Dawn arrived, and with it, a ray of light slipped through a small gap in the curtain, illuminating a dark room. The disorder was evident: clothes scattered haphazardly, used bandages piled in a corner, and a heavy air filled with a strong, metallic scent of blood.

It wasn't the bandages that permeated the environment; the smell came from the only bed where a young girl named Pariz rested.

The ray of dawn touched her face gently, making her stir slightly. Slowly, she opened her eyes, swollen and tinged with a reddish hue. With a sigh, she pushed the blanket aside, revealing her thin body, her forearms wrapped in white bandages, and a dark stain on the pink blanket.

She sat on the edge of the bed, silently staring at the room for a moment. Stretching her back, releasing the tension, she stood up and walked toward the bathroom, located just in front of her room. When she turned on the light, the foggy mirror reflected an image. Her body, though thin, was healthy. But her forearms showed a stark contrast.

Carefully, she began peeling off the bandages. They were stuck to her skin by the dried blood, and each tug left her trembling, clenching her jaw, while she gasped. Eventually, she managed to remove them, though small pieces of her own flesh came off with them. A tear rolled down her face. Swallowing a gulp of her own saliva, she wiped her face. She was used to this. Without looking at the wounds, she stepped into the shower and let the warm water fall over her body, giving her a brief respite. The sting was strong, but she made no noise. She simply pressed her lips together and continued until the end.

After finishing her shower, she wrapped herself in two soft towels, ready to return to her room.

Back in her room, she approached the small drawer beside her bed and pulled out a fresh roll of bandages. With trembling hands, she started wrapping them again, hiding them from herself. When she finished, she let out a sigh, as if this simple act had returned a little peace to her.

She looked to the left side of her room, took a few steps, and opened the closet.

The weekend had already ended, and her uniform had been waiting for a couple of days.

She pulled out a white shirt, buttoning it up one by one, adjusted the sleeves, and continued with her black skirt, which came down almost to her knees. She continued pulling out a pair of white socks and black dress shoes, remembering how she had kicked them yesterday before leaving.

Before completing the outfit, she pulled out a black jacket from her closet. It was light, but its length helped protect her, allowing her to hide what she didn't like.

From the kitchen, her mother's voice echoed:

—Pariz, come downstairs for breakfast!

—Yes, Mom, I'm coming!

Before opening the door, she glanced at a small mirror. Her deep brown eyes were marked with faint dark circles, which she covered with some makeup. Before leaving, she finished putting on a silver chain around her neck. With the uniform fitting snugly and the jacket zipper half open, she descended the stairs. A small feeling lodged in her chest. A smile had formed. She walked toward the kitchen, and as she crossed the door, her small smile faded.

Her mother, barely 31 years old, was in the kitchen. Her face and body were marked by bruises, dark spots that contrasted with her skin. Despite the pain she must have been feeling, she turned to Pariz with a smile, one that she struggled to maintain as if trying to tell her that everything was okay.

Pariz, unable to look her mother in the eyes, sat at the table in silence.

Her mother noticed the sadness on her face and, putting aside her own suffering, approached her daughter.

—What's wrong, honey? —she asked, placing a steaming plate of food in front of her.

Pariz's jaw tensed, her chin marking her frustration.

—No... nothing, Mom. I just had a bad dream.

Her mother knelt beside her and gently stroked her head.

—You shouldn't be upset over a dream. You're a very strong girl, and you should always be happy, with a smile.

Slowly, Pariz lifted her gaze, showing a bright smile.

—Yes, Mom, you're right. —However, in her mind, the words were different: "I just have to be happy, Mom wants that. To be a strong and happy girl."

Her breath hitched. And an intense itch began to invade one of her forearms, forcing her to look at them. Her right hand, almost automatically, started moving toward her left arm, pushing aside the bandage that covered it.

But before she could continue, she felt a tug pulling her hair. It was her mother, who had grabbed a brush. With slow and delicate movements, she began to comb her hair.

—Have you ever thought about letting it grow? —she asked softly—. Short looks good on you, but long would make you look like a princess.

Pariz fell silent, pulling her right arm away. She picked up a glass of water and took a large gulp.

—Maybe... I don't know.

The food, which at first had seemed bland, began to taste different. Each bite now carried a comforting warmth that didn't come from the plate but from the gesture.

—Mmm, you cook so well, Mom. Have you ever thought about being a chef?

—Haha. I don't think so, but thanks, honey.

That small action allowed her to stop acting for a moment. When she finished eating, she stood up and, without thinking too much, hugged her mother tightly.

—What's wrong with you now?

—Nothing, Mom. I just wanted to hug you.

Before her mother could respond, Pariz grabbed her backpack, and before leaving, she heard:

—Pariz, where are you going without saying goodbye to Dad? —said a figure sitting on the couch, engulfed in flames.

Pariz turned to look at him, and his head was that of a smiling demon with giant horns.

—You're leaving for school and still haven't said goodbye to me. Come here, give me a hug.

The obese figure of the demon stood up from the couch, extending its arms.

Pariz's eyes lifted, swallowing all the saliva in her mouth, freezing. And before she could move any muscles, that demon wrapped her in its arms.

Her body tried not to tremble. Her nose, being so close to him, detected a smell that always irritated her: alcohol.

She waited patiently for the hug to end, slowly pulling away from him.

She slowly opened the door, stepped out of her house, and closed the door.

She barely managed to close the door before feeling a violent itch that demanded to be satisfied, it demanded.

She walked a few meters, leaving the house behind, before stopping at the corner. She pulled a small pack of cigarettes from her backpack, took one with two fingers, put it in her mouth, and lit it with a lighter.

The words she had never been able to say formed in her mind: "I don't want to be happy. I want you to understand me, but I can't even understand myself. I only know that it's better not to feel than to feel what I feel."

The smoke from the cigarette mixed with the cold morning air as Pariz walked toward school. Filling her lungs until her chest swelled. She exhaled with a small cough, a tear slipping down her face. Slowly, she whispered to herself, —This is the only thing that helps me, right? — trying to convince herself it was the right thing.

Her eyes began to blur. The smoke spread like a thick fog, covering every corner and extinguishing everything around her. A deep darkness enveloped her, disconnecting her from reality. The thoughts and emotions, both negative and positive, vanished, leaving her trapped in an empty limbo. Only the fleeting pleasure of the toxic smoke entering and leaving her lungs, again and again, until the cigarette burned out. As the smoke dissipated, only her gasps remained.

The fog cleared, revealing the daylight and the faces of the passersby. Their gazes seemed to judge her, but also reflected a vague concern. However, no one approached to lend a hand. That image of self-destruction was so common in her neighborhood that it seemed almost natural.

She continued her way, crossing a stone bridge. On the other side, the environment changed dramatically. The sense of security was palpable, but with it came a subtle pressure. The streets were impeccably paved, and the grass, cut with precision, exhaled a fresh scent.

After a few minutes of walking along the concrete paths, she arrived at the gates of My Fly High School. The imposing white and gray-blue walls sparked a nostalgia in Pariz that nearly pulled her into her thoughts. However, the entrance bell rang like an alarm, reminding her she was late.