GOLDEN SPIRAL: THE CODE OF WOUNDS

I couldn't sleep at night.
While every other child waited for morning, I feared how long the night would last.
Because night meant one thing: my father would change.
No matter the hour, the moment the bottle was opened, the air in the house would shift.
Even the walls felt like they were closing in.
His words would grow rougher, his eyes blurrier—
yet with a constant arrogance, he always believed he was right as he turned to me.
As if I weren't a child...
As if I weren't a person with a place in his life.
To him, I was just a shadow that was supposed to be there.

Every morning, I had to go to the workshop with him.
My eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, my body worn out.
I'd stand for hours surrounded by hot metal, sharp noises, and the heavy scent of oil.
Sometimes, I couldn't take it anymore.
I'd curl up in the car and fall asleep there.
That brief moment of quiet felt like the only piece of peace that belonged to me.
But even that was too much for him.

He'd slam the door when he saw me.
"Sleeping again? That's why you'll never amount to anything," he'd say.
Sometimes his words seemed soft, but they were always laced with ridicule, with contempt.
It felt like he wasn't talking to me,
but to the disappointment he'd projected onto me.
With every word, it was as if he were saying, "You're something to be ashamed of."
And in those eyes, I was disappearing.

But at night... he became something else entirely.
Another man.
Sometimes drunk and laughing, other times crying.
But most often—blaming.
Me. My mother. Life. His youth.
Anyone he could.
Mostly me.
Even if he never said, "It's your fault I'm like this,"
his eyes said it for him.

And I would wait.
For what, for whom, for why—I didn't know.
It felt like everything revolved around him,
and I was just a satellite bound to his orbit.
I wasn't a child.
But I wasn't a person either.
I had become a reflection of his anger. Nothing more.

Every night, I'd silently count by my bed:
"One... two... three... now he comes."
When the door creaked, I'd shut my eyes tight, pretending to be asleep.
But it never worked.
The sounds from beyond that door didn't touch my body,
but they always pierced my soul.
Each word wore me down.
Each noise tore me further from myself.

There had to be an end to this.
But I didn't know where, or how.
There was a deep exhaustion in me—
and it wasn't just a child's anger anymore.
It was the slow decay of every hopeful sentence a young person dares to dream.

Each morning, the first thing I thought wasn't, "What will today bring?"
It was, "Where can I escape today?"
And the only place I could run to was school.
It wasn't a classroom to me—it was a refuge.
But my father could never understand that.
"Your grades are already bad," he'd say.
"You won't amount to anything there either."
He wanted to pull me out of school.
But that was where I was surviving.
Where I could breathe.
Unlike home, where I was invisible—
there, I existed.
Maybe I didn't speak much, but I was heard.
Someone called my name, at least.
And even that felt like too much to ask for.

Sometimes he'd stumble into my room drunk and say,
"Quit school. Come with me. Learn the trade."
But that trade had never belonged to me.
That workshop, that heat, that smell of damp metal...
It was his life.
Not mine.

But I couldn't explain that.
And even if I could, he wouldn't listen.
Because in his world, he was always right.
His exhaustion. His past. His rage...
My feelings were just noise that got drowned out by all of his.

Over time, the shadows under my eyes weren't just from lack of sleep—
they were from lack of hope.
The burden on my shoulders wasn't just the work,
it was life itself growing heavier.
I was only fourteen,
but inside, I carried the weight of years.
I couldn't laugh like a child.
I couldn't dream like a teen.
I was just trying to exist.
Quietly.
Without drawing attention.
Without breaking.

But not breaking was impossible.
Every night carved a new line into me.
And every morning, I woke up missing another piece.

I was most angry at myself.
Because I had started living like just another silent figure in this life.
As if even my emotions had said goodbye to me.
Whenever I felt like crying,
a voice inside said,
"You're used to this now. Why cry?"

And yet...
a very small spark of hope still flickered inside me.
A sliver of belief that someday, this might end.
That maybe someone would hear me.
That maybe one day... something would change.

And until that day came, I just kept writing.
To myself.
In a place no one else could read.
Because there, at least, I wasn't judged.
And while I wrote, I made myself one more promise:

"One day, when I leave this house,
I won't silence anyone.
And no one will silence me.
One day, I will truly become myself."