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It was supposed to be a celebration—my 8th birthday. But instead of joy, laughter, or cake, I was staring at my aunt's lifeless body on the floor, her blood painting a memory I could never erase. I kept whispering to myself, "This is a dream. Wake up." But the nightmare was real.
He had done it—her husband. The man I warned her about, the one she believed loved her. I had seen the bruises, the tears she tried to hide, the nights she cried herself to sleep while he drank and raged. Her smile had faded long before that night. Marriage had turned her prison, and love, her shackles.
As I held her, too small and too weak to lift her, I remembered her last words: "Do not hate men. They are not all the same. I just ended up with the wrong one."
Even in death, she chose hope. She chose forgiveness.
But I… I shattered.
He was asleep, like nothing had happened. The same hands that used to hold hers had turned violent, destructive. I walked to the kitchen, driven by pain I didn't understand, and picked up a knife. My small hands trembled, but my heart was already numb. I acted on instinct—rage, sorrow, justice, all blending into something unrecognizable.
In that moment, I changed. Not by choice, but by consequence….