The sun greets Isra with its radiant beams, threading its rays through her auburn hair. A few strands fall out of her loose plait, fluttering as though it were dancing upon the sudden gust of wind. Isra shivers, desperately embracing herself for warmth, and at the same time, for closure. Be strong, Isra, she assures herself, don’t give up. Another gale of wind rushes at her. Tiptoeing, she extends her grasp to the window handles, slamming it firmly shut.

The crisp autumn air lingers in the attic. Isra can't help but take cover inside her blanket, though it is as thin as a wedding veil. Moments later, she crawls out of her sanctuary, still frigid. She fixes her gaze outside the window. The skies are a brilliant, blazing crimson, just like the blood trickling down her arms. For a moment there, she forgets everything else, and simply stares at the soaring falcons out in the open, confident and free. But soon, a metallic smell, almost suffocating, overwhelms her. Her nose wrinkles up in revolt, and Isra doesn't have to glance at her arm to realise that there’s a wound — she knows full well how she got that. As she leans on one side to sit up straight, a burning pain shoots up her arm. She hunches over — it is unbearable. It reminds her of her dreadful nightmare, one which has yet to end.

Her face contorts into a grimace. Her nightmare is perpetual. Curled up into a protective ball, she wonders if every life on earth is as tormenting as hers. Her gaze hovers over the window once again. She can imagine herself standing proudly on the windowsill, taking one tiny yet huge step towards freedom — if only she had enough courage to actually jump.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Isra narrows her olive eyes into a glare, eyebrows furrowing into a deep frown as she hears the footsteps pounding on the staircase. Her tiny feet are glued to the ground. She shudders. She’ll have to relive her nightmare. Again.

The door swings open with a deafening bang — Isra’s scrawny hands fly to her ears. A man enters, advancing slowly, a knife in his grasp. At the very sight of him, Isra stumbles backwards, terribly frightened. But it is not his presence that unnerves Isra — it’s his expression. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, leading into a dark grin. His pupils dilated, an eerie hollowness which seems to eviscerate the hope out of Isra. And the knife in his clasp.

Moving with unnatural grace, the man approaches Isra. He plays around with the blade, twirling it around his fingers as though it is a child’s game, then comes to a halt. Staring at Isra from top to bottom, he sniffs for the scent of blood. His eyes are an icy maya blue which pierces through Isra’s skin, as if he is looking directly inside Isra — perhaps at her thumping heart. Isra backs further into the corner, and trips on her over-sized trousers. She breaks the fall with her feeble arms, pain jolting through her wrists. Then she's up again, running, escaping from the venomous clutches of her stepfather. But she knows she can't hide forever.

The man’s face splits into a crooked grin, knowing there is nothing Isra can do to change what will happen. What is happening. All of a sudden, he lunges forward, the tip of his knife just barely slicing Isra's skin. She gasps, clenching her thighs. A magnificent fountain of blood spurts out, forming a pool on the floor. He chuckles. A high-pitched, lunatical cackle. He towers over her, his lips quivering in deranged excitement as he licks the blood-stained blade. Isra groans in misery — she knows the worst has yet to come.

“Now, don’t be afraid, honey. I’ll take care of you all right,” the man raises the knife high up above his head. “I know you’re already hurting, so this time, I’ll go easy on you.” He pauses, a sickly smirk carving its way onto his face. “It’ll just be a clean cut. Absolutely no pain.”

Instantly, Isra realises what he means. This time, she’s not going to get away with just a few bruises. Or cuts. She’s not going to get away at all.

Her forlorn eyes dance clandestinely around the attic, searching for something, anything at all, that can save her life. But there is nothing.
Just when her future starts to seem bleak, the man loses his footing. His grapple on the knife loosens. The sunlight gleams through the gap in his fingers and bounces off the metal, blinding Isra. She squints at the knife — now, this is the one thing she forgot to consider capable of saving her life.
Wincing as she leaps towards the man on her injured thigh, she snatches it away. It glints dangerously in her hand, as if urging her to do what is in her mind — or rather, what has always been on her mind. Without any hesitation, she swiftly plunges the knife into her stepfather’s chest. She twists the knife, hard, and he topples over with a confounded expression.

He had never expected this day to arrive — the very day when his little caged bird breaks free out of his prison. Quiet as the rising sun, he collapses onto the damp wooden floor. And silence fills the blood-spattered attic.

Isra remains motionless for some time before she recovers from the shocking truth. No longer is she confined by the madman. A single stream of sunlight shines at her face, as though celebrating her long-awaited freedom. Roughly, she wipes her tears and blood stains away. She heads towards the window, tall and proud. The sky is now a warm amber, cosy and welcoming. She climbs up onto the ledge. Then jumps.

She smiles as a refreshing wave of wind slams into her face. Flinging her arms wide, she dives through the air like a soaring falcon. Somewhere in the distance, she can make out a melody. A soothing melody which calms her mind.

Closing her eyes, Isra hums along. Then she greets freedom in a soft, singsong voice, "Hello."