I Never Thought It Would Come to This — One Cracked Rib, a Pool of Blood, and Silence Louder Than Screams in Our House in Quezon City

It started with a fight — like so many before.

My sister, Alexa, had always been the golden child. Maganda, sikat, palakaibigan — she always knew how to charm her way into getting what she wanted.

Me? I was the one who “needed to try harder,” the one who was told “masyadong emosyonal,” and whose voice was always “masyadong maingay.”

That night, it started over something stupid — a missing charger, I think. I told her to stop getting my things without asking.

She rolled her eyes and said,

“Ang kontrolado mo naman. Wala namang may pake sa gamit mong walang kwenta.”

Something inside me snapped. I grabbed her phone, threw it onto the bed, and told her to get out of my room.

Next thing I knew, she shoved me — hard.
I stumbled back, hit the corner of my desk, and felt something crack.

My breath hitched. Then came the sharp, stabbing pain in my side. I looked down — blood. Thin red lines ran down my skin where it had split open.

With shaking hands, I reached for my phone, dialing 911 through gritted teeth.

But before the call connected, Mama barged into the room and snatched the phone from my hand.

“Ano ‘tong ginagawa mo?!” I gasped.

“Anong kabaliwan ‘to?” she hissed.
“Tadyang lang ‘yan! Sisirain mo buhay ng kapatid mo dahil lang sa ganito?”

“Sinira niya ang tadyang ko!” I cried, barely able to speak through the pain.

“Hindi niya sinasadya. Ikaw naman ang laging nangungulit sa kanya,” Mama shot back.

Then Papa walked in, arms crossed, annoyed as always.

“Grabe ka, drama queen ka talaga. Lagi ka nalang nagpapapansin.”

I stood there, bleeding, in pain, and completely stunned.
They looked at me like I was the villain.

And there was Alexa, standing at the doorway of our Tandang Sora home — untouched, smug, and silent.
No guilt. No fear. Just entitlement.

That night, I knew…
I was utterly alone.

No Hospital. No Help. Just Pain and a Pillow Soaked in Tears

I cleaned myself up the best I could. I wasn’t allowed to go to the hospital.
I couldn’t sleep — every breath felt like knives in my chest.

But even that pain couldn’t compare to the realization in my heart:

They didn’t care. They never did.

I Went Silent. And Then I Made a Plan.

The next day, I didn’t speak.
Not to them. Not to Alexa. Not to anyone.

I went to school in Cubao with dark circles under my eyes and bruises hidden under my blouse.
No one asked.

Not my teachers. Not even my so-called “best friend.”
They’d given up on me too.

That weekend, I spent hours sitting inside the library, pretending to read.
But I wasn’t studying.
I was planning.

Not the kind of plan that makes headlines.
No ambulances. No drama.
Just escape.

The Shelter in Sampaloc Saved Me

Monday came.
Instead of going home, I took a jeepney to Sampaloc, straight to a women’s shelter I found online.

It was small, quiet, and smelled like bleach and sadness. But it was safe.

The woman at the front desk looked me in the eye and saw me — not a burden, not a liar — just… a person.

I told them everything.
The fights. The bruises.
The gaslighting. The silence.
How I was always the “overreacting” one.

They took photos of my bruises. They wrote everything down.

For the first time,
Someone believed me.

That night, I shared a small room with three other girls.
We didn’t talk much — but the silence was different.
It wasn’t violent.
It was healing.

Three Days Later, They Noticed I Was Gone

My parents didn’t call right away.
They were used to me going quiet. They thought it was another one of my “episodes.”

But when the school called, asking why no one was picking me up…
When they realized I hadn’t packed clothes — just my sketchpad and passport…

They panicked.

Their messages came one by one:

“Umuwi ka na. Pag-usapan natin.”
“Ang arte mo. Pinapalala mo lang.”
“Pag ‘di ka bumalik, kami pa tatawag ng pulis.”

But they never called the police.

Because they weren’t worried for me.
They were scared of me — scared of what I might say.

And they were right to be scared.

Justice Begins in Silence

The shelter connected me to a legal aid clinic.
A social worker helped me file a formal complaint.
We documented everything.

Then a counselor from my school came to see me.
She looked stunned.

“You always seemed so composed,” she said.

“That’s what survival looks like,” I replied.
“Quiet. Controlled. Practiced.”

Two Weeks Later… CPS Knocked on Their Door in Quezon City

The backlash was worse than I imagined.

Mama left me seven voicemails in a row.
First angry.
Then begging.
Then cold as ice.

But I didn’t answer.
Not anymore.

Because this time,
I wasn’t going back.

Not to a house that let me bleed and told me it was my fault