The sting of her father's hand wasn't new—it was almost a part of her routine. Every time his knuckles struck her skin, it reminded her that she existed only to be broken in this house. The smell of cheap whiskey hung thick in the air as he threw another punch, this one to her ribs. She didn't scream. Not anymore. It wasn't worth it.
"You useless brat!" he roared, stumbling against the wall. "You bring nothing but damn misfortune into this house!"
Elysia collapsed against the kitchen counter, arms trembling as she tried to stay upright. Her father was already turning away, grumbling curses under his breath, his rage spent. That was his pattern—lose at cards, come home drunk, take it out on her. If he won? They'd get a box of greasy takeout and a few hours of fake peace.
Tonight, though, he had lost again.
She clutched her side, biting down on the inside of her cheek to stay silent. No one would come to help. Not her neighbors. Not her mother. Especially not her mother.
Their house—left behind by her late maternal grandfather—had long since rotted into a shell of what it once was. Cracks split the walls like scars. The old wood groaned beneath every step. But it was all they had. A decaying house filled with broken people.
Elysia limped to the stove. She still had to make dinner.
With trembling hands, she prepared a modest meal—rice, eggs, and the last of the pickled vegetables. She set it all on the table in silence. Her mother, Maribel, had just returned from the clinic, her uniform wrinkled and faded. She barely glanced at Elysia.
"Your father?" she asked without emotion.
"Sleeping it off," Elysia replied, eyes fixed on the chipped plate.
Maribel didn't respond. She sat down, pulled her food toward her, and ate in silence.
Elysia didn't touch her own plate.
She waited until her mother finished, cleaned the dishes, and quietly made her way to her room. Her stomach growled in protest, but she ignored it. Hunger had become just another ache to bury.
She curled up on the thin mattress without a blanket. Her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could hold the pain in place.
---
Morning crept in like a thief—silent and cold. Elysia woke before the sun, the stiffness in her bruised side reminding her of last night. She pulled on a long-sleeved sweatshirt, carefully hiding the blue and purple marks that painted her arms. Her reflection in the cracked mirror made her stomach twist. She didn't look like a university student—she looked like someone losing a war no one knew she was fighting.
Downstairs, her mother was sipping lukewarm tea, already dressed for work.
"I'm leaving early," Maribel said, not looking at her. "There's a new doctor coming in."
Elysia hesitated. "Mom… do you—" Her voice cracked. "Do you ever think about leaving him?"
Maribel's eyes stayed on the steam rising from her cup. "There's no such thing as escape when you've got nothing waiting for you," she said softly.
There was no warmth in her tone, no fight, just exhaustion.
Elysia didn't ask again.
She grabbed her bag and stepped outside into the crisp morning air, walking to the bus stop with her head low. The same worn-out path, the same tired streets. She boarded the bus, sitting alone at the back as usual. Her clothes were clean but faded. Her shoes—scuffed and duct-taped at the soles—barely held together.
At the university, she walked through the gates like a ghost. No one greeted her. No one asked how she was. She drifted past students in luxury cars and designer backpacks, people with dreams she couldn't afford to chase.
She made her way to the scholarship board with trembling hope. Maybe, just maybe…
But her name wasn't there.
Not this time.
Elysia stared at the list for what felt like hours. Her name was nowhere. Her scores had dipped slightly—likely because she'd missed a few deadlines when her father's beatings left her bedridden. That was all it took to fall behind in a world that expected perfection from those who had nothing.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no…"
Without the scholarship, she couldn't afford next semester. The tuition bill was more than what her mother made in three months. And there was no backup plan.
---
Later that afternoon, she stood in front of the campus job listings board. Her fingers trailed the flyers. Babysitting. Tutoring. A café server. Nothing paid enough. She took a flyer for the café job anyway.
She walked two blocks from the university to find the place—a tiny shop tucked between a florist and a tailor. It looked clean, small, but decent.
Inside, the air smelled of coffee and burnt sugar. The man behind the counter looked her over with skeptical eyes. He was in his fifties, balding, with a name tag that read Mick.
"You here for the job?" he asked.
"Yes," Elysia replied, trying to sound confident.
He raised an eyebrow. "You ever worked in a café before?"
"No," she admitted, "but I'm a fast learner. I need this job."
Mick leaned on the counter. "You look like you need sleep more."
"I can do both," she said quickly. "Just give me a chance."
He sighed, then gestured toward the back. "Kitchen's small. Dishwasher's busted. It's messy work, and the pay's crap."
"That's okay."
"You sure? I don't need someone running out crying after a week."
"I won't cry."
He stared at her a moment longer, then handed her an apron. "Come in tomorrow morning. Trial day. No promises."
Elysia clutched the apron like it was a lifeline. "Thank you."
---
She left the café with a mix of exhaustion and relief.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
And for someone like her, something was enough to keep going.
---