Journal of Mylova – Day 4
I barely recognize myself.
This morning, as the shy light of day slipped through the narrow slit above my bed, my eyes fell on a shard of mirror, forgotten in the corner of my cell.
I don't know how long it's been there — perhaps I always ignored it.
Perhaps I simply feared what it would show me.
I gathered what little courage I had left and, with a trembling hand, lifted it to my face.
The image that stared back at me was not my own.
One cheek, a deep violet, almost black.
A swollen lip, split open like an overripe rose after the rain.
Eyes sunken, ringed with blue shadows.
And just beneath my left eye, a fine, sharp cut — like the stroke of a cruel brush.
This face… I don't know it.
And yet, it's mine.
There are words we don't dare put on ourselves.
Disfigured is one of them.
It carries a break, a loss.
And yet, today, I feel it.
Not in the mirror, but in the way they look at me.
They no longer see me as a girl to discipline or correct.
No.
Now I am a silent reminder — a mute example of what it costs to think differently.
A lesson to display, not to teach.
Today, their hands did not touch me.
And yet, I suffered more than on any other day.
The blows of their words struck deeper than the blows of their fists.
They pierced me from within, in the place we think we can still hide.
— Look at you, little rebel. Was it worth all this? Louis wouldn't even recognize you now.
— Your face has become the reflection of your soul: defiant, proud, deformed.
— Keep this up, and we will silence you for good. You'll be a body without a voice. A shadow.
I stayed silent. Not out of obedience. But because even speaking felt too heavy. Every word would be a splinter in my ribs. So I kept my thoughts folded, like secret letters, hidden safely behind clenched teeth.
Tonight, I write lying on my side, my limbs numb, my fingers stiff from cold or fear — I can't tell which. My tears slip quietly down my cheeks. I let them. They wash this day away.
I cling to the pain.
Not as an enemy, but as a familiar presence.
It reminds me I am still here. That I can still feel. That I am still alive.
That despite all they try, they have not yet extinguished what burns in me.
I no longer have a mirror.
But in the trembling reflection of my thoughts, I promise myself this:
One day, I will see myself again.
Whole.
And free.