Sweet as Syn

10: SYN-Nightmares

Maybe if I look at my textbook long enough, the information will just magically implant itself into my brain, I think to myself as I have a stare-down with the pages in front of me. Because right now, studying is not feasible.

Not during poker night.

Not when their harsh laughter and gruff grunts bellow out, ricochet down the hall and echo off my walls. Sound waves remain intact when they hit a smooth surface. Like concrete.

There's concrete all around me.

The walls, the floor, the ceiling.

My bedroom looks like an abandoned basement in a horror film. It feels like it, too.

Focusing is impossible. Except I don't have an option. It's do or die. Or in my case, study hard enough to get a full ride, or rot in this basement.

No food. No money. No love.

Cold. Alone. Hungry.

That's how I feel most of the time.

It's alright, though. I've gotten so accustomed to it, it's become normal. I can live with it.

Except there was a time when I did feel warm and loved and safe, and I've been holding onto those dull memories like a lifeline. Memories from years ago are the only thing keeping me from becoming a miserable, horrible human, like most would be if they were dealt the same cards. And they are what's pushing me to take the cards into my own hands.

But dreams of safety and warmth seem unattainable in this moment.

I want to march up the stairs and scream at them to shut up. I want to kick their butts out of the house and make sure they never come back. Or just kick their butts in general. I want to cry.

But I just sit, staring at my notes. In this household, I've learned the hard way that it's safer to stay quiet. Be invisible. I know better than to draw attention to myself.

The eerie creaking of my door pulls my attention from the textbook. Valentin's friends look just like him; anorexic, wrinkled, drunk and high. They all have the same look in their sunken eyes, too, like they're starving for crack and you're the one hiding it from them. It's truly terrifying.

So when the man stumbles into my room, I shield my eyes and hug my knees to my chest, curling my body into a ball. But my reaction isn't quick enough, and I catch a glimpse of him dropping his pants. I hug myself tighter and freeze when I hear the stream hitting concrete. I hold my breath when the stench of piss and body odor fills the room. The bathroom is the next door over, but he's too drunk to know or care.

I shut my eyes tight enough to see stars, then wish on them.

I wish I really could become invisible.

I wish he wouldn't notice me.

But he notices.

He always does.

"Valentin!" he calls out to my uncle. "I didn't know you had a pretty little whore hiding in here," he shouts with a daunting laugh.

My lungs burn, but I don't dare take a breath, not when I hear more footsteps approaching.

The metal folding chair under me trembles with my body as fear bleeds into my soul. They harass and heckle me, reach out and touch me until my world is consumed by horror.

They're laughing at me, like a terrified child hugging herself tight enough to break a bone is the most amusing thing they've ever seen.

I don't understand. How could people be so cruel? Did I do something to deserve this?