Ishuya

My name is Ishuya and I’m a writer. Well, at least I try to be…

The rain tapped relentlessly against the windowpane, each drop pulling me back to places I didn’t want to revisit. I sighed, my pen hovering over the paper, my fingers tense as if the weight of my memories was bleeding into the ink. Writing had always been my refuge—a way to create lives that were nothing like mine.

At 21, I was finally a college student, a budding writer with dreams that felt bigger than I could contain. But my grip on the past was tenuous at best, a fragile thing that cracked and bled through whenever I let my guard down. My stories, my novels—they were my escape. They offered me worlds where kindness existed without limits, where warmth wasn’t just fleeting but constant.

Today, though, even as I tried to immerse myself in the opening lines of another chapter, the storm outside refused to be ignored. The rain had a way of digging up everything I’d tried so hard to bury. It had always been that way, always dragging me back to the nights I wanted to forget.

I froze, my pen suddenly motionless as my mind wandered. The rain had been a cruel backdrop to so much of my life. It was always raining when my mother sent me out to work, thrusting scraps of rags or useless trinkets into my hands. "Make yourself useful," she'd bark, her voice as cutting as the cold. Worse still were the nights she tossed me out altogether, her anger fueled by booze or the wrong kind of attention from whatever man she’d brought home.

I could still feel the damp chill of those nights—the way the rain seeped into my clothes and my skin until it felt like I’d never be warm again. I remembered huddling under the overhang of a storefront, shaking so hard my teeth rattled, waiting for the storm to pass, waiting for her to let me back in. Sometimes, she wouldn’t. Sometimes, I’d just sit there, cold, hungry, and too afraid to cry because it wouldn’t change a thing.

Flashback

At age 6:

The sharp crack of my mother’s voice cuts through the stillness of the room, and I flinch as if the words themselves have physical weight.

“Stop crying, you useless brat!”

My tiny body trembles, curled up in the corner of the dimly lit room, my small arms wrapped tightly around my knees. The cold floor presses against my legs, the walls too close, suffocating me, as though the house itself is pressing in from all sides. Her voice lacerates the air like a lash, but it doesn’t reach me—not completely. My eyes stay fixed on her, watching from the safety of my corner, where I try to disappear.

She’s hunched over the kitchen table, one hand clutching a bottle. Her head lolls back, and the stench of alcohol fills the room—sour, thick, like something rotting. It mixes with the acrid smoke from the dimly burning lamp in the corner, thickening the air, making everything feel like a nightmare just out of reach. The room sways around me, the lights flickering like distant stars—unfocused, hazy, as if they too are unsure of their place here.

A man—one of many—laughs. His laughter is too bright, too loud, like a siren meant to drown out any shred of quiet. I feel his eyes on me before I dare to look up. His smile is wide, but there’s no warmth in it—just something darker, something predatory. His gaze slides over me like I’m not a person, but an object to be consumed. Not a child, just... something to be used.

I press myself further into the corner, my back digging into the rough wall. My clothes, thin and torn, offer no protection from the cold, no comfort from the reality that wraps itself tightly around me. I tell myself I’m small. I tell myself I’m hidden. I tell myself I’m nothing. I don’t matter.

My mother’s voice slithers into my thoughts, breaking through the illusion of safety.

“You’re lucky I even let you live here. Go out and sell rags!”

Her words land like a blow, too heavy to ignore. My heart leaps into my throat, but my body refuses to move. I can’t move. The weight of her words presses down on me, as if each syllable is a boulder, crushing me under its mass. The sickeningly sweet scent of alcohol fills the air again, and the man’s chuckle scrapes against my skin like nails on a chalkboard. But it’s my mother’s words, not the men, that wound the most.

“Why do you even exist?”

The words wrap themselves around me like chains, tightening with each breath, squeezing the air from my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t escape. My mother’s face distorts, twisted by the haze of alcohol, her features blurring as she leans against the table. The room spins, the walls pressing in on me, suffocating me in the haze. I want to scream, to make the world stop, but the sound is caught in my throat. Fear has its grip on me, and shame keeps me quiet.

“Why do you even exist?”

The words echo in my mind, relentless. They’re endless now, looping and wrapping tighter, squeezing the life out of me. They blur together with the smoke, with the heat, with the ache in my chest. My hands shake as I press them harder against my knees, trying to hold myself together, trying to stay small, to stay unseen.

Her gaze flicks toward me again, barely focused, but the malice is unmistakable. “You’re a burden.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and oppressive. They cling to my skin, to the rags I wear, to the cracks in my heart that I don’t even know are there. My head drops lower, chin tucked against my chest as I stare at the worn floorboards beneath me. The tears well up, but I force them back, swallowing the sobs. If I cry, it’ll make it worse. If I make a sound, there will be consequences. More pain. More humiliation.

I don’t know how long I stay there, frozen in place, my body stiff with fear, my mind numb with despair. The sounds of the men laughing at my helplessness, at my pain, fade into the background, but my mother’s voice continues to reverberate in my skull. It’s the only sound that matters, the only one that counts. She hates me. I am nothing to her.

I’m invisible. Unseen. Unwanted. Unneeded.

In this moment, I learn that it’s safer to be nothing. Because when you’re nothing, you can’t disappoint anyone. You can’t hurt anyone. You can’t be the thing they hate.

You can just... be.

#

At age 10:

The cardboard sign felt heavier in my hands than it should’ve, damp at the edges where the rain wouldn’t stop soaking through. I stood on the corner of a busy street, the air thick with exhaust fumes and the sharp chill of winter biting at my skin. People brushed past me without looking, like I didn’t exist.

I clutched the sign tighter, my knuckles white around its edges: “Will work for food.”

“Hey, kid,” a voice said suddenly. I looked up, startled. A man in a worn coat was staring at me with a frown. His gaze was sharp, almost accusing. “How old are you?”

I swallowed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Thirteen, sir. I just… I just need some money for food.”

His eyes lingered on me for a second too long before he shook his head, clicking his tongue like I’d done something wrong. “Go home,” he muttered, walking away.

Home.

I looked back at the puddle-soaked street as his figure disappeared into the crowd. My stomach growled loudly, but I ignored it. Hunger wasn’t new. Hunger didn’t care how much you begged.

#

By the time I trudged back to the apartment, the rain had soaked me through. My thin shoes squelched with every step, and the chill had settled into my bones. The familiar flickering light above the door buzzed faintly, but it didn’t feel like home—not anymore.

I stepped inside, the hinges groaning in protest. The apartment smelled of smoke and something sour, the air heavier than when I’d left.

She was there. My mother.

Sprawled across the stained couch like a queen on a broken throne, she had a cigarette dangling from her fingers and a half-empty bottle on the floor. A man I’d never seen before lounged beside her, his smile sharp and too wide.

Her head lolled to the side as I closed the door behind me. “Where the hell have you been?” she snapped, her voice a growl.

I hesitated in the doorway, rainwater dripping off my clothes and pooling at my feet. “I… I tried,” I said softly. My voice was hoarse, barely audible. “No one would give me anything.”

The bottle clinked loudly as she shoved it aside. Her scowl twisted her face, and I saw it coming—the way her hand clenched, the shift of her weight as she stood up. I didn’t have time to move.

“Useless!” she spat, the word hitting harder than the slap that followed. The sting spread across my cheek, my head snapping to the side.

“You’re nothing but a burden!”

I didn’t say anything. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. The man on the couch laughed—a cruel, hollow sound that made my stomach turn. My eyes darted to him, and I hated how amused he looked, like I was some kind of joke.

I took a step back, my body trembling, my face still burning. “I’m sorry…” I whispered, though I didn’t even know what I was apologizing for.

I turned and stumbled down the narrow hallway to my room—if it could even be called that. Four walls, no light, and a mattress so thin I felt the floor underneath. I slammed the door behind me, my breaths coming out in sharp gasps as tears finally fell.

Sliding down the wall, I curled into myself, hugging my knees to my chest. The darkness swallowed me whole, but at least here, no one could see me cry.

“Useless… burden…”

Her words echoed in my head, loud enough to drown out the sound of the rain tapping against the cracked window. I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to shut it all out, but it was no use.

I was alone.

At age 13:

My resilience had grown like jagged scars across my heart, carved by a life too heavy for any child to endure. But even now, the exhaustion in my eyes tell a different story—one of a soul long buried under the weight of things no one should ever have to carry. Tonight, my mother brought home another man, but this one felt different. He was older, with a smirk that crawled down my spine like ice.

"Hello, Ishuya," his voice was too smooth, too sweet, like honey laced with venom. "I’m your stepfather. Your mother tells me you’re a good girl."

The way his smile lingered after me soft "Hi" made my skin crawl. I rushed to my room, praying that if I just stayed quiet, stayed out of the way, maybe he'd leave by morning. But I was wrong.

#

The night was suffocatingly still when I woke with a jolt. A hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my scream before it could even leave my throat. Panic exploded in my chest. My legs kicked wildly, but the man was heavy, his body pressing down on me like an unshakable weight. His breath was hot, sickly warm against my ear as he whispered vile things that made my skin crawl.

“Shh… this is love, I’ll make you feel good soon, little one.”

His weight pinned me to the bed, and terror shot through my veins. But something primal stirred in me—a surge of desperation that gave me the strength to fight. My hands clawed at his arms, my body jerking violently as I struggled against the nightmare that held me. Then, in a burst of blind instinct, i bit down hard on his hand, tasting the bitter salt of blood as he yelled in pain.

“You little bitch!” he snarled, slamming my wrist against the bedpost. His grip burned through my skin like fire, forcing the breath from my lungs.

“MOM!” I screamed, my voice raw, shattered by the desperation that surged through me. But it wasn’t my mother’s comforting voice that answered me—no, it was the man’s twisted, triumphant grin that greeted me through the darkness.

Then, mother’s voice broke the silence—a cruel, angry bark that shattered the walls between us.

The man, my step-father released me, just as mother stormed in. I scrambled backward off the bed, my breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streamed down my cheeks. My mother’s face was twisted in fury, but it wasn’t aimed at him—it was at me. Her eyes, sharp and accusing, locked on me like a predator on its prey.

“You filthy little whore!” mother shrieked, her voice laced with venom. “How dare you seduce him?”

Time froze.

My breath hitched. The words—those words—sliced through me like glass, jagged and cruel. Mother’s hand came down like a blade, striking my cheek with enough force to make my ears ring. I stumbled back, my body trembling with the sting, my burning face throbbing with shame. The man stood in the doorway, disheveled and smirking, his eyes gleaming with sick amusement.

“No!” I cried, my voice cracking with sobs. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t! He—he tried to—”

“SHUT UP!” mother’s voice was pure venom, a sound so devoid of humanity that it barely seemed real. “You liar. You’re just like your father—a mistake! That’s all you are!”

The slap came again. The crack of mother’s palm against my skin reverberated through the air, shaking my fragile frame. I collapsed on my knees, my body curling in on itself as the sobs tore through me, raw and uncontrollable.

“Please,” i whispered hoarsely, my voice breaking on the plea. “Believe me… please.”

But mother’s eyes were cold—empty voids, devoid of love, of compassion. There was nothing left in her gaze. Not an ounce of care or remorse.

“Get out,” she spat.

My head snapped up, my heart lurching painfully in my chest. “W-What?”

“You heard me,” mother hissed, her eyes full of contempt. “You think you can pull this disgusting stunt in my home? I don’t want to see your face again. Get out!”

Before I could even comprehend what was happening, my mother grabbed my arm with brutal force, dragging me to my feet, the bruises blooming already under my fingertips.

“No! Please!” I screamed, my body trembling with fear, with desperation. I twisted in my mother’s grip, trying to wrench myself free, but her hold was unyielding—like iron, cold and unforgiving.

“Shut up!” she snapped, throwing the front door open with a cold gust of wind that rushed in like an angry beast. The storm outside battered the threshold, relentless and unkind.

My feet slipped on the wet floor as I twisted, my voice raw, strangled by terror. “Mom! Please! Where will I go? I have no one—please don’t do this!” The words tore out of me, desperate, pleading, but it felt like they didn’t matter.

Her face remained a mask of hatred, a void where any semblance of love or care should have been. Her eyes were cold, empty, and I felt nothing but the harsh sting of her gaze. Her words came out like a whip, sharp and cruel, cutting deeper than the storm ever could.

“Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before you opened your legs!” she snarled. “You’re nothing but trash, Ishuya. A burden I never wanted. Don’t you dare come back.”

With a final shove, I was thrown out into the night. I hit the cold, unforgiving pavement with a jarring thud, my palms scraping against the wet, rough surface. The rain pounded down on me, soaking me through, the ice-cold droplets clinging to my skin like daggers.

The door slammed shut behind me, and the sound felt like the final toll of a bell, a ringing declaration of my fate.

I stayed there, frozen, kneeling in the rain, the cold seeping into my bones like it would never leave. My heart pounded in my chest, a drumbeat of panic that drowned out everything else. My breath came in shallow, shaking gasps as my eyes remained fixed on the closed door, as if I could will it to open.

“Mom,” I whispered, my voice breaking in the emptiness of the street. “Please…”

I waited.

For the door to open. For my mother to change her mind. For someone—anyone—to come and save me from this nightmare.

But the door never opened.

The rain fell harder, and the wind howled through the desolate street. My sobs were swallowed by the storm, my body trembling uncontrollably as I curled in on myself. Alone. Abandoned. Unloved.

I sat there, waiting for salvation that would never come.

#

It’s almost a week now since mother kick me out. The market street was alive with chaos—shouts of vendors hawking their wares, clattering carts rolling over uneven cobblestones, the dull thud of hurried footsteps. I sat with my back against a cracked wall, knees pulled to my chest, trying to make myself small. Layers of mismatched, threadbare clothing swallowed my thin frame, but they did little against the biting wind.

In my trembling hands, a rusted tin cup rattled with the breeze, its emptiness mocking me. I held it out, my voice too hoarse and weak to beg anymore. No one looked at me. No one ever did. They hurried past like I was invisible, their faces hard and their eyes averted.

My stomach twisted painfully, the hunger gnawing at me like a cruel, living thing. The world was blurry, every color too sharp and yet dim at the edges. How many days had it been since I’d last eaten? I couldn’t remember.

Then he appeared.

The man’s shadow fell over me, long and dark, blotting out the thin patch of sun I had clung to for warmth. I stiffened, gripping the cup tighter, my heart pounding in my chest as I dared to look up.

He was tall, his smile too wide, too sharp—something predatory. My gut twisted in warning, my mind screaming at me to run even though my legs were too weak to obey.

“You look hungry, girl,” he said, his voice oily and smooth. “I’ve got a job for you… if you’re willing to earn it.”

I froze, the words sinking in like jagged hooks. I’d heard them before—too many times. The meaning was always the same. I knew what kind of “job” he meant.

“No…” I rasped, my voice barely audible, my throat dry as sandpaper. “I don’t want it.”

His smile twisted, turning cruel as his hand shot out and grabbed my arm. The grip sent pain shooting through me, his fingers like iron against my skin. I gasped, my cup clattering to the ground, coins scattering and rolling away.

“Don’t be stupid,” he hissed, yanking me toward him. “Do you want to starve to death out here?”

The market sounds dulled around me, drowned out by the roar of my heartbeat in my ears. I clawed weakly at his hand, my strength gone, but before I could make another sound—

“Let her go.”

The voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the air like a blade. The man froze. I blinked up, dizzy and breathless, as a new figure stepped forward.

The stranger moved like a shadow, cloaked and towering, their presence radiating something I couldn’t name—danger, authority, or maybe both.

“This is none of your business!” the man snapped, though his grip had already loosened. I felt it. He was scared.

“It is now,” the stranger replied coldly, their voice low but steady.

The man’s lip curled in a sneer, but something in the stranger’s presence seemed to press down on him like a weight. With a final curse, he shoved me back, letting me stumble to the ground. My knees hit the stone hard, but I barely felt it. The man vanished into the crowd, his retreat fast and sloppy.

The sudden silence pressed into me. I gasped for breath, curling in on myself as the stranger approached and knelt beside me.

“Are you hurt?”

The voice was softer now, gentle even, but my ears were ringing, my vision swimming at the edges. I looked up slowly, my gaze meeting theirs—or trying to. I couldn’t see their face, only the outline of a hood and the blur of dark fabric.

A hand brushed my matted hair away from my face, so light it felt unreal, like a memory of kindness I’d almost forgotten. I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat.

The world tilted. My eyelids grew heavy, and before the blackness swallowed me, I felt it—warmth, soft and fleeting against my skin.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***