She stands there sat on the couch, shirtless with back turned to you, since she can’t even look in your eyes. Her back is full of bruises and scratches, waiting for you to clean her up. Her eyes are full of tears — you have never seen her cry, and she’s ashamed. She swallowed the lump on her throat, and started to talk with her weak, raspy voice.

“I don’t know if I’m a good person,” Ada spoke, a tear running down her cheek, she looks down. “I don’t want to lose you.” She finished, her voice quieter than before, pain all over her face and body. She flinched when the wet cloth touched her scratched back.