Description: “Until peace finds us both, I will pray for you every night.”

Warning: Some religious themes – please do not read if you are uncomfortable with such themes.

Special thanks to MinYewon for helping me sort out my jumbled thoughts! 

Author’s note: And now I present to you my last dance :) (this time for real) 

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Cheryl POV

Cracking the huge oak doors open by a fraction, I slipped my body through the space before closing the door after me. It shut with a hollowthud and I listened as the sound echoed through the empty hallway. Rising my head, I marvel at the structure that still leaves me breathless whenever my eyes are laid upon it. The entire dome structure is formed from bricks – the simplest form of construction in the modern age but it can still make the entire place look regal. The ribs that start from the tip of each pillar converge into an intricate design of leaves at the centre of the roof. Electric lamps illuminate the high ceiling in cream and gold, adding grandeur to the entire place.

Wobbling forward, I took a seat. Resting my head against the back of the chair, I closed my eyes and tried focusing only on my breathing.

I think to myself; Peace, at last.

I’m not a religious person, but for some odd reason, churches give me a sense of peace. There was just something about how others come here to find peace within themselves that makes me feel like I could do the same.

And so I do.

Whenever my heart feels troubled, this is my remedy. Come out here, sit here for as long as I have to, feel the peace and quietness around me before heading back to face reality.

But tonight, that peace that I desperately seek evades me, and I find myself praying even though I have never done it before.

God please help me…

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I was 12. I remember talking really excitedly about something I was passionate about until someone yelled, “Shut up! Your high-pitched voice is so annoying!” The people around me sniggered under their breaths and in that moment, it feels like I’ve been stabbed in the heart. I found myself thinking if it was wrong; a crime, to talk about things I love. Since then, I’ve shrunk and became quieter, learning the hard way that my silence is more precious to others than my passion. When the world tells you that you’re too loud too young, my sensitive heart can’t help but feel hurt, and since then I’ve carried that little scar with me, feeling like an unloved toy with a dent at my side.

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I was 14. I remember sitting amongst a group of people I called friends back then. Pictures were taken and suddenly, people were all huddled all over a phone, snickering under their breaths. I didn’t know what was happening and naturally, curiosity took over.

“What’s going on?”

“Look at this photo; she’s such a isn’t she?”

A photo was shoved in my face and in that moment as expectant eyes lay on me, watching my reaction,  I had no choice but to play along.

“Yea she is…”

After the words left my mouth, I immediately felt disgusted at what I just said. How could I bear to agree to such a horrible statement? All I remembered thinking was: How can you call her your friend and yet treat her like that behind her back? At the same time, I felt ashamed of myself. Bearing witness to such atrocities, how was it that as I did was sit by and watch without doing anything? In that moment, revulsion at myself was the only emotion appropriate to describe how I felt for inaction was as good as condoning the act. As they continued to laugh around me, I found myself completely unamused by the scene, like an alien for not doing what they did.

Right there and then, I decided that these were not the kind of friends that I wanted in my life. So when the time to say goodbye to them came, I didn’t feel sad about it – a little glad perhaps.

But such events have left a mark in my life. I found that I can never look at people the same way – even those that I called friends. I’ve learnt that it was best to put an iron wall around my heart to prevent myself from being wounded by people.

It has never come down since.

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I was 16 when I began to hate myself. I hated myself for all the things that I was not, constantly wishing that I could be better. Why am I so useless? Why can’t I do more? Why can’t I be better? I remember thinking like that every day, feeling as though I’ve lost my worth as an entire person because of one thing that I couldn’t get right. With my pillows stained wet each night, I remember wanting to be free from all this pain.

And I didn’t care whether or not I could open my eyes the next day to see the new sunrise. I just wanted to be free from the pain, free from all my worldly expectations and pressure, Like glass, I could see the little cracks forming in my soul but there was nothing that I could do to mend the pieces  back together.

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Now at 18, I grew to have a sharp tongue and short fuse. My mother had just came home from work and she was reprimanding me for leaving the house in a mess – and I just snapped. We got into a heated argument over it and I just took off to my safe place. I ran and ran and ran, until my lungs can take no more and my legs broke down.

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And so, here I am.

Sitting here, it dawned upon me how much I have grown.

But yet, I didn’t grow in a way that I wanted myself to have grown.

When we were younger, we looked up at the adults around us and think to ourselves, I can’t wait to grow up. But growing up, it feels as though I’ve known sadness more than happiness, pain more than joy. Sure, there were still days where I felt like I was at the top of the world – but not enough to make me believe in the goodness of the world. I’ve grown up to become cynical and I fear that for the rest of my life, I’ll continue t