"Dad, stop," I whine and plead, as the pain condenses into a deluge of rain in my eyes. The long accumulated sadness and tears flow freer, my soul screams harder- I can't hold it together. I'm trying to find my anchor, yet the storm doesn't stop. Dad doesn't look at me, he's just storming out angrily.

"Dad," I whisper, "Please, Dad, look at me," I whine, as he'd look at me, and as if my whining would matter. He doesn't anyway. I didn't expect him to. Or was I?

Liar, you were.

Yes, I did lie to myself. I hoped he'd look at me, I WANTED HIM TO FEEL SOMETHING. But he doesn't. I tug on his coat harder, gripping it as tight as I can. I hope he'll wait, I hope that there'll be a slight halt, but he doesn't halt. He spins around, as if my hold wasn't hard to let go of. I hope he'll bend down and reassure me that everything's gonna be alright soon but he doesn't.

Nobody ever does. And I think it's better than everything.

Liar.

However hard I try to deny all of it, I'd like someone to at least, whisper sweet-nothings in my ears, make false promises so that I could bask in pretty lies, for once, at least assure myself that everything would be okay- but deep inside, I still know that nothing would ever be wrong.

"Please," I try once again, whispering, but he doesn't meet my eyes. As if I was never there, as if he can't hear me. And just like that, he doesn't spare me a single glance as he leaves. He shuts the door as loudly as he can, and I flinch hard at the sound that echoes around the house. From their bedroom, I hear the distinct sounds of my mom coughing. I crawl to their door, wiping my face and trying to steel my voice.

"Mama," I utter, and I hear the sobbing sounds halt for a moment before she resumes. I get up, standing on my knees as I rap sharply on the closed doors. My hands hurt, but I still slap the polished wood.

"Mama, open the door, I'm scared," I scream, my sobs choking my speech, yet she doesn't. I cry this time, louder, as I keep punching the doors in vain. They don't shake in the slightest, only leaving loud, unpleasant yet desperate sounds in their wake.

I sit down when I'm exhausted, gasping for breath, choking and coughing in between my tears. One must remove a bullet from a wound and one must let sadness come out, it hurts like hell because it is. But it hurts too much- I'd rather let the wounds and pain kill me from inside. I scream this time, trying again. I want mama by my side. I want water. I want my family. I want my parents to be civil. I want to be loved.

"GO AWAY, ACHELOIS!" She shouts from inside, her voice absent of emotion. "GO AWAY, ACHELOIS. GO AWAY NOW!"

I wince hard and start crying again. I don't want to be a crybaby, but it's killing me. "Ma-mama," I cry.

Suddenly, the door is no longer supporting my back and a breeze hits my clothes and touches my body through the sweat. I look up, and see mama, her face devoid of emotion and dry of the tears- the only proof of her hours-long crying being her swollen eyes and cheeks, rimmed with red. She bends down; for a second I think she's gonna hug me, but she doesn't. She tugs at my arm, making me stand.

She grips onto my wrist tightly, as she forcefully takes me up the stairs. I consider her actions with blatant disbelief, anxiety and heartache. "Mama," I whisper. Where's she taking me?

She opens the doors of my bedroom and shoves me inside. Her force is too much for my lanky body to balance- I fall on my knees.

The next thing I hear is the doors being shut loudly behind me and being locked from outside itself.

"MAMA!" I scream, crawling towards the doors as fast as I can, trying to open them, shaking the knob over and over, but it doesn't open. I hope mama waits and opens up, but the only thing I can hear before nothingness is her descending footsteps down the stairs.

The sadness drained through me rather than skating over my skin. It travelled through every cell to reach the ground.In the space that should be filled with their love - at my foundations, keeping my soul aloft - there is a void so black no light can penetrate. It is a wound that can never heal no matter how much salve is poured on.

I don't know when my screaming has died down; I am weary and tired. I want water, but there's none in my room. The doors are still locked. I feel it creeping around me, I feel it's descent on my mind.

I want my parents' arms around me, yet the only thing that'd hug me so passionately is darkness. It's dark, horrendous tendrils wrap around me, and I'm powerless. I try to fight it, even if I know that the results of this battle have already been decided- my losing is certain. Yet I can't help trying- I can't help hoping. In the space that should be filled with your love - at my foundations, keeping my soul aloft - there is a void so black no light can penetrate. It is a wound that can never heal no matter how much salve is poured on.

This adrenaline from fear is my invisible shackles, it is the poison in my veins and it is the whip in their hands. I want them to be dropping it- the darkness only closes in on me. Until the very last rays of sunshine are gone, hidden, and my body is no longer mine, but is just a helpless, vain boat at the hands of paranoia.

I've succumbed to the darkness. And it eats me, slowly-

Dark, too dark. Too black.

Help me. I try to call, but no words come out.

All the air has left my lungs. I want to breathe, but I'm choking. It's either my body that's not cooperating with me, or the lack of air in here. I want space, I want to breathe. I want to open my eyes, but the darkness is quickly cocooning me, eyes open or not doesn't make a difference anymore...I WANT TO BREATHE- I need to li-

JESUS.

I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, my knuckles white from gripping the duvet so hard.

It's not predictable anger or pain that's the worst, it's the "randoms," stuff you know is coming, just never when. The randoms work on the mind as a torture, elevating primal fear, decreasing logic and self-control.

It feels like a knife in the gut slowly twisted, fear is a constant hammer on the head. I don't want to be lonely, I just want- no, need a distraction. Every breath I take contains the remnant of the dread and the vicious nightmare

I grab the jug of water from the bedside unit and drink, yet I'm afraid it does little to quench my thirst and calm my fears. The tears won't roll down, and the screams won't escape past your quivering lips. The hallucinations would come, but they'd not allow you to react and let the steam go. They'd force the steam to keep burning you, staining you.

It's been a long time since the nightmares were so vivid; it was as if I was right there, suffocating like I had, exhausted to the brink of lifelessness. I grasp my throat gently, as if to feel that it is still intact. Pressing my palm to my forehead, I fall back softly onto the mattress, looking at the ceiling, at the blackness in it. I can't bear to look at it's darkness- it reminds me of the monsters. I turn my face, towards the lavender of the bedclothes, unable to close my eyes because I know what would greet me there.

I grab my phone from the bedside unit. It's 2:39 in the night- I debate whether I should text her now. She would be sleeping- not the best text one could wake up to. I decide to wait till morning- she'd be out for a walk- it'd be an appropriate time. But the consequences- I know however many sleeping pills I'll pop in, but sleep would be a distant dream.

At exactly four-thirty in the morning, I get up from my bed and start changing out of my nightclothes into casuals, without bothering to shower. I whip out my phone and text her.

I want to talk to you. It happened last night, again. Meet me at five at the Starbucks on the Rodeo Drive.

I look at myself in the mirror.

My eyes are rimmed with red, cheeks devoid of color, eyes swollen and the cloudy hue of my eyes faint and vague. I run a brush through my hair and leave it open. My figure is clad in an oversized brown sweater and faded blue skinny ripped jeans. Slipping some flats on, I consider the idea of powdering my face a little, but then decide against it. She's seen me at worse conditions, this one just being unique because it is the resume button on what was effectively suppressed. It is a big leak, a huge loss of control- something I can't overlook.

I jog all the way downstairs, because I know I can't handle the black, cool metal of the elevators. The guards raise their brows at me leaving at such an early hour, but I pay them little to no importance. I take the silver Aston Martin One-77, because the rest of my cars- that makes it two cars more- are black- both in and out.

I sit at one of the tables in the corner inside the coffee house, with a cafe americano, sipping slowly. I push it aside- I just can't shove it down my throat. Taking my head in my hands, I let go of the stress as tears fell drop by drop- sliding from my palms onto my arms. Pushing my hair back, I wipe my face once again, yet the tears won't stop. I let my hair back, like a curtain on the sides of my face, looking down at my coffee, but not quite drinking it. Tears slide down my face.

WHAT A MESS.

"Achelois."

I look up, and my heart falls into the depths of my stomach. My brain stutters for a moment and my eyes take in more light than I expected, every part of me goes on pause while my thoughts catch up.

WHAT THE FUCK.

My mouth falls open.

"Jesus."

****

A/N:-

Hello, Ducklings. This chapter was so difficult to write and choose, LMAO. Also, I'm hungry rn. I want to write a quick Author's Note, blow kisses to all of you and run along to make myself something. 

What is happening to our little Isa? Besides the obvious, of course? What is haunting her? BESIDES THE OBVIOUS OF COURSE.

Ninjas need to think beyond the box.
~Hatake Kakashi; Season 1, Naruto😎

Who's the mysterious woman she is going to meet?  And why is she shocked? I'm trying hard to leave you people at a cliffhanger, LOL. I'd like you all to make your guesses and comment down.

Also, QOTD- Do you like dystopian novels or utopian fiction? 🤔

I'll choose dystopian fiction. Divergent, Hunger Games, The Selection, Red Queen, The Elite and Scorch Trials are some of the best books slash series  I've ever read. Which one would be your favorite in your choice for the question of the day?

Also, Disha, aka me, would love it if y'all gave her some  constructive feedback, some love and some recognition (a little bit). A teeny, tiny bit. 

Vote, comment and share. Pretty please with cherries, rainbow sprinkles and chocolate chips on the top. A little more and I'd have turned you diabetic. Your poor lidle wannabe-writer would  faint with happiness if you did that.

Yours poor-lidle,
Disha🌝✨  (I'm a Selenophile. Therefore all the moon emojis.)