Existence

The chill of early morning permeated Kinsley's small, desolate room. Outside, the world was just stirring, but inside, only the rhythmic creak of her old bed disturbed the silence. She stared at the damp pages of her worn journal, the ink blurring slightly from tears that had long since dried. Every word was a testament to the years of solitude, the endless cycle of weariness, loneliness, and regret that defined her existence.

It was 6:30 a.m. School started in an hour, and she had yet to prepare breakfast for the two people she was forced to call 'Sir' and 'Ma'am'. The word 'family' felt like a cruel joke, a concept as foreign as genuine affection.

Rising from the cold floor, she moved with practiced haste to the makeshift closet, retrieving the only clothes that fit—oversized jeans and a worn hoodie. Her gaze flickered to the mirror, revealing the faint, mottled canvas of bruises that she quickly set about concealing with makeup, a grim ritual she'd perfected over the years. Another day. Another act of survival.