Chapter 1 - The Porcelain Prison
The bathroom light flickered,
casting a sickly yellow glow over the white tiles,
which felt like ice against my bare feet.
I sat on the toilet,
huddled in a ball of misery,
while the distant sound of clinking silverware mocked my isolation.
Every time a fork hit a ceramic plate,
it felt like a needle pricking my nerves.
My mother’s voice on the phone had been cold,
devoid of any maternal warmth,
as if my sudden illness was an inconvenience to her social calendar.
I stared at the plastic bag,
the one containing my ruined dignity,
and felt a fresh wave of heat crawl up my neck.
The cramps were relentless,
coiling around my intestines like a heated wire,
pulling tighter every few seconds.
I looked at the bathroom fan,
whirring with a dull,
monotonous hum that failed to drown out the laughter from below.
Downstairs,
life was moving on without me.
My aunt was likely bragging about her new curtains,
or perhaps showing off a vintage bottle of Cabernet.
My brother,
the golden child,
would be telling a joke that made everyone roar.
I was just a ghost in the plumbing,
a secret tucked away behind a locked door.
My phone buzzed again,
a low vibration that felt like a cry for help.
Nine percent.
The battery was draining as fast as my hope.
I looked at the window,
but it was a small,
frosted pane,
high up near the ceiling,
letting in nothing but the dark,
uncaring night.
I thought about my flat,
only fifteen minutes away,
filled with clean clothes,
a warm bed,
and the privacy I so desperately craved.
But between me and that sanctuary stood a hallway,
a flight of stairs,
and a room full of judgmental relatives.
I pressed my forehead against my knees,
breathing in the scent of lemon-scented bleach and my own despair.
How had it come to this?
A simple family dinner,
meant to celebrate a birthday,
had turned into a survival trial.
I reached out to touch the sink,
the porcelain smooth and indifferent to my plight.
I counted the tiles on the floor,
trying to distract my brain from the pulsing pain in my gut.
One,
two,
three,
four.
There were forty-two tiles in total,
each one a tiny island in my sea of shame.
The door handle rattled suddenly,
making my heart leap into my throat.
"Occupied!" I managed to croak out,
my voice sounding thin and ragged.
"Hurry up,
Hannah," my brother’s voice drifted through the wood.
"You’re missing the chocolate torte,
and Dad is winning the argument."
He didn’t ask if I was okay.
He didn’t ask why I had been gone for hours.
To him,
I was just a delay,
a minor obstacle in his evening of fun.
I heard his footsteps retreat,
heavy and confident,
returning to the warmth of the light.
I was alone again,
May you like
clutching a handful of tissues,
waiting for a miracle that wasn't coming.
