay there shirtless, reeking of booze. I held my nose as I walked past him and kicked his arm, which was hanging in my way. He merely shifted and turned to the other side, unfazed by the kick. I gave him one last glance, rolled my eyes, and headed to my room, making sure to lock the door behind me.
But what I saw next left me completely shattered.
My drawer was wide open. All my books—and worse, the file that held my project work—were torn to shreds. I stood frozen, stunned into silence, unable to make sense of it. Then, a scream escaped my lips. Like someone possessed, I rushed to my secret locker hidden beneath a blanket. My hands trembled as I fumbled through it until I found what I needed—my passbook. The only thing of value my parents had left me.
Clutching it to my chest, I collapsed onto the floor and wept bitterly, the memory of their death still haunting me.
It had only been a year. The pain still fresh. The memory still sharp.
It happened on a Friday. I was called to my teacher's office—a first. The look on his face had me worried.
"Sit down, April," he said gently, pulling out a chair for me.
"Thank you," I murmured, trying to smile through the anxiety building inside me.
He took his seat, letting out a heavy sigh.
"April, I'm so sorry to have to tell you this…" his voice cracked. "There's been a terrible accident. Your parents… they're gone."
The words struck like a punch to my chest. My vision blurred. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. I just stared at him, hoping this was some cruel joke.
"What's… going on?" I managed, barely above a whisper.
He came around the desk and sat beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. That gentle touch was all it took —I broke.
"I know this is hard, April," he said softly. "But we're all here for you. We'll support you through this difficult time."
I cried that day like never before. I was an only child. My parents were my everything. And just like that, my whole world collapsed.
At the hospital, I couldn't even look at them. Their faces had been too damaged. The doctors didn't recommend it. My uncle was the one who confirmed the bodies and handled the paperwork.
Back in my room, I tried to piece together the ruined papers with tape, knowing it was pointless. My hands trembled with anger. I stormed out to where my useless uncle lay and picked up one of the bottles, ready to smash it over his head. My heart was racing. My hands shook.
But then I stopped.
"I'm not a murderer," I told myself, and let the bottle fall to the floor. It shattered loudly, waking him up.
He sat up, eyes hazy, and took in the broken glass.
"What were you trying to do?" he snapped, rising to his feet.
I stepped back, breathing heavily.
"Take one step and I swear, you'll regret it," he threatened.
"I'm not afraid of you!" I spat, summoning the courage I had left.
He sneered. "Oh, I see," he said, then grabbed my arm violently, dragging me forward until I stepped on a shard of glass.
"Ouch!" I screamed, pain shooting through my foot.
"Are you afraid now?" he laughed cruelly.
"Go to hell, bastard!" I hissed, spitting on his face.
"How dare you!" he roared, slapping me hard across the face.
"I hate you! I hate you!" I sobbed, struggling to break free.
"I know," he said coldly. "But don't play your silly games with me, April, or you'll end up just like your parents."
He shoved me to the ground. My palms landed in the broken glass.
"Clean this mess before I get back," he growled and walked out.
I glared after him, hoping he would disappear forever.
I didn't want to cry—but the tears wouldn't stop. Fighting this devil felt pointless. I was alone, and by law, he was my legal guardian—my mother's brother. The same man who once brought me toys, showed me love, and laughed with us around the dinner table.
I never knew it was all just an act.
After the funeral of my parents, I was forced to leave the town where we had lived—where every corner held memories of my seventeen years of life—and move into my uncle's house. I had to leave behind my friends, my school, and the comfort of familiarity. Since I wasn't yet eighteen, all of my parents' assets were placed under my uncle's control — and he misused every single one of them. He sold our house, mismanaged the company my parents worked so hard to build, and before long, we were bankrupt.
I had once lived a life where I lacked nothing. Now, even affording three square meals had become a daily struggle. My uncle insisted I drop out of school, calling it a waste of money. But school was all I had left. It was the one thing keeping me alive. Becoming a doctor had been my dream — and my parents' — and I clung to it with everything I had.
That evening, after treating my wounds myself, I cleaned the living room to avoid giving that devil of a man another excuse to hurt me. Once done, I limped into the kitchen in search of something to eat. As usual, the fridge was almost empty — nothing but used tins of milk and sardines, and a single piece of stale bread. I slammed the fridge door shut in frustration.
A knock at the front door startled me.
"Hi!" said an older woman with a bright smile, waving a frail hand. Her teeth were slightly discolored, but her smile was kind.
"My uncle's not home," I replied sharply. Hunger and frustration made my voice sound colder than I intended.
"I'm not here for your uncle," she said warmly. "I saw him leave a few minutes ago, so I thought I'd stop by and see you. I'm Sarah—I live next door. Do you happen to have a bit of sugar?" She held out a small bowl with a hopeful grin.
"I wish I could help, Sarah… but there's no sugar here," I said, the bitterness in my voice directed more at life than at her. It stung — how had things gotten so bad that I couldn't even offer a neighbor some sugar?
"Oh," she said, chuckling softly. "I'm baking cookies and ran short, so I figured I'd check next door."
"I'm really sorry," I muttered, starting to close the door.
"Wait," she said, gently pushing it open. "If you don't mind me asking—what happened to your foot?"
I glanced down at the blood seeping through the bandage. "It's nothing. Just a small cut," I replied quickly.
"It doesn't look small to me," she said with concern. "Come, let me clean it up properly. I used to be a nurse."
"Thanks, but really, I'm okay," I insisted.
"It's not a bother, darling. Let me help you. Please."
There was something comforting in her tone—something I hadn't heard in a long time. I nodded.