(Elira's POV)
People say memory fades with time. I think that's complete bullshit. Some memories don't fade. They simply sit quietly inside you, waiting—like old scars that never fully heal.
I don't remember the exact moment my parents left me on the street. I was only a few months old, too small to understand the world and too small to know what abandonment meant. But according to the very reliable source known as the town gossip network, my parents simply abandoned me. Left me there like a broken toy nobody fucking wanted.
Nice, right?
At least that's what people say. But honestly, does it even matter now? Sixteen years have passed. Sixteen whole years of living in this world and learning exactly how "kind" it can be.
Apparently, a "kind couple" found me crying on the street and decided to adopt me. Ah yes… the Kind Couple. If you lived in this town, you would hear that phrase a lot.
"Oh, they're such a kind couple."
"So generous."
"Taking in that poor orphan girl."
The neighbors love saying that shit. Sometimes I wonder if they would still say those things if they spent just one day inside this house. Probably not. But people love stories that make them feel good about humanity, and my life apparently makes for a great fucking one.
So yes, the Kind Couple adopted me. Out of pity, of course.
I imagine the moment very clearly sometimes. Aunt Malry probably looked down at me with a dramatic sigh and said, "Oh dear, look at this miserable little child." Uncle Ron must have nodded wisely and replied, "How tragic." Then one of them probably had the brilliant idea: "Let's bring her home so she can be miserable there instead."
What a beautiful act of kindness.
Note the fucking sarcasm.
The funniest part is that they already had a baby. Their own daughter, Nila. She was only a few months old too. So imagine the situation: two babies in one house. Both girls. One was their precious daughter. The other was… me.
The neighbors loved it.
"Oh, how sweet! They adopted a child even though they already have one!"
"Such a kind couple!"
"Yes, yes. Very kind."
I should start charging people every time they say that phrase. It might finally earn me enough money to buy proper fucking food.
Because let me tell you something about kindness. Real kindness doesn't look like this shit. Real kindness doesn't put a baby in a storage room on the roof. Real kindness doesn't "forget" to feed a child because they're too busy with their real daughter. Real kindness doesn't listen to a child crying in the dark and simply close the goddamn door.
But maybe my expectations are too high.
As the years passed, the difference between me and Nila became clearer and clearer. She had toys while I had chores. She had birthdays and presents while I had responsibilities. She had parents who loved her, and I had… employers. Fucking slave drivers, more like it.
By the time I was old enough to hold a spoon properly, I was already helping in the kitchen. By the time I turned ten, I was basically running the entire house. Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, scrubbing floors, buying groceries—it all became my job.
If something broke, it was my fault. If the food burned, it was my fault. If the house looked messy, it was also my fault.
Punishment came easily in this house.
I still remember the first time I burned my hand while cooking. I must have been eight years old. The pan slipped, and hot oil splashed across my fingers. I cried, of course. I was a fucking child.
But Aunt Malry didn't rush over to help me. She didn't ask if I was okay. Instead she grabbed my arm tightly and shook it hard enough to make my teeth rattle.
"Look what you did!" she shouted.
"I—I'm sorry," I sobbed.
"Sorry doesn't fix a ruined pan!"
Then came the punishment. And just like that, I learned an important lesson. Pain didn't earn sympathy in this house. It earned more pain.
Over the years, I got used to it. Bruises, scratches, burns—they became normal parts of life. Just another Tuesday in paradise. By the time I turned thirteen, Uncle Ron had discovered a new hobby: using me as his personal punching bag whenever he had a bad day.
Which, unfortunately, was almost every fucking day.
So yes, technically I lived here. But if we're being honest, I wasn't their daughter. I was their maid. A maid who didn't get paid. A maid who received beatings instead of thank-yous. A maid who was supposed to be grateful for the privilege of being their slave.
But there was one thing they never managed to take from me.
School.
Not because they supported my education—don't get the wrong idea. They simply refused to pay for it.
"Education is expensive," Uncle Ron liked to say. "And useless."
But they never actually said the words you cannot study. That tiny loophole was enough for me. I studied harder than anyone else. Scholarships became my lifeline. Books became my escape. Every time I opened one, I could pretend the world was bigger than this shithole house.
Then there was skating.
My secret freedom.
I discovered it by accident when I found an old pair of skates in the trash near the market. The wheels were cracked and the laces were torn, but after fixing them a little, they worked.
The first time I pushed off the ground and rolled forward, it felt like fucking flying.
Since then, skating became my small rebellion. Sometimes I performed simple tricks near the harbor, and tourists would toss coins. It wasn't much money, but it was enough to save little by little.
Enough to dream.
Because if there's one thing about me, it's this: I was never meant to live in a cage. Some people are like house cats. Comfortable. Quiet. Happy living inside the same walls forever. But me? I'm more like a bird.
And birds were never meant to stay inside cages. They were meant to fly.
Which brings us to tonight—my sixteenth birthday. The night I finally escape this hellhole.
Everything is ready. My bag is packed. My money is hidden safely. My documents are ready. Even my skates are waiting by the door.
All I have to do now… is wait.
It's not like there was no chance to escape before. It's just that I wasn't old enough before to leave without a shelter. Not like I'm going to sleep on the streets now. I'll survive it somehow, and I know self-defense now. By fighting with school bullies—you know, every school has them. They bully the weak ones. But it was their biggest fucking mistake to think I was weak. Well, benefit of being like a bird. If I mean I don't like to be caged, then it means no one can bully me either.
I let Uncle Ron's family do that shit to me because I was still grateful that they at least gave me shelter when no one else would. And today, that gratefulness was going to vanish. Poof. Gone. Fuck gratitude.
I learned to fight back against the bullies at school. Against the thugs on the street who thought a teenage girl was easy prey. Turns out, I'm not. Turns out, when you've been beaten at home for years, you learn how to hit back. Hard.
I glance out the small window in my rooftop room. The sun is slowly lowering in the sky, painting the rooftops of the town in warm orange light. The streets look peaceful. Quiet. Almost too peaceful.
I lean back on the thin mattress and let out a long breath.
"Just a few more hours," I whisper to myself.
Outside, the wind moves softly across the rooftops. For a moment, something strange passes through the air—something I can't quite explain. A feeling like the world itself is holding its breath.
Waiting.
But I shake the thought away. It's probably just nerves. After all, tonight I'm finally leaving this cage.
And nothing in the world is going to fucking stop me.