Live For Myself

After she said those words, she rushed out without a backward glance. The door slammed shut with a bang, and the entire house plunged into an eerie silence.

I was left alone, sitting helplessly on the floor, the burns on my body still throbbing with intense pain.

I could feel the blisters growing; some had already swelled to the point of bursting, with fluids mixed with blood seeping out. My clothes stuck to the wounds, and every breath I took tugged at them, making me gasp in pain.

The dishes on the dining table were still steaming; the meticulously prepared seafood feast now seemed like a mockery of my loneliness, despite the celebration. The birthday cake sat lonely in the center of the table, the candles half-melted, their wax dripping onto the frosting as if the cake itself was mourning.

This was my birthday, my twelfth birthday—a day that was supposed to be special. There were no birthday wishes or love, just cold neglect and pain.

I struggled to get up, each movement felt like tearing my wounds apart. Sweat trickled into my eyes, stinging them shut. Supporting myself against the wall, I shuffled step by step to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and let the icy stream wash over the burns.

The sudden jolt of pain made me gasp in shock. The moment the cold water touched the scalded area, the pain was so intense I almost fainted. But I knew I had to cool the skin down, otherwise, the burns would worsen.

Gritting my teeth to push through the agony, I endured the pain and let the cold water continue to run over the wounds.

The water took away the surface heat, but the deep burning sensation remained. Each second felt like an eternity, and I had no idea how long I stayed in the bathroom.

It wasn't until I felt the temperature of the wounds slightly drop that I turned off the tap. Looking at myself in the mirror, my face was pale, my forehead drenched in sweat, and my lips were tightly pressed together from the pain.

I needed to go to the hospital; burns like these, if not treated promptly, could leave scars or even affect my arm's mobility in the future. But there was no one at home; my parents and sister had gone with Zhou Zhe to the hospital, and no one would take me there.

I rummaged through the medicine cabinet, which only contained simple band-aids and anti-inflammatory drugs that were useless for such extensive burns. With no other choice, I changed into loose clothing to avoid fabric touching the wounds and slowly made my way out the door alone.

The night was deep, and there were few pedestrians on the street. The dim streetlights cast a yellow glow on the ground, elongating my solitary shadow.My shadow seemed to stretch endlessly, mirroring my loneliness. Every step I took, my wounds protested, but I had no other choice.

The community clinic wasn't far from home, usually a ten-minute walk. But this time, each step felt like a mile. I walked, paused, and nearly stumbled several times due to the pain.

Finally, I saw the clinic's lights shining. As I pushed open the door, the on-duty doctor was organizing medical records. He looked up, saw my condition, and immediately stood up.