Dahlia's POV
Sleep refused to come that night. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with too many thoughts to settle into rest.
With a heavy exhale, I traced my fingertips along the faded scar circling my wrist. The skin felt slightly raised, a permanent reminder etched into my flesh.
The dull ache meant nothing to me anymore. Growing up, getting hurt had been as routine as eating breakfast.
My mother's strict rule echoed in my memory - never fight back, no matter what they do to you. So I became everyone's favorite target, absorbing every cruel word and physical blow without resistance.
I would drag myself home covered in fresh bruises, and Grandma's face would crumple with fury the moment she saw me. She would march downstairs like a woman possessed, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Which little devil hurt my Dahlia this time? Next time I catch them, they won't be able to walk straight for weeks!"
