I was only sixteen when everything fell apart. For as long as I could remember, home was a scary place. My stepdad was always angry, always watching. His hands were heavy, and his eyes had this look that made me feel like I was always in trouble, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong. My mum seemed lost in her own world, like she didn’t want to see what was happening. The bad stuff started small — just a push, a slap, or a whisper that made my stomach turn. But it didn’t stay small. It got worse, much worse.

He started coming into my room at night, doing things I didn’t want him doing, things that made me feel sick and scared. I felt trapped, too afraid to tell anyone. I didn’t think anyone would believe me, and I was terrified he’d hurt me even more if I tried to speak out. I kept everything inside, hoping somehow it would stop, but it never did.

Then one day, I reached a breaking point. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to tell someone, anyone, what was happening. But somehow, he sensed it. He saw the change in my eyes, saw the bit of courage I had found, and that’s when he got even angrier. I told him I was going to tell, and he lost it. He screamed at me, threw me out of the house, slammed the door so hard behind me that I thought it would shatter. My mum just stood there, silent, not saying a word, like she couldn’t even see me.

I ended up outside with nowhere to go. I walked for hours. It was freezing, and my breath was coming out in white clouds. I was scared, more scared than I had ever been. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I just kept moving, hoping maybe I’d wake up from this nightmare. Days blurred into weeks, and I wandered around, finding places to sleep wherever I could — under bridges, in doorways, anywhere that was out of sight. I had no money, no friends, no help. Just this feeling like I’d been thrown away and forgotten.

But staying in the same town wasn’t safe. I knew he would find me if I stayed too long. I tried asking people for money for a bus ticket, but they just ignored me, acted like I wasn’t even there. I got desperate. I couldn’t stay where I was; he’d come looking for me. I needed to get away.

One day, I saw a woman leave her handbag on a chair when she went to pay for her coffee. I knew it was wrong, but I was desperate. I grabbed it and ran. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst, but I didn’t look back. I didn’t feel like I had a choice. I just needed to get out of that town before he found me.

With the money I found in the bag, I bought a bus ticket to somewhere far away, a place I’d never been before. I didn’t know what would happen next, but at least I was moving, getting away from him. The whole time on the bus, I was shaking, scared someone would stop me, ask me where I got the money. But no one did. I just kept looking out the window, watching the world rush by, hoping I’d find a place where he couldn’t reach me.

I ended up in a new town, tired and scared but free. I was still homeless, still without money, but at least I wasn’t under his control anymore. The past still clung to me, like a shadow I couldn’t shake, but I kept moving. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew I had to keep going.

Eventually, I met someone else on the streets who seemed to know how to survive. They knew where to find food, where it was safe to stay warm, even a place to sleep — an old, abandoned building on the edge of town. For a little while, I thought maybe things might be getting better. We became friends, sharing our stories and what little we had. I started to feel a bit of hope again, just a little.

But that kindness came with a price. A few days later, I was told I had to pay back for all the help — for the food, the shelter. I was told their boyfriend had been looking out for us, and now he wanted something in return. I felt that familiar knot tighten in my stomach, a mix of fear and helplessness, but I didn’t know where else to go.

I was introduced to this boyfriend. He was a lot older, with cold eyes and a cruel smile. At first, he acted friendly, like he was doing us a favour. But it didn’t last. Soon, he started asking for things, saying I owed him. He wanted the same things my stepdad had. I was dirty, broken already. I was desperate. I just closed my eyes and let him have what he wanted. I felt like I didn’t have another option.

He said I had to earn my keep if I wanted to stay in the squat. He forced me out onto the streets, telling me I had to work like the other girls. Every day, I felt my spirit break a little more. I was scared all the time, humiliated every night. The person I thought was a friend was just another person trapping me. I felt like there was no way out.

But I refused to give up. One night, after he’d been drinking, I saw my chance. He was so drunk he wasn’t watching me carefully. I grabbed whatever I could — a few coins, my thin coat — and ran. I didn’t look back, just kept running until everything around me was new, until the streets looked different and the faces weren’t the same.

I ended up in another new town, tired and scared but free. I was still homeless, still without money, but at least I wasn’t under his control anymore. The past still clung to me like a shadow I couldn’t shake, but I kept moving. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew I had to keep going.

I had found a way out once, and I would do it again if I had to. I was still running, still fighting, and for now, that was enough. I wasn’t just a victim anymore. I was moving forward, little by little, trying to find a place where I could feel safe, where I could start over.