Always Holding Breath

The girl lies perfectly still on her thin mat in the corner of the room, the darkness of the small house pressing in around her. Every sound from the other side of the cloth hanging that serves as her door sends a jolt of fear through her body. Her entire being is focused on listening, interpreting the noises from the main living area where her uncle sits. The heavy sound of his footsteps, the gruff tone of his voice, the sharp clink of a bottle, these are the signs that tell her what kind of night it will be. She has learned to categorize the sounds, to distinguish between the normal settling of the house and the movements that signal danger. When his footsteps move toward her room, her heart hammers against her ribs, and she holds her breath, praying the footsteps will continue past. This state of high alert lasts for hours, making real sleep impossible. She drifts in and out of a shallow, restless doze, her mind never fully switching off its guard, always ready to snap back to consciousness at the first sign of a threat. The night is a long, exhausting test of endurance, and she wakes at dawn feeling more tired than when she lay down, but with a profound, heavy relief that she has survived it once again.

This relief is short-lived, as the morning brings its own set of challenges centered entirely on avoiding her uncle. The moment she hears him stir, her body tenses, and she begins a well-rehearsed routine of silence and invisibility. She moves with practiced precision, folding her mat without a sound and slipping out to collect water from the well, her movements slow and deliberate to avoid creaking floorboards or drawing any attention to herself. During the shared morning meal, she keeps her eyes down and makes herself small, speaking only when spoken to and answering in soft, polite tones that give no one a reason to look at her twice. The process of putting on her school uniform is a ritual of transformation; each piece of clothing is a layer of armor, a step toward becoming the quiet, unremarkable student she presents to the outside world. She meticulously packs her schoolbag, ensuring every book and pencil is in its place, building a wall of normalcy between herself and the fear that churns in her stomach. This entire morning performance is designed for a single purpose: to get her out of the house and on the path to school without triggering her uncle's anger or his unpredictable attention.

The moment her feet hit the dirt path leading away from the compound, a physical change comes over her. The tightness in her shoulders begins to unknot, and she takes her first full, deep breath of the day. The walk to school is her sanctuary, a precious sliver of time that belongs only to her. With each step, the heavy weight of the house and the constant watchfulness it demands fall further behind her. She watches the other children she passes on the path, noting their easy laughter and their animated conversations about homework and games and petty arguments. Their lives seem so simple, their biggest worries so distant from her own reality. For them, school is a place of lessons and teachers; for her, it is a temporary refuge, a seven-hour reprieve where the primary danger is a failed test, not a drunken relative. She knows this peace is fragile and temporary, that the final school bell will signal the end of this safety and the beginning of the long walk back home. But for now, she walks a little taller, allowing herself to be just a girl going to school, pushing the thought of nightfall as far from her mind as she possibly can.