Sitting all alone in my shack in the middle of night, looking outside the broken window and could only wish for one thing, which was revenge.
It is all their fault that am now living like this in this place which is scary and all cold which is making my bones freeze to the core.
And as l keep thinking about it l wonder even though l had a chance of doing my revenge how am l going to do it with those powerful men.
I was laying down in a cage full of rats and other insects, l didn't want to think about. There was a small window above me, which made a little light go through it. And the whole place was covered in pitch black; l could only lay there waiting for my death sentence. Because for a person like me l didn't deserve any second chance.
My skin was covered in bruises from head to toe and my fragile body was somehow giving little by little, I haven't eaten in three days, and l haven't seen sunlight in those days too, except for thus little one.
The rats were the only things that still acknowledged me. They brushed past my fingers as if I were part of the floor, part of the rot. Sometimes I envied them. They were free to bite, to run, to live without fear of consequence. I, on the other hand, was born into consequence.
My father's name still echoed in the walls of my skull. A name people bowed to in the streets, whispered with reverence in candlelit rooms, printed in newspapers beside words like honor, legacy, strength. In the sixties and seventies, men like him ruled everything—families, factories, churches, even fate itself. And daughters like me were nothing more than proof of their masculinity, trophies that breathed.
He was the head of the family, they said. The pillar. The spine.But spines can snap. And pillars can crumble.
I had tried to kill him.
The memory returned to me in flashes, like broken film reels. The heavy velvet curtains in his study. The smell of tobacco and old books. The blade trembling in my hand, not from fear, but from rage so pure it felt holy. I remember thinking that if I didn't do it then, I never would. That if I let him speak one more word, breathe one more breath, I would disappear completely.
He never acted like a father. Fathers protect. Fathers soften their voices when their daughters cry. This man did none of that. He remarried as if my mother had been nothing more than a season that passed. And from that new marriage came her—my half-sister, born the same year I learned to hate mirrors.
She wore his affection like silk dresses and gold necklaces. Everything she did was forgiven. Everything I did was punished. If she broke something, I was blamed. If she lied, I was beaten. If she cried, he looked at me as though I had committed a crime against nature itself.
She learned cruelty early. Children do, when they watch it practiced daily.
By the time I was sixteen, the house had stopped feeling like a home and started feeling like a mausoleum. Portraits of dead ancestors stared down at me, their eyes following me through corridors like judges waiting for my execution. That was when the whispers began—not from people, but from places. From mirrors that fogged when no one breathed. From shadows that stretched longer than the light allowed.
This is where the fantasy bled into my world.
The women in my family had always been said to be strange. Sensitive. Emotional. Dangerous, if angered. My father called it weakness. But locked away in the cellar, beneath the estate, I found the truth—old journals wrapped in cloth, written in a language that pulsed when I touched it. Stories of bloodlines older than the city itself. Of bargains made with things that lived between night and dream.
Power did not belong to him.It belonged to me.
When I tried to kill him, I wasn't just holding a knife. I was calling something ancient, something furious, something that had been waiting generations for a voice. But power has a price. He survived. Barely. And I was dragged away before the house could finish what I started.
That is how I ended up here.In this cage.In this darkness.
They called it mercy that I wasn't executed publicly. My father couldn't have his reputation stained by the truth—that his own daughter had tried to end him. So instead, I was erased. Declared unstable. Dangerous. Locked away like a family secret that refused to die.
My body was failing, but my mind was sharpening.
In the nights, when the cold wrapped itself around my bones and the rats slept, the whispers returned. Louder now. Clearer. They told me that blood remembers. That curses ripen with time. That revenge does not always come with a blade—it can come with patience.
I began to see things in the darkness. Shapes. Symbols burning faintly against the walls. My bruises healed wrong, leaving marks that glowed faintly when I was angry. The little window above me stopped being my only light. I was becoming my own.
If my father represented the old power of men—the kind that crushed and ruled and silenced—then I was becoming something else entirely. Something the seventies weren't ready for. A girl who refused to disappear. A daughter who remembered every wound.
They thought this cage was my ending.
They were wrong.
This place was a cocoon.
And when I finally leave it—when the family name rots from the inside, when the house falls silent, when the golden daughter learns what it means to be powerless—they will understand too late that the monster they feared was never born.