As was my habitual ordeal, I found myself thrust into the clutches of my

recurring nightmare at the break of dawn, my body soaked in perspiration,

and an overwhelming sense of terror gripping my every fiber. Comfort

remained an elusive ally in these moments, as she, with a whimsical twist of

cruelty, had silenced the air conditioning, convinced that a touch of

discomfort would be my morning companion. Little did she fathom that the

true harbinger of torment resided not in the absence of cool air but in her

very presence. The silver lining in this disconcerting ritual lay solely in the

arduous battle to return to the realm of sleep.

Yet, with night's grip reluctantly loosening, I found myself compelled to shift

my focus from the haunting depths of my subconscious to the vast expanse

above. The celestial canvas unveiled a spectacle, a daily spotlight traversing

the Marygale Centre square with deliberate grace. A beacon of significance

gracing the horizon, hinting at mysteries and narratives awaiting discovery.

However, the urgency of personal safety and the relentless demands of duty

conspired against the luxury of delving into such enigmas. The celestial dance

would have to remain a backdrop to the pressing matters at hand, relegated to

the periphery of a life bound by the mundane and the consequential. The

clock hands reluctantly reached 7:00, and I roused from my uneasy slumber. I

greeted the day by rubbing the sleep from my eyes and casting a gaze at the

bare expanse of the wall opposite me. The muffled symphony of frustration

wafted from downstairs, a familiar soundtrack to her perpetual discontent.

Her vexations were constant, but my indifference was unwavering. I rose

from the bed with a countenance as blank as the canvas of my existence, a

reflection of the void that echoed within.

Navigating the sterile landscape of my morning routine, I ambled towards the

bathroom, my expression a mere echo of the emptiness that reverberated in

my life. As the brush made its monotonous journey across my teeth and water

splashed over my face, the realization dawned that while the basics were

tended to, the currency of my life demanded more — a financial sustenance

that eluded me. Study materials and internet bills devoured my meager

earnings, and a recent stint in the hospital, courtesy of excruciating period

pain, had ravaged my already fragile funds.

The precarious edge of my savings seemed a hair's breadth from collapse, but

a silver lining graced the storm in the form of Mary. A beacon of kindness in

my life, she extended a helping hand when the coffers ran dry. Unfazed by the

bullying she endured, Mary carried out her duties with unwavering sincerity.

Lost in contemplation beneath the cascading shower droplets, I felt the

water's embrace when an abrupt pain seared through my mouth, jolting me

back to the present. A harsh slap from her the day before had left a mark, if

not on my skin, then in the recesses of my consciousness. The pain subsided

with time, and like the echoes of her hand against my cheek, it faded into the

background, a haunting refrain of a life lived on the periphery of pain.

Whenever his name dances into our conversations, it's like opening an old

tome of bitter rituals. She harbors a deep disdain for him. The mere mention

summons memories of a bygone era, of him tenderly bathing me in

innocence, expertly combing my hair, and choosing the attire that would be

my armor for the day. It's a dance with shadows, and as the recollections

flood my senses, tears form like a hesitant storm, only to be lost in the vast

sea of pain that engulfs me.

The more I dwell on those tender moments of the past, the more my chest

tightens with the weight of unspoken grief. In my hand, I clutch the necklace

he once gave me, a piece of him that has always rested close to my heart. A

talisman of both love and ache. It's a struggle to navigate the currents of these

emotions, each memory a sharp reef in the tempest of my feelings. Yet,

despite the pain, I find myself pushing forward, tethered to the past by an

invisible thread. The question lingers like a specter: do I truly have a choice in this relentless dance with memories?