---------------------------------------------------------- THREE YEARS LATER ---------------------------------------------------------
I was thirteen now, no longer the fragile girl who had clung to her parents' words like a lifeline. In some ways, I should have felt stronger. I should have been ready to face the world on my own. But the house I had moved into as a child still held me in its shadow, its walls heavy with memories I could never shake.
My uncle had convinced me—or rather, allowed me to believe—that leaving school entirely was the best choice. "You're different, Stella," he said. "You don't belong in that world. You belong here, with people who understand you." My aunt had nodded in agreement, her voice sharp with disdain for the education I once held dear. "Books won't feed you," she said. "Knowledge won't put bread on the table. You'll learn the hard way, whether you like it or not."
It had begun subtly at first. The little touches, the comments that seemed innocent but carried a weight I could not ignore. I tried to laugh them off, to remind myself that I was overthinking, that perhaps grief and years of fear had twisted my perceptions. But his words lingered in my mind, sultry and commanding, and I began to feel a cold dread settle inside me.
"You're beautiful," he said one evening, his eyes lingering on me in a way that made my skin crawl. "Do you know what power that beauty gives you?"
I didn't answer. I wanted to disappear. My body, my mind, everything about me screamed to escape. But where could I go? This house, once my uncle's sanctuary, had become a prison.
I started planning. Quietly, methodically, I thought about leaving, about running into the night and never returning. But every time I tried to imagine it, a wave of fear pulled me back. The streets outside seemed dangerous, the world uncertain. And yet, staying meant something equally unbearable. Staying meant losing myself entirely.
The nights were the worst. Sleep refused me, and when it came, it brought visions I could not control—memories of my parents, the hollow ache of abandonment, and the subtle, invasive touch of someone I was supposed to trust. I would wake in tears, heart pounding, and stare at the walls of my room, willing the shadows to recede.
One night, I caught my reflection in the mirror across my room. My eyes were hollow, my skin pale, my hands trembling slightly. I remembered something my mother had told me when I was six. Her voice, gentle yet firm, echoed in my mind:
"You are a treasure, Stella. And some people take treasures and burn them. Once something is burned, it can never be the same. Guard yourself, my child."
I had thought I understood it then, thought I could avoid the dangers of the world. But now, standing in front of that mirror, I realized how little I had been prepared. I was burning. The warmth of innocence and trust that had survived childhood was now scorched, leaving me raw and fragile.
Days merged into nights, each one indistinguishable from the last. My work at home became mechanical—cooking, cleaning, answering to demands that no longer felt like requests. My mind drifted, wandering to possibilities of escape, to streets unknown, to freedom. But the reality was always the same: I was trapped in a house where the people who had taken me in were also the ones who controlled me.
Then came the night that broke me completely. I had hoped, in some foolish way, that it wouldn't happen, that the tension could remain unspoken, restrained. But fear and desire collided, and I realized that nothing would remain restrained. The encounter was abrupt, overwhelming. I was left with nothing but the raw, shattering truth of what had been taken from me—not just control over my body, but the fragile sense of dignity and trust I had clung to.
My uncle came into my room whilst I was sleeping, tied my mouth so fast I couldn't comprehend. He then whispered these words into my ears "you're mine and no-one can change that". And that was when it recalled everything my uncle ever told me from the ddaymy parents died and I realized what they all meant.
I stumbled to the mirror afterward, my body trembling, my chest aching with grief and humiliation. Blood stained my skin, a cruel reminder of my vulnerability, and I felt as if every piece of me had been shattered. The words my mother had said so long ago returned to me, sharper now: treasures burned cannot be made whole again.
Tears fell freely as I sank to the floor, the weight of despair pressing down on me. I wept not just for what had happened that night, but for everything I had lost: my innocence, my faith in trust, my belief that people who were supposed to protect me could keep me safe. I thought of my parents, of their voices telling me to be strong, to be honest, to believe in goodness—and I realized how cruelly the world had mocked those lessons.
I stayed on the floor for hours, staring at my reflection, feeling the raw emptiness inside me. My mind replayed every word, every look, every touch that had led me here, and I wondered if I would ever be able to feel safe again. The mirror no longer reflected a person I recognized. It reflected someone broken, someone whose sense of self had been stripped away.
And yet, beneath the anguish, a tiny ember of defiance remained. I did not know how or when it would grow, but I clung to it. Even in that moment of utter devastation, I resolved, silently, that I would not allow this to define me forever. I would survive. I would find a way out of this house, out of this darkness, and reclaim some piece of myself.
But for now, I was burned. My treasure, as my mother had warned, had been scorched. And all I could do was mourn what I had lost and try, in the small ways I could, to hold on to what little remained.