The morning arrived with a ray of sunlight that slipped through the window of Pariz's room, illuminating a space that seemed consumed by an internal storm. The gray room was messy; clothes scattered on the floor, used bandages everywhere, and an air heavy with the sharp smell of blood. But the smell didn't come from the dried bandages on the floor; it emanated from the bed where she lay.
Pariz, just a 15-year-old teenager, remained lying on a mattress scarred by her pain. Stained with blood and anguish, her bed was a witness to her darkest nights. A pillow soaked with tears bore the weight of her sorrows, and a pink blanket, which might have once symbolized something purer, was marked by handmade stitches—proof that it had been torn before. That blanket, shredded by time and helplessness, covered her with a fragile shield against reality.
The sunlight reached her face, slowly causing her to open her eyes. Her pupils, a deep brown, reflected an overwhelming sadness, a silent plea for help. With effort, she decided to get up and head to the bathroom.
In front of the mirror, the reflection staring back at her was raw. Her arms, thin and frail, were wrapped in bandages, hiding wounds that hurt deeply but never fully healed. Her body, however, contrasted with those scarred arms. It was a youthful body, seemingly healthy, radiating life and a desire to live that seemed buried beneath layers of sadness.
After a quick shower, she stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a green towel covering her body and a yellow one for her hair. The air in her room had cleared a bit, and the metallic smell of blood was now barely noticeable. Slowly, she moved to the drawer next to her bed, pulling out new bandages that, with the same precision as always, she wrapped around her arms.
She approached the wardrobe in the right corner of her room and chose her uniform: white socks that nearly reached her knees, black shoes carefully polished the day before, a black skirt, and a white button-up shirt. But what mattered most to her was her black sweater—light but long enough to cover much of her arms, offering a sense of protection.
Finally, Pariz left her room and headed to the kitchen, where her mother awaited. A young woman of 32 years, dressed in jeans and a black shirt, adorned with a red apron with yellow polka dots. But the most noticeable thing about her were her arms, full of bruises, and her face, which, despite trying to smile, also showed signs of pain.
Pariz observed her in silence, and a knot of helplessness tightened in her throat. She looked away toward the floor, unable to meet her gaze. Her mother, noticing her sadness, approached with a mix of concern and tenderness.
—What's wrong, dear? Are you sad? —she asked softly.
—No, Mom, I just had a bad dream, —Pariz replied in a curt tone.
—You shouldn't worry so much about those dreams; you're a very brave and strong girl, —her mother said lovingly, trying to comfort her.
—Thank you, Mom, you always know how to make me feel better, —she responded with a forced smile.
—While you eat breakfast, let me do your hair, —her mother said, trying to keep the mood positive.
Pariz looked at her plate: scrambled eggs with beans on the side, her favorite meal. She sat at the table, eating in silence while her mother gently combed her hair.
—There you go, sweetie. You look beautiful, —her mother said, smiling with genuine pride.
—Thank you, Mom. The food was delicious too, —Pariz replied in a neutral tone, without much enthusiasm.
—Now go on, My Fly High School is waiting for you, —her mother said, with a glimmer of hope in her voice.
—Goodbye, Mom. I... I love you so much, —said Pariz, forcing herself to smile.
—Goodbye, sweetie. Take care of yourself, —her mother replied, with a mix of joy and concern.
Pariz stood up from the chair, walked toward the door, and left for school. In her mind, words echoed that she never dared to say aloud.
"Mom, I don't want to be happy; I want you to understand me, but I don't understand myself," she thought as sadness enveloped her like a silent shadow.
She reached into the right pocket of her sweater and pulled out a small box of cigarettes. Placing one between her lips, she took a lighter from her left pocket and lit it. The smoke filled the air, momentarily dispelling the pain that suffocated her—or at least that's what she wanted to believe.
The air, tinged with a sense of sorrow, seemed to clear around and within her.
The streets, littered with garbage and overgrown grass left uncut for months, bore witness to a girl who, while yearning to live, was slowly taking her own life.
The sky, once blue, gradually darkened, as if the surroundings shared the same weight that Pariz carried inside. The darkness consumed everything visible, immersing her in a moment of total disconnection. Feeling nothing but the harmful smoke she inhaled.
Her steps moved automatically through the streets.
After a few minutes, the cigarette burned out. As if someone had flipped a switch, the world returned to what it was: scattered trash, disdainful looks, and concerned gazes from passersby. Yet no one dared to approach, to offer help. That image of suffering had become so common in that neighborhood that it was almost natural.
chapter 1 my life is over