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That’s when my skin starts to itch. And I know that the solution is in Mom’s makeup bag. I spread a line if I get some time, and snort it until I can feel the burn in my nose. That’s when, the questions stop, the noise, the constant fucking banging I hear, the exhaustion… it all pulls back.

A quiet relief for a lifetime of loud violence.

It could kill me, I know. But the idea of dying numb always felt better than living hollow.

The roof is cold under my bare and bruised legs, and the sky hasn’t decided whether it was night or morning. Neither had I apparently. I stopped trying to sleep around three in the morning.

The nightmares always feel so vivid. Uninvited hands, violent words… that’s when I give up on closing my eyes and move out of bed. I usually climb out the window every night.

The stars are so clear here when it’s dark out, they look so close but so far away from me at the same time. It helps, because when I look at them, I remember how small I am.

How insignificant my soul is in this ocean of people and universe.

I like the stars.

I used to be really scared of the dark when I was younger, but Mom loved it. She said that even the stars needed the dark to shine brightly. I remember one night, after the shouting had finally ceased and the bleeding had finally stopped, she came into my room to comfort me.

I was crying a lot back then. I think little me just thought it was easier to let the tears flow than scream how painful it felt to live in this house.

She just smiled for the first time in so long and took a blank page and a pencil. The tiny square of paper felt strange at first, but then, she said I had to write down what I wanted at that moment, fold it into a star, and send it to the sky.

Make a wish, the stars will always answer...

It was supposed to keep me safe, so I still do it, I never stopped doing it.

A few hours ago, I folded a paper star and wrote a word inside, “Safe.” I whispered it quietly for a few seconds and tossed it over the rooftop.

Silly, but it works. It makes my chest loosen up enough for me to breathe, like the anxiety just evaporates for a small instant.

Standing here now, on the edge of the world, I watch the stars fade as morning comes. For a little while, I feel like I’m allowed to be alone and be normal, even just for a moment, without all the noise pressing in.

This city is strange, the air in Seraphin Bay always smells wet and clean, it feels like nostalgia and secrets all at once. I can see the ocean from here, the families in the neighborhood waking up. I can even see my best friend’s house.

I draw a shaky breath and let it out slowly, and the smoke curls from the cigarette between my fingers. It’s pathetic in a way, standing on this roof with the sky opening before me, trying to feel awake, trying to feel alive, puffing smoke like it can fill the cracks in my chest.

The first golden and orange rays scrape across the tiles, and for a heartbeat, the cold in my bones feels warm.

I can just breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out

Fresh air tastes like freedom, even if it doesn’t last forever, let alone the entire day. But that’s how I start my days before going to work. I sit with my sketchbook balanced on my knees, pencil between my thighs, and music in my ears.

The same playlist I’ve had since I was sixteen.

Drawing helps me when I feel like this too. Sometimes it’s my little brother I draw, my favorite flowers, or what I think my mom looked like, and sometimes it’s just shapes that look like him. Dark lines, shapes that try to hold the fear he leaves behind. Most of the time, I hate the drawing before I finish it and tear it out, because nothing can make sense of him.

A window creaks open below me and my stomach knots before I even look down. Dad is awake. Always the same scrape of metal against the frame, and the same knot is my stomach aching with anxiety.

I flick the cigarette stub off the edge, crouch, and crawl back into my room, putting some perfume and popping a piece of gum to cover the cigarette smell as I hide the makeup bag away.

I know Dad would be pissed if there wasn’t anything on the table when he went downstairs.

Years of fear and punches had taught me to move quickly, to never be late for anything he demanded. I still hate mornings like this, because that fear never really leaves you even when you grow up.

My brother is still half asleep when I open his door. I smile at the dinosaur blanket spread across his bed and lower myself to wake him up. “Hey, firefly, time to get up,” I say, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Five more minutes, please sissy,” he mumbles, hugging his pillow. Milo has Mom’s eyes.