Here's the grammar-corrected version of your story without altering the main narrative or its tone:
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When I was 11 years old, Zaman, my stepfather, broke two of my ribs by shoving me against the kitchen table during an argument about whether or not I could go on the school trip. That was the worst thing he had ever done to me, but it was still very far from the first bad thing. That, and my mother turning the other cheek while I, her son, gasped for air in front of her, made me realize I was the only one in this house who cared about me.
I was 3 years old when my biological father left my mom, and I haven't seen him since. I was 6 when Mom started dating Zaman. At first, he would just verbally abuse me, but as time went by and I got older, words soon turned to fists.
"Zuhan, Zuhan, ZUHAN!" shouted Mrs. Taslina.
Zuhan looked up and saw the horn-rimmed glasses that his English professor, Mrs. Taslina, wore. He had zoned out in class again. Not exactly the best day to sit in the front row.
I often zoned out, thinking about my life at times. It was one of the few ways I managed to get through the last few years. I looked out of the window and saw, for the last time, the view of trees with their leaves falling off. A part of me felt something that I hadn't felt in a long time while looking at them: hope. Maybe I would also grow new leaves and have a new beginning, just like them, soon.
The finals were a week away, and they gave us the week off for studying for the exams. As I left class and headed downstairs to leave, a sea of familiarity hit me. It was like walking down memory lane in a fever dream. Old friends, people who once told you they loved you, who you thought once cared. But oh well, one thing I've learned the hard way was that nothing ever stays the same way forever. Not even the ones that promise to stay the same.
I walked down Road E2 towards home, and as I walked, I soaked in the views of my hometown. Even though it was always bittersweet, I always did find small pockets of joy, like buying candy from the corner store—whenever I could steal some money from Zaman, that is.
I entered the house and was immediately greeted by the sound of Raad, my half-brother, silently crying while pushing his head into the fridge door. Another sound caught my ear. In the main bedroom, it seemed like Zaman and Rafia (my mom) were fighting again. God knows what it's about this time. My main guesses? Probably over him cheating or who gets how much for cocaine or alcohol.
I went into my room, shut the door, and just lay down there for a second. One week, I told myself, and then I will never see them again.
Just then, I heard a knock on my door. It was Raad. He looked at me, tears still flowing down his cheeks. "Zuhan bhaiya, can I please stay with you?"
"No."
These words used to feel heavy on my heart and tongue once. Now they just felt weightless. He looked up at me, face all sad and pale.
"Okay," he replied.
There was nothing I could do for him. Zaman had hated me from the beginning. It only got worse after Raad's birth. Zaman hated me being around Raad, and my mom saw nothing wrong with it. So here we are, I guess—a happy family.
After a few minutes, I heard a door click open and footsteps. Seems like their little battle finally made it to other parts of the house. They weren't shouting anymore, but the feeling that a ticking time bomb could go off at any moment was clear. Mom had bruises on her face. I can't tell at this point which ones were from Zaman and which ones she received after she passed out, either from a drug overdose or from drinking herself almost into the next life. It happens more times than I've bothered to count. Zaman's face, on the other hand, was so red I wouldn't call you retarded for thinking that it was a giant tomato on a scarecrow.
Oh well, nothing new. Their bickering went on and off throughout the week and carried on all the way to the start of my exams.
Exam season went by pretty fast, and I was surprised by how calm I was during the exams. During the breaks, I don't know why, but Mom seemed kinder towards me. Not kind, but small acts here and there. They didn't mean much anymore, so I ignored it. I didn't spend much time at home during breaks anyway, so it didn't bug me much. Most of my time was spent working at Mr. Zaraf's bakery. I had worked there part-time before, but with nothing better to do, I increased the number of shifts I did, which took up most of my time.
Although I don't have anything bad to say against this job, the feeling of wanting to dive under the counter does surface every now and then, whenever an ex-friend or girlfriend appears at the store. I will never get how they arrive in front of me so casually or why they pretend like we are still on the best of terms. How? And why do people do that? Other than that, the clock just ticks away as I pack up cakes, samosas, and whatnot until my shift ends.
Afterwards, I just either take the longest way home or run to the library and spend just enough time there to let me have hope that Zaman and Mom are tired of fighting and gone to sleep—or maybe they are both passed out drunk.
Just one more week, I thought. After that, I will be out of everyone's life forever. As I walked towards home from the library, as I entered through the door, I noticed something: little drops of blood forming a small pool. And in the corner of the kitchen was Raad, clutching one hand with the other as blood dripped out. A piece of broken glass from Zaman's bottles had cut his hand. Again, it was nothing new. It had all happened before. It was how things always were. I still don't know why I went over to him that night, why I pulled the glass out, or why I cleaned his wound. I just remember him having a half-smile through his tears as I cleaned his cut, and that moment disappearing when Zaman's fist came out of nowhere and struck me clean on the nose.
I have never been violent in my life, but that night was the first time I stood up to Zaman in over 10 years. My fist caught him just below the ear by luck, and luckily for me, he passed out. Well, so much for keeping my head low for one more week. I headed into my room and packed everything I thought I needed as quickly as I could. I didn't know where I was going to go, but one thing was for sure: my borrowed time in this house was up.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the muffled sounds of my mother stirring in the other room. The weight of everything—years of abuse, nights of suffocating silence, the bruises hidden under my sleeves—pressed down on me, but for the first time, I didn't feel helpless under it. I was leaving. I was getting out.
Raad was still sitting on the kitchen floor, his small frame curled up near the fridge, his wounded hand cradled against his chest. His tears had stopped, but his eyes were empty, resigned. I felt that same look staring back at me from the mirror for years.
I hesitated.
I had always told myself I was alone. That I needed to be alone. That there was nothing I could do for him. But now, standing in the doorway of my own escape, I wasn't sure if I believed that anymore.
I crouched down in front of him. "Raad," I whispered.
His eyes lifted slowly.
"I'm leaving."
He blinked at me. "Now?"
I nodded. He didn't ask where I was going, maybe because he knew I didn't have an answer.
There was a pause. For a brief moment, a thought came to my head: that I should take Raad with me. It felt very foreign in my mind. I had stopped giving to people long ago. After all, what was the point? I barely had anything of my own to begin with. All of a sudden, Raad looked at me. "Let me come with you."
"No," I replied.
I had rejected his company before, but this time, I didn't know why, but the words just felt so heavy on my throat and tongue.
Raad didn't reply, just kept staring down at his injured hand.
I turned away, stepping over the shattered glass, the blood, the memories of this place. My fingers curled around the doorknob. One breath. Then another. I twisted it open.
The night air hit me like a wave, cold and sharp against my skin.
I stepped out.
One step. Two. Then a third.
And then—
A voice from behind me.
"Where do you think you're going?"
I froze.
Zaman.
His voice was slurred, thick with alcohol, but I knew that tone too well. That dangerous, slow-burning anger simmering just beneath the surface.
I turned around just in time to see him staggering toward me, one hand pressed to his head where I had punched him. His eyes were wild, unfocused, but his fury was clear.
"You think you can just leave?" he hissed.
I didn't answer.
His fists clenched. I could see it coming before he even moved. I had seen it a thousand times before. But this time, I wasn't going to stand there and take it.
The moment he lunged, I ducked. His fist swung past me, throwing him off balance. He cursed, stumbling.
This was my chance.
I ran.
I didn't look back.
The streets were mostly empty, the distant glow of streetlights flickering against the pavement. My breath came in ragged gasps as I sprinted, my backpack slamming against my back with every step. I didn't stop running until my lungs burned, until the houses blurred together, until I was far enough that the only sound left was the wind in my ears.
Finally, I slowed, pressing a hand against my side as I gasped for air.
I had done it.
I had left.
But as I stood there in the middle of the quiet road, my body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline, the reality of my situation hit me.
I had nowhere to go.
No money, except for the little I had stolen from Zaman over the last few weeks and my savings from working at the bakery. No real plan, just a desperate need to get away.
The world suddenly felt too big. Too uncertain.
And for the first time since stepping out of that house, fear crept in.
What now?
Where did I go?
How long until they found me?
I clenched my fists, shoving the fear down. I didn't have the answers. Not yet.
But I knew one thing for sure.
I wasn't going back.
No matter what happened next, I was never going back.