The Scars We Don't See✓

Here

Sylva

Poised at the edge of the school roof, I was ready to jump off.

Minutes ago my classmates had witnessed the call from the principal confirming my worst fear. At first they thought I had gotten into some sort of trouble.

Little did they know.

I had no idea how the news of my sister's death spread like a wildfire. But soon the whole school looked at me with pity and sorrow, gone were their dark, judging gazes.

Because, of course it took a second of sympathy to change years of persecution, just because the object of your cruelty happened to be a victim of abuse.

Boys cry too.

And yes, I did cry.

I cried a lot, for the life my sister never got to live.

For my mom, who married a monster that made her take a life.

For me, who would be around to pick up the broken pieces of a woman finding out the hard way that in abusive relationships you either kill or be killed.

I couldn't bear the thought of walking into that mansion and seeing the walls tainted with my sister's lost life.

I'd much sooner walk off the edge of this building.

"Wait."

I turned around.

It took me a while to spot the skinny girl dressed in stockings and long sleeves, but then I eyed her curiously.

"They don't understand. But I do. Or at least I can try." She said, and then rolled up her sleeves.

On them I saw battles, lost battles. And their scars lingered on.

And then I broke down, showing her my wars.

And in that moment, I found someone who understood.

In that moment, it didn't matter that my sister was dead, or that my dad had killed her, or that my mom had killed my father.

Or that I was a broken boy sobbing on his knees, being held by a girl he had just met.

None of that mattered.

As strange as it was, amidst all the chaos, I seemed to have found my string of normalcy.