Young Writers Society

Prologue

I stood before the mirror, gazing at the fragmented remnants of the person I used to be. How did this reflection come to pass? The figure I saw felt alien–a body that surely could not be mine. Haunted eyes, set within hollow sockets and bewildered pupils, stared back at me. When did my hair become so disheveled and messy? I relentlessly gnawed on my lips, leaving them chapped and etched with marks that echoed my numbness. Tears smudged mascara stains on my face, usually covered in pristine makeup. The even-keeled girl I once knew now aligned with the chaos that had thrived beneath the surface.

Unable to bear the sight any longer, I looked away, only to be compelled, perhaps horrified, to look back. Is this who I had become? There was a time when I could fake confidence and composure. Only I knew that beneath the facade lay a frightened girl plagued by anxiety.

Before he entered my life, I possessed a clear sense of self, projecting a carefully constructed image into the world. I built walls as shields, defending the crumbling and dilapidated castle within. Those walls were prepared to repel anyone attempting to breach the cracks. Yet, I now realized their futility, particularly in guarding against him. He stealthily navigated past those defenses like a snake.

Dizziness gripped my head, and I glanced at the bathroom clock to regain my bearings. It read 1 a.m. The sound of rushing water snapped me back into reality. Startled, I realized I had been standing in front of the mirror while the shower ran. With eyes shut tight, I undressed swiftly and stepped into the welcoming warmth. Pressing the loofah into the soap nuzzle, I began cleansing my skin without seeing it.

A bruise on my knee and a scar on my thigh drew my attention. I stared at the bluish-purple skin. With the loofah in hand, I scrubbed vigorously, attempting to erase them as if they were mistakes on a page.

When my anger subsided, a diagonal line of irritated skin was left behind. The shower had turned cold, unbeknown to my distracted senses. As I switched off the water, a shiver ran through my body. Wrapping myself in a towel, I entered my childhood bedroom. Changing into sweatpants and a tank top, I realized I still did not feel purified.

Maybe the dirt I tried to cleanse—whether on my body, in my room, or within my life—would never truly go away. This filth ran deeper. It stained my heart. No amount of soap could erase the way he had changed me.

Fatigue weighed heavily on my eyelids, but I knew what would happen if I succumbed to sleep–I’d surely dream of him. Since the day we met, he had haunted my dreams. Even when I didn’t recall them, they permeated my subconscious, magnifying the betrayal.

I sat with my back against my bed and sighed into the ceiling, berating my foolishness. He did not deserve another thought, yet once again, I couldn’t escape him. As I surveyed the once-familiar room, it seemed foreign. Only a few years ago, a different girl would sit at that desk, poring over assignments on her laptop, obsessing over every word. She would practice speeches for debate class, preparing for opposing rhetoric about whatever topic the teacher assigned. Each morning, I would tuck in the corners of my comforter, smoothing the fabric to ensure no lump would disturb the day’s arrival. This room used to be the embodiment of perfection and poise. Now, I sat here enveloped by the exact opposite feeling. I was so stupid for being reliant on him, like a security blanket carried by a child.

My gaze drifted to the ground and landed on the circular light pink rug, mirroring the blanket wrapped around me. My friends and I engaged in Scrabble battles on this floor, laughter filling the room. I would perch at the vanity to my right, toes curled up on the bench, meticulously applying mauve nail polish to ensure uniformity across each toenail. He once called it a forgettable, unadventurous color—a shade that didn’t match the radiant canvas someone like me should possess. To this day, I remain confused about what he meant when he said that.

A swelling of pain built in my chest, bubbling up into my throat and exploding into a cry. I lay on my side in the fetal position, rocking and trembling against the side of my bed, only partially aware of my movements. My body contorted, trying desperately to expel the memory of him. And there, at the end of my feet, were leftovers of this alien with chipped red nails. In only a few short months, my entire life had slipped away.

Suddenly, my phone screen lit up, and my heart lurched. It couldn’t be. Instantly, it felt as if a lone fairway buoy had emerged amidst the vast sea of my self-loathing, offering a glimmer of hope for safer waters ahead. Deep down, I knew he was not my buoy but an anchor, threatening to drag me down. How could I still let that anchor trap my heart?

With trembling hands, I unlocked the screen, only to be taken aback by the sight of his name: Ezekiel.