AMORA'S POV;

Mummy, please don't leave me alone!" I scream, my voice cracking as tears stream down my face, hot and uncontrollable. "How am I supposed to live without you?" My sobs break through the words, and the desperation in my voice feels like it's being torn from the depths of my soul. She smiles at me—so warmly, so gently—like she always has, her hands clasped together, the light catching the delicate curve of her fingers. Her favorite red nail polish is painted neatly on her nails, as if even in her final moments she clung to those little things that made her feel alive.

"When you get older, my Bambi, don't stay with your father. Go as far away as you can." Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, but each word lands like a heavy stone in my chest. My brows knit together in confusion, trying to understand why she would say something like that now, of all times. I wipe the snot from my nose with the back of my hand, my face reddened and puffy from crying. Her words leave me baffled, lost, as if the ground beneath me is shifting. "I wish I could spend more years with you, my love, but my body is tired." She exhales a long, heavy sigh, the weight of her exhaustion evident in her voice. "Always remember that I love you," she whispers, and those are the last words she speaks before the darkness pulls me away, wrenching me back to the waking world.

"Not again..." I groan, face-palming myself with a force that's just shy of painful. The sting is sharp, but it pales in comparison to the familiar ache in my heart. I shake it off, trying to push away the lingering emotions. But it's no use. I'm stuck in this unending nightmare, a loop that replays the last moments I shared with my mum over and over again, like a broken record that can't be fixed. It's been years since she passed, but her death clings to me like a shadow, haunting my every step. Every night, it's the same dream, the same agony, as if my mind can't let go of the pain, can't let go of her.

I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my worn-out sweater, the fabric rough against my skin. The chill of the morning air seeps through the thin material, reminding me of the harsh reality I've woken up to. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the hard, uncomfortable mattress beneath me—my nightly reminder that comfort is a luxury I can't afford. I make my bed quickly, the thin layer of cloth I use as a blanket barely enough to cover the battered mattress. It's a ritual, one of the few things I have control over in this life.

I head down the creaky wooden stairs to the kitchen, my feet moving on autopilot, knowing exactly what needs to be done. Breakfast. It's always the same—prepare it early, make sure it's ready before my father even thinks about waking up. The last thing I need is him slapping me senseless for being late. The memory of the last time he was angry with me is still fresh, a bruise that never really heals. He'd bashed my head through the wall because I served him spam instead of bacon. It wasn't even my fault; I wasn't the one who did the grocery shopping that day, but that didn't matter to him. The pain from that day is still etched in my brain like a permanent scar, a reminder of just how dangerous it is to disappoint him.

I should be used to it by now, the fear, the pain, the constant walking on eggshells. But no matter how many times it happens, it never gets easier. It hurts every time he hits me, like a fresh wound that never stops bleeding. But I tell myself it won't be like this forever. Just a few more months, Amora, I think to myself. A few more months, and I'll be eighteen. Then I can run away, leave this nightmare behind, and I won't even look back. The thought gives me a sliver of hope, a light at the end of this dark tunnel.

I hum a low, quiet tune to myself as I scramble the eggs, the sound a small comfort in the silence of the morning. I set the eggs on the plate, adding a few slices of bread and a carton of orange juice—always the same, always routine. I set the table, making sure everything is just the way he likes it. Then I quickly shove my own breakfast into my mouth, barely tasting the food as I chew mechanically. There's no time to savor anything. I have to clean the house before school, and I can't afford to be late.

I move through the house like a whirlwind, tidying up as quickly as I can. The house is two stories with an attic, and there's always something that needs to be done. Dusting, sweeping, straightening up the mess that my father and sister leave behind. It's exhausting, but it's better than facing their wrath. When I'm finally done, I hurry upstairs to take a quick shower, the cold water a sharp contrast to the warmth I crave. I dress in my usual clothes, the worn-out brown shoes looking a little better after I gave them a good wipe. They're old, but they're the best I've got.

I pack my homework into my bag, checking to make sure I've got everything I need for school. I can't afford to forget anything. As I head for the door, I remind myself that I need to leave before my stepsister does. If I don't, it won't be good. She's made it very clear how she feels about me, her words still ringing in my ears: "I don't want people to know we're related. If anyone at school finds out your scrawny little self is in my family tree, I'll kill you."

The memory of her wide nose wrinkling in disgust makes me shudder, and I hurry out the door, not wanting to risk running into her. With a deep breath, I set off for school, the weight of my reality pressing down on me, but that small spark of hope still flickering in my chest. One day, I'll escape this life. One day, I'll be free.