You ran up the stairs as fast as you could without tripping, trepidation engulfing your whole body as you fought off the tears.

A hand wrapped around your ankle, pulling you down and making you hit your chin on the wooden board.

You closed your eyes involuntarily as an impact, a metallic taste in your mouth as you had accidentally bit down on your tongue.

Just a few more steps. You'll make it to your room.

You scrambled up again, running to the door and closing it with more force than you intended to.

It became hard to breathe once you registered what you had done, unable to fight the sobs anymore as the door slammed open again.

You didn't mean to close it that hard.

Aware of the familiar stinging pain on your cheek, your body fell to the floor, not even able to react to it as you were struck another time.

You knew not to resist. The last time you tried, you ended up with a broken arm.

"Why did you shut the door? Do you think you earned that money?" You kept your eyes closed at that voice, feeling a kick to your stomach.

"I'm sorry," you said desperately, anything to stop this.

You'd have liked to think that after all these years, you were used to it. No, it only got worse every day.

You whimpered, feeling the harsh grip on your hair. "Ma, please-" you stopped when she hit your mouth.

"Stop crying! Do you want the neighbors to know how ashamed I am to have a daughter like you," she pulled at your hair harder and you covered your mouth with both your hands.

But even when you made no noise, she made sure to tell you off and you only wished it would end sooner.

She pushed everything off the desk in your room, getting hold of your sketchbook and looking at it with bitter eyes.

"How many times have I told you to stop wasting your time," she seethed. "Bury those dreams. You aren't that lucky."

She opened the book and started ripping the pages off and you tried to reach out for her hand to prevent it.

That only succeeded in angering her even more. But you still managed to make her drop your sketchbook.

Her palm hit your cheek again and felt your head hit the floor, causing a throbbing pain.

You closed your eyes tightly as she continued, curling into a ball near the leg of your creaking bed.

Your nails dug into your palms as you held them close to your chest, drawing out blood, similar to the cut that has now formed on the corner of your lips.

Then she stopped and you felt the thud as she slumped down to the floor.

She started crying and that scared you even more.

"Why does god test me like this," she placed a hand on her chest as tears made way out of her eyes. "What did I do to deserve a curse like you."

You didn't open your eyes.

Your hands moved to cover your ears in a desperate attempt to block out your mother's voice.

She wailed like she had lost everything in life, and when she finally stopped, she looked down at your shaking form.

Her breathing became uneven and you felt her hit you again. The sound rang in your ears long after she left, slamming the door shut.

You opened your eyes. She's gone.

Slowly, you crawled back under your bed, lying in the darkness without making any noise for a long time.

You didn't keep track of how long you stayed there, hugging your knees to your chest.

When it felt cold, you fell asleep. Because it's the only time you didn't feel the burning pain of the hits as much.

You woke up again when it was nearly 1 am.

Just as slowly as you crawled under the bed, you moved out, feeling dizzy when you raised your head and sat up.

You touched the dried blood on your lips before looking at the torn up pages on the floor.

Leaning over, you collected them carefully and grabbed your sketchbook along with a tape from the draw under your desk.

You pieced everything together, taping them back to the book before you flipped through the old pages.

All your sketchbooks were given as mandatory school supplies.

It was for the fees you paid after all. You guess that's why your mother was so upset about it.

She often complained about how much money she had to waste on you.

Finished with mending your sketchbook, you stood up despite the lightheadedness and placed it back on the desk.

You turned off the light in the room before making your way out so that no one was awakened by the illuminated space.

Walking down the stairs silently was an easy task. Over the last two decades, you've learnt to be sneaky.

Your breath almost hitched as you found your uncle on the living room couch, while the television played the 1982 film Annie in the background.

He works as a bartender in Singapore and visited three months once, while providing for you and your mother, his sister, the only family he had.

His love for films of any language was something that rubbed off on you too. Maybe it's because you could watch only what they wanted for themselves.

You took another step forward and looked at your uncle.

He was sitting on the couch, but passed out. It was evident from the empty bottle of booze on the small coffee table in front of the couch.

The television screen lit up only the living room. The rest of the house was dark.

Seeing it safe to move, you walked to the kitchen, having memorized exactly where each furniture would be.

This was not your first time sneaking around the house at nighttime. Mostly because you were hungry.

The last thing you ate was breakfast.

There was nothing you could find on the kitchen counter so you walked to the fridge and opened it slowly. No food in there either.

At least there were ice cubes.

Anything to stop your stomach from hurting. Though you weren't sure if it was the hunger or your mother's kick.

Whatever it was, you'll find out tomorrow if you woke up with another bruise or swelling.

You chewed on a few ice cubes as you took silent steps towards the door that was at the back of the house.

It was the door to the rusted metal staircase that led to the rooftop.

Once you made your way up the stairs, you could finally breathe easily.

No one cared enough to come up here. They decided you didn't deserve that much effort.

If anything, you'll get what you really deserve, according to them, when you come downstairs again. It didn't hurt much if you were prepared.

The cold breeze blew against your face and you sat in the middle of the rooftop with your legs crossed.

You looked up at the stars like you did almost every night, trying to make out weird patterns only you knew.

There was the pole star, a swan, a frog, something like Baymax from Big Hero 6, and other things you just imagined.

It was silent. Every house except yours on the street would be silent everyday.

The neighbors and other family members didn't care as long as nothing disturbed them.

And you knew not to expect anything from anyone else.

When you were ten, you could understand to some degree that your daily life wasn't a common occurrence in other households.

But when you did find the courage to open up to your class teacher, it was waved off as you making a scene out of a tiny smack.

After that, you never spoke a word about it to anyone.

Today, your mother's outburst came after a neighbor told her they saw you in a restaurant.

You were eating in a restaurant by yourself and the fork slipped out of your hands and dropped loudly on the floor.

Adding to that, you tried getting the prawn out of the skewer with the barbeque fork.

But it wouldn't budge and you ended up knocking at the glass plates, after which the prawn you worked hard to get out also fell to the floor.

You had kept glancing at the seafood on the floor ceremoniously for the rest of your meal, lips pursed in a thin line as you wondered why you were the way you were.

They must've noticed you at that sound of the plates.

You were looking for a new job that day. You lost your old one at the convenience store when it shut down last month.

It felt like a crime when you walked into that restaurant. But why not one little thing for yourself, from the little money you saved?

Honestly, your mother was happy that there was more income in the house. Not happy for you.

But when you lost the job, she was very disappointed.

She paid for food, clothes, school, a degree that held no value. And still she got nothing in return.

To her, you were an asset. Otherwise, she'd have left you to live on the streets long back.

This was clear from the first day you can remember.

You didn't know if all this was because your father died three months before your birth. Relatives said that he was like anyone else. A decent job, own house, normal life until a car accident took him away.

Or if this was just your mother.

In the end, it all came down to your life.

When you heard the plane, you stood up from your spot.

Dusting your clothes as you stood up, you stared off at a distance, hearing the engines.

For some time, your eyes followed the tail of the plane.

There were more buildings constructed over the past years, hindering a clearer view you once had.

But you still managed to find a way to follow the path of the airport runway.

You just stared at the plane as it took off and disappeared into the sky, making you smile.

Moments like this is what you lived for.

Watching flights take off was something you did since you learnt to walk up the staircase.

At one point, you even started to maintain a book, noting down all the timings when you could hear a plane.

You started it when you were around eight or nine maybe. But nearing the end of school, when your mother figured out that this handbook was making you happy and distracting you, she threw it away.

Your sketchbooks and watching flights take off was the only happiness you had now.

No, not just happiness. It was your means of comfort. A distraction from everything.

You laid on your back, back to looking at the sky, at the stars that twinkled.

How would it feel to be a star?

You thought the same thing everyday as you laid on the concrete.

But stars do not actually twinkle, as you've learnt in high school. They appear twinkly because of the movement of the atmospheric layers with varying refractive indices.

Do dead people become stars?

You thought about it too, still gazing at the night sky and feeling your throat tighten before you ignored it.

Maybe that's one good reason. To become a star, you could leave.

But you held on to some invisible thread, though you weren't sure why.

You fantasized about an invisible red thread around your finger, twisted, knotted, but never broken.

The red string of fate. Connected to the one destined to meet you in a certain situation. Your one true love.

Wouldn't it be nice to have a prince in your life too, sweep you off your feet and take you to your happily ever after?

All that happened only in fairytales, you told yourself every single time.

Reality was much, much bitter.

So you often thought about becoming a star.

If someone asked you what your dream destination was, that's what you'd say.

It'd also be your answer to many things. But there's only one question you ask yourself often.

When things get heavy. When everything feels overwhelming and there's a tight feeling in your chest.

When there's no one to wipe your tears away or ask if you're okay. When you are abandoned once again and there's no shoulder for you to cry on.

When there's no place to give you the comfort you need and you're once again proved not to get too comfortable, it never lasts.

'Where do you want to go?'

And only you know the answer.