Mary sat alone in her room, staring at the faint scars on her wrist. The memories she had tried so hard to bury clawed their way back to the surface, leaving her breathless with guilt.
It had been a quiet afternoon years ago when it happened. She and Mark had been playing in the living room, their laughter echoing through the house. The smell of freshly cooked stew wafted from the kitchen, making Mark glance toward it longingly.
Mary,he whispered, his voice tinged with excitement and mischief. Do you think Mum will notice if I take one piece of meat?
Mary grinned, her own curiosity piqued. She won't notice. Just be quick. I will keep watch for you.
Mark hesitated, glancing nervously toward the kitchen. Are you sure?
Of course! Go! Mary urged, feeling a surge of excitement from their little secret plan.
Mark tiptoed into the kitchen, his small hands trembling as he lifted the lid off the pot. Mary stood by the doorway, keeping an eye out for their mother. She felt a rush of pride when Mark successfully grabbed a piece of meat.
But their triumph was short-lived. The sound of their mother's footsteps echoed in the hallway. Mary panicked and quickly whispered, Hide it! Hide it!
Before Mark could react, Mrs. Emily appeared, her sharp gaze immediately zeroing in on the guilty look on Mark's face. Mark! What are you doing? she demanded, her voice firm and unyielding.
Mark stammered, his tiny hands clutching the evidence. I just wanted….
What did I say about taking food without permission? Their mother's voice rose, her disappointment cutting through the air.
Mary froze, fear tightening her throat. She could have spoken up, could have admitted it was her idea, but the words refused to come out. Instead, she stood there silently as her mother scolded Mark and sent him to his room without dinner.
That night, Mary lay awake, listening to Mark's muffled sobs. Her chest ached with guilt. She had promised to protect him, but she had failed. The thought of his pain consumed her. She couldn't bear the weight of it.
In the darkness of her room, she picked up a small pin from her desk. Her hand trembled as she pressed it against her skin. The sharp sting brought a fleeting sense of relief, a distraction from the guilt gnawing at her insides.
That was the first time she started using a pin on herself, It became her secret ritual. Each time guilt or pain overwhelmed her, she sought solace in the sting of the pin. It was her way of punishing herself, of atoning for her failure to protect her brother.
As the memory faded, Mary's tears flowed freely. She hugged her knees to her chest, wishing she could go back and fix it all. But the past was unchangeable, and the scars on her skin were a constant reminder of her guilt and pain.