Chapter 2 The Waking Hell

‎"Lyra!!! Get your lazy ass out here right now!"

‎The shrill, piercing scream of her adoptive mother, Evelyn, shattered the morning silence, vibrating through the thin wooden door.

‎"I'm coming, Mother," Lyra called out, her voice devoid of emotion.

‎She quickly adjusted her baggy, oversized sweater—another requirement to hide her perfect figure—and stepped out of her room. Her daily prison sentence had officially begun.

‎The kitchen was already a disaster area. Sink overflowing with last night's dinner plates, counters covered in grease, and the floor stained with spilled juice. Evelyn sat at the dining table, sipping her coffee while scrolling through her phone, completely ignoring the mess.

‎"You're late," Evelyn snapped without looking up, her face twisted in a perpetual scowl. "Vanessa needs her breakfast prepared before she wakes up. If her eggs are cold, you'll be walking to school in the rain. Move it."

‎"Yes, Mother."

‎Lyra immediately set to work. She washed her hands, tied her hair back, and began cooking. She moved with a quiet, graceful efficiency, dodging her mother's sharp glares as she flipped the eggs, toasted the bread, and began scrubbing the mountains of dishes.

‎Ten minutes later, the heavy thudding of footsteps signaled the arrival of Vanessa. At fourteen, Vanessa was pampered, spoiled, and vicious. She walked into the kitchen wearing a designer silk robe, her curled hair bouncing as she glared directly at Lyra.

‎"Ew, why does it smell like a flower shop in here?" Vanessa groaned, pinching her nose dramatically. "Mom, tell her to stop wearing that disgusting rose perfume. It’s making me nauseous."

‎"I'm not wearing perfume, Vanessa," Lyra said quietly, keeping her head down as she set a plate of perfect, golden eggs in front of her stepsister.

‎"Don't talk back to me, you freak!" Vanessa hissed, deliberately sliding her foot out.

‎Lyra, caught off guard, tripped over Vanessa’s foot. She stumbled forward, barely catching herself on the edge of the counter, but the hot frying pan she was holding slipped from her grip. It clattered to the floor, splashing hot grease across the pristine fabric of Vanessa’s expensive slippers.

‎Vanessa let out a piercing, glass-shattering shriek. "Mom! Look what she did! She did it on purpose! She's trying to burn me because she hates me!"

‎Evelyn slammed her coffee mug down, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the tile. In a flash, she crossed the kitchen and violently grabbed Lyra by the hair, yanking her head back.

‎"You clumsy, ungrateful little bitch!" Evelyn roared, her face inches from Lyra’s disguised face. "We took you out of the gutter, we feed you, we clothe you, and this is how you repay us? By trying to disfigure my daughter?!"

‎The pain in Lyra’s scalp was sharp, but she didn't cry out. She had learned long ago that tears only made Evelyn hit harder. "It was an accident, Mother. She tripped me."

‎"Liar!" Vanessa wailed, squeezing out fake tears. "I didn't do anything! She's just jealous because I'm pretty and she looks like a monster!"

‎Just then, the front door opened, and Richard, Lyra’s adoptive father, walked in carrying a briefcase. He took one look at the chaotic kitchen—Evelyn gripping Lyra’s hair, Vanessa smirking through her fake tears—and a profound look of guilt and exhaustion washed over his face.

‎"Evelyn, please, let her go," Richard said weakly, stepping forward but stopping short of actually intervening. "It's early. Don't start the day like this."

‎"Shut up, Richard!" Evelyn snarled, finally throwing Lyra away from her. Lyra hit the floor hard, her palms scraping against the cold tiles. "Your precious charity case almost burned our daughter! You always defend her!"

‎Richard looked down at Lyra, his eyes filled with a painful, cowardly remorse. He wanted to help her, he really did, but he was terrified of his wife's wrath. He couldn't fight for her. He never did.

‎"Lyra, my dear," Richard muttered, his voice trembling as he refused to look her in the eye. "Just... listen to your mother, okay? Be good and endure it. Your sister is younger, you are the older one you have to set a good example. Just clean the floor and get ready for school."

‎Lyra sat on the floor, looking up at the three people who were supposed to be her family. The mother who hated her, the sister who tormented her, and the father whose guilt was entirely useless.

‎Endure it. That was always his answer.

‎A sudden, strange warmth bloomed deep within Lyra’s chest—not of sorrow, but of a cold, simmering resentment. For a fleeting second, the air in the kitchen grew heavy. The light bulb above the stove gave a sharp, high-pitched buzz, flickering violently for a single heartbeat before returning to normal.

‎Nobody noticed.

‎Lyra slowly stood up, pushing the dark, confusing anger back into the depths of her mind. She picked up a cloth and knelt to clean the spilled grease, her disguised face masking the fierce, untamed fire that was quietly beginning to burn within her soul.

‎The nightmare was over, but the waking hell had just begun.