Chapter 1

* Bold = flashback

* Italics = thoughts

Clutching my backpack, I felt the frigid bite of another cold February day. My thin black sweatshirt offered little protection as I wrapped my arms around myself, attempting to stave off the chill. 

Our house lay four miles away from my school, and I found myself mentally counting down the days until graduation, when I'd no longer have to endure this relentless walk. A mere three years and six months remained. Rounding the corner near our run-down apartment complex, I quickened my pace as the sun timidly graced the horizon.

My family resided in one of Seattle's most challenging neighbourhoods. We remained here solely because my mother insisted on providing me with a decent education. I was determined to make her sacrifices worthwhile, maintaining a pristine 4.0 GPA and achieving a perfect score of 1600 on my SATs.

I ascended the stairs to our apartment, struggling with a rusty lock that was stubborn and prone to jamming. Finally, I managed to push the door open and dashed inside, eager to share the 'A' I'd received on my computer programming exam with my mother. Her delight was always a beacon of hope, illuminating our home.

My mother held an irreplaceable position in my life, a paragon of love and sacrifice. I harbored a fervent ambition to carve out a successful future, relieving her of life's burdens. She had sacrificed so much for me that the least I could do was strive to excel in my education.

The apartment was cold unlike outside, sending a shiver down my spine. The table was strewn with unpaid bills, intermingled with empty beer cans and ashtrays. As I approached, the overdue bills confirmed my suspicion: our heating had been disconnected, yet again.

"Johnny, please, it's for Rana's fund. I had to—" my mother's plea was drowned out by the venomous outburst from my father.

"Shut up! You're worthless. Utterly worthless. You were supposed to take everything back. You're tying me down once more, you bitch!"

Not anymore. Panic surged through me as I raced into the other room. My path was strewn with glass shards and bongs, remnants of their intoxicated battle. My mother lay on the floor, almost unconscious. Her clothes were torn, her skirt shredded, and her body was covered with cuts and bruises. Tears rolled down her bloodied face, her eyes widening in fear as she stared at me. My father loomed over her, blood-smeared knuckles hovering near a half-empty vodka bottle. He stumbled but turned to face me, his lips curling into an ugly sneer.

"H-Honey, not now, please. Go," my mother implored, her voice barely audible.

"Oh, Rana. My little know-it-all. Just the person I wanted to see," my father sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he lurched menacingly toward me. My mother's cries filled the room.

***

The sudden burst of rage startled me awake. My heart was pounding so hard I felt it might leap from my chest. Sweat coated my body, and my breath came in ragged gasps. Gradually, I realized that I was in my dorm room. Nightmares were a familiar torment, though after six years, I had hoped to grow accustomed to them. I shifted my gaze to my left and noticed Nancy, my roommate, sleeping with a deep frown etched on her face. "She always manages to maintain a serene façade even in her sleep," I mused, rolling my eyes. Nancy was the torment of my existence. Sharing a room with a promiscuous, entitled brat was a far from what I had envisioned when I arrived at this institution. She was a trust-fund kid who relied more on her father's wealth than any intellectual prowess. Her father must have possessed substantial influence and affluence to secure her a spot at Stanford.

I glanced at the clock: 8:02. I threw off the sheet and decided it was time to prepare for my 9 a.m. philosophy class. Opening the dresser, I surveyed the meagre collection of clothes, hardly filling a drawer, let alone the entire dresser. I changed into yoga pants, donned a loose sweatshirt, and laced up my Converse sneakers. My laptop rested on the bedside table, my most prized possession. I retrieved a soft cloth from its case and meticulously wiped the screen and cover, tracing my fingers over the Whitman logo. Safely encased, I tucked it into my backpack.

Gathering my toiletry bag, I made my way to the communal showers. I kept my head down as I navigated the dormitory's corridors, seeking to avoid unnecessary social interactions. A group of girls, flaunting mini dresses and crop tops, brushed past me, their laughter and whispers echoing. I overheard a spiteful comment.

"I didn't realize they let the destitute enroll here."

Another girl chimed in, "Nice shirt. Where did you get it, Baby GAP?"

In response, I cast a withering glance. One of them rudely bumped into me with her shoulder. "Such a beautiful vocabulary for such an unpleasant woman. I'm sure you exhausted most of your mental capacity thinking up that horrendous comeback," I retorted, rolling my eyes, before turning away and leaving the infuriated blonde behind.

At Stanford, I stuck out like a sore thumb. The majority of students hailed from privileged backgrounds, never having tasted the bitter sting of the "college struggle." Their hardships often revolved around selecting the right party or determining how much alcohol they could consume without overindulging.

For me, Stanford represented an opportunity to rise above my circumstances, to seize control of my future. Their comprehensive computer engineering program and generous financial aid packages had lured me here. Unfortunately, female students like me were often disregarded in this privileged bubble.

After my shower, I dressed and examined myself in the mirror. I stood at 5'5" and weighed a mere 110 pounds, my small frame attributed to a lack of nutritious meals. My long, jet-black hair cascaded down to my waist, a stark contrast against my pale complexion. My hazel eyes appeared weary, encircled by dark shadows. High cheekbones and full lips rounded out my features. The only trait I'd inherited from my father was my eyes—the same irises that had haunted me for as long as I could remember. I quickly averted my gaze and made my way to class.

Inserting my headphones, I feigned interest in music to ward off conversations. Even if I'd wanted to listen to music, my outdated phone, still reliant on T-9 text messaging, couldn't accommodate such luxuries. I tucked the headphone cord into my pocket, creating the illusion of a musical escape.