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The amusement park was loud—too loud. Screams from the roller coasters, kids crying for more candy, Shelly squealing like every ride was the best thing in the world. Joy had her phone glued to her hand, dragging me into every photo like I was part of some perfect memory she'd post later.
So I smiled. Of course I smiled.
We did everything: cotton candy, Ferris wheel, bumper cars. I laughed when I was supposed to, screamed when I was supposed to. But it was all hollow. Every sound I made felt rehearsed, like I was playing Amara on stage while the real me sat somewhere deep inside, arms crossed, rolling her eyes.
Shelly tugged me toward another ride, but I shook my head. "I'll wait here. Bathroom."
"Fine, but don't run off," she said, pointing at me like a mom. Joy just grinned and promised fries.
The second they disappeared into the crowd, I sat on the nearest bench and let the noise drown me. The carousel spun in slow, dizzying circles nearby. For a moment, I wished I could be one of those kids—laughing for real, not pretending.
That's when my phone buzzed.
I pulled it out, expecting Shelly or Joy. But it wasn't them.
Unknown number.
> I love you very much. Don't forget that.
My breath hitched.
I looked around, scanning the crowd. Parents wrangling kids, teenagers clutching snacks, rides creaking and screaming. No one was staring at me. No one obvious. But I felt it—eyes. Heavy. Piercing.
Behind me.
I turned sharply.
A man in a hoodie and mask stood a few paces back, half-hidden by the carousel's shadows. His head tilted—just slightly, like he knew I'd noticed. Then, just as quick, he melted into the crowd, swallowed by the noise and color until he was gone.
"What th—?" The words slipped out, half under my breath.
Stalker?
I should've been scared. Should've run for Shelly and Joy, or at least pretended to care. But I didn't.
Instead, a laugh bubbled in my throat, sharp and reckless. Finally. Finally something worth my attention.
A grin spread across my face, wider and wider until it almost hurt. If anyone had looked at me right then, I probably would've seemed unhinged. Creepy. Hilarious.
Guess I'm not so bored anymore. Hehe
--
Slap!
The sound echoed louder than it should have, ringing in my ears like a bell underwater.
"How dare you! Child of a thorn in my side!" my stepmother screamed, her face twisted with a fury I didn't understand. All I had done was raise my voice at her son.
My cheek burned. My chest hurt more than my face.
I hadn't even done anything wrong. He punched me first — right in the face — and she had said nothing. Not a word. Not even a sharp breath.
Why didn't she see it?
Seven years old me stood there frozen in fear— hands pressed together at my side, trying to make sense of why adult would be so hard on children. Adults were supposed to be fair. Adults were supposed to know better. Right?
Is it because I'm not yours?
Her son hid behind her skirts now, peeking out with wide eyes that weren't afraid — they were satisfied.
Is it because I'm a threat?
The thought scared me. I didn't even fully know what it meant, only that it felt dangerous to think it.
I was the eldest. I was supposed to be the one protected. The one listened to.
But her hand didn't reach for me. Her voice didn't soften.
Instead, she pointed.
"Apologize."
The room seemed to stretch, the walls breathing in and out. My apology tasted like dust when it left my mouth, like something stolen from me.
This isn't fair.
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