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This, my dear, is the ongoing story of a broken little girl who isn't quite a woman.

First year, I’m in the depths of hell. Screams and screams and screams just ring along the walls as the dread just piles up in my heart. Every day, this little girl will just cry herself to bed. Sometimes she’ll awaken to a soft hand petting her head with muffled sobs. I felt horrible. I confined myself to my room. I thought, “it’s all your fault,” and, of course, the classic, “go kill yourself!”

Second year is worse. It’s at the tip of the roller-coaster and about to roll down. The tears stop coming out and the shield turned into metal. The little girl at the time didn’t notice her expressions were becoming only one. The screams came to a slow stop, and peace became our friend. Once and a while, when the cooking stick gets thrown and the numbness decides to be a little less numb, I'll cry.

Third year is something else. Violent, worse than before, but also the healing time. I felt like someone asked me, “Do you really know the boundary between heaven and hell? Because this is it." The hammer hits the glass. The glass will shatter, as well as my mind. "Raisa," my broken mind cooed. Over and over. They even asked me, "Are you insane?" All I ever did, and will ever do, is smile, and say, "of course not!"

End of the third year I can truly smile and laugh because the violence ended.

Fourth year, is hell but heaven. The boundary was lost between the war, and now I don't know what really happened. Threw one mental disorder to the back of my mind, another decided to crawl up my legs. My smile is now half real, half fake. Tears don't exist anymore. Despair does.

"Are you alright?"

I smile that fake smile. "Of course."