The Day My Dreams Turned to Ashes

I was 15, but I never felt like the other girls my age. While my classmates giggled over crushes and school gossip, I’d outgrown them long before. My body matured early—curves, striking features, and those rare colored eyes that turned heads wherever I went. I stood out, not just among my peers but in a way that drew older girls, 4 or 5 years ahead, into my circle. I compared myself to them, feeling more woman than teenager. The compliments poured in—my beauty was “unmatched,” they said—and with each word, my pride swelled. I saw myself as a captivating woman, ready to charm and love, far removed from the innocence of youth.

Life felt sweet, my striking looks a source of joy. But that sweetness soured when my father’s addiction took hold. What started as a quiet struggle spiraled into a dark obsession with drugs. Soon, he was lost to it, his family fading from his mind. He brought his friends home, their laughter and smoke filling our space, ignoring my mother’s pleas and my discomfort. These men, who knew us, would ask him to let me serve them tea or fruit. My father—once a protector—had become a reckless stranger, nodding along, ordering me to stay with them for hours. Their heavy stares pressed on me like hands around my throat. I couldn’t breathe, trapped in a role I despised, a pawn in his new life.

One day, walking home from school, a sleek, expensive car pulled up. A handsome guy stepped out, his smile disarming. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, “can we talk for a moment? I mean no harm.” Curiosity—and his charm—hooked me. I hesitated, then nodded. He confessed he’d watched me for months, smitten, and wanted to marry me. Shocked, I froze, my words locked away, just staring into his eyes. “Please,” he laughed nervously, “don’t look at me with those beautiful eyes—it shakes me.” Snapping back, I mumbled an excuse and hurried home, heart racing.

The next day, he was there again after school. “Come, sit with me,” he urged. Against my better judgment, I slid into his car. A strange hope bloomed—he felt like a savior from my bleak life, a prince halting the train of misery. He was gorgeous, rich, everything I’d dreamed of. Our bond grew fast. He’d pick me up after school, showering me with affection, promising marriage. Weeks passed, but it stayed a casual friendship. Frustrated, I asked, “Weren’t we supposed to marry? Why not talk to my parents?” He smiled, “Next week, I will. First, meet my family. Skip school in two days—I’ll take you to our villa outside the city.”

His trust had won me over. He’d never crossed a line, feeling more honorable than my father. I agreed, excited yet nervous about meeting his parents. The drive was long—two hours out of town—and exhaustion crept in. “When do we get there?” I asked. “Almost,” he replied. Then we turned onto a dirt road, stopping after 10 minutes at a derelict garden. “We’re here,” he said. Confused, I stepped out, a chill running through me. Something felt wrong, a dread I couldn’t name. I didn’t want to go in, but fear silenced my questions.

Inside, a dusty 50-square-meter room sat amid overgrown trees. The door creaked open—no one was there. “Sit, I’ll check on my family,” he said. I paced, my heart pounding as if the walls were closing in. Minutes later, he returned with four young men. My blood ran cold. “Who are they?” I stammered. “Don’t worry, dear, they’re friends. We’re just playing,” he said. Panic hit. “Please, let me go!” I begged. They advanced, five against one. My cries, pleas, and struggles were useless. They assaulted me, their weight crushing my spirit. Exhausted from sobbing, I saw my father’s friends in their faces—not just stares now, but a violation that scarred me forever.

The bright future I’d imagined shattered like glass. Now, that nightmare haunts me, a shadow I can’t escape.