Often, we wish we didn't have to feel the pain. If only our hearts were made of cold, hard steel. If only we were unbreakable and godly. If only life didn't have to take a turn for the worse, and turn what we were into what we are.

But now, I wish I could feel pain. I wish to feel agony, to feel misery.

To feel sadness.

As I position the blade close to my skin, I imagine the pure, red blood that courses through the veins in my body. It flows with hatred, and with the tainted genes that also run in the blood of my two sisters. I know it does. I have seen it from the look in their eyes, and I envision the fate that they will learn to embrace. Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe, they are not me. Maybe they will never get to experience the ordeal that I have gone through, and end up being happier than they are supposed to be.

And maybe, I am the only one who needs to go to hell.

The blade sinks in gently, and I feel it tear my flesh apart. Surprisingly, it does not hurt. It has not hurt for a long time, and it still refuses to. Unimpressed, I bring the edge of the metal piece southwards and watch as a thin, weak line blossom into a flow of scarlet vines, painting my pale ivory hand with its bright, crimson colour. The corners of my lips curve into a weak smile as a rivulet of blood pours from my wound like fresh tap water. The sight of blood comforts me. It makes me feel in touch with reality.

It makes me feel alive.

The smell of filth emanates the room, but I have learned to embrace it with acceptance and grace. Drip, drip, drip. The blood trickles down my arm, and down to the floor. The sound of it is melody to the ears. I can feel it infiltrate my mind, and deep into the back of my head...

"You're disgusting," she says, looking down at me with strong detest in her eyes. "What did I do to deserve a trash like you?"

I stare at her innocently, engulfed with disbelief upon hearing what she has said. Why? What have I done to deserve your hatred of me? Tears roll down my cheeks uncontrollably as I start to sniff and sob. I don't understand what a child could have done to make her mother hate her. I am just a child. An innocent, lonely child who needs her mother's love.

"You will grow up to be a whore, a prostitute. You don't deserve to lead a decent life." She goes on to tell me. The words that spew from her mouth are so malicious, they would make even a lion cower. "Dorothy, oh, what a pretty name you have. A shame the face that it carries with is such a revolting one. You don't deserve that smooth, porcelain-like face of yours..."

My mind is in a haze. My temples are throbbing terribly as I bring the tip of my fingers to my right cheek, gliding across an uneven, rough surface that has remained a living nightmare for years. Blood stains the livid scar as I remove my fingers. I can almost taste it on my lips, the vengeance and injustice boiling inside of me, ready to erupt any moment.

It hurts.

I find myself falling to the ground. Weak, motionless, numbed and frozen. I feel like an immobile moribund patient – ready to be given a jab any moment, to be manipulated any minute like a dead, lifeless puppet. I am like an object of experiment, ready to be tortured and tormented.

My vision is in a blur. All of a sudden, I see light in the darkness.

Is that an angel?

She used to talk to me about heaven, and how angels come for you when it’s time to go.

I blink, feeling my strength falter away. My arm falls to the ground as the figure approaches. Her face moves into the light, her lips tugged into a smile. She is smiling at me. I have not seen that delicate smile on her face for the longest time. It brings joy to my now weakened heart, pulsing with agony and pain. The heart that has built a wall against the emotion that threatens to break me, never to feel again.

She takes the knife from me. Puts it aside and caresses my bloodied face with her gentle, smooth hands. Tears cascade down my face unknowingly as I register the warmth in her hands.

Is she finally here for me?

She plants a kiss on my forehead, and painfully stares down at me. In her eyes, I see a reflection of myself. I see fear. How long have I not looked into the mirror, and loved myself for who I was?

Love me, Mother. Love me, please.

Slowly, she moves her hand down to my neck, and entwines her thin fingers around it. That is when I feel air tightening around my throat. I give a light kick on the floor as my eyes widen in shock. The tears of joy that once flowed now drown my vision with regret and sorrow.

I was naïve. I always have been naïve…

I purse my dried, flaky lips and shake my head. Her eyes, they reflect nothingness. Has she ever loved me? She used to look into my eyes lovingly. Those eyes that now fill with angst and fury, they were the ones I used to look into and fall asleep every night, slipping into my sweet dreams lullaby.

Once again, she has made me a fool of myself. As the air stiffens, slowly evaporating into emptiness, my vision fades into darkness.

The last thing that I saw on my mind was a vision of my mother sitting alongside my bed, reading my favourite bedtime story and singing me a lullaby to sleep.

She was smiling, and before I finally closed my eyes, she told me that she loved me.