For two years, I took pride in walking the halls with my head held high no matter what the minions said or did to me. Today was too raw.
Too deviant.
Just too much.
The steel will I thought I had crumbled in a matter of minutes.
I always heard about people’s breaking points, but I was too delusional to think I didn’t have one.
I discovered the hard way that I do.
A breath leaves me as I step into my room.
My sanctuary.
I always joked with Aunt and Uncle, calling it my kingdom.
The decor is cosy with a mixture of pastel pink and black. I have my own library stacked with psychological and Chinese war books organised alphabetically. CD’s hang from the ceiling like a curtain separating my bed from my desk.
The wall across the bed has two huge posters of my favourite bands; Coldplay and Bastille.
I let my backpack drop on the floor and press play on my Ipad. Hipnotised by Coldplay fills the space.
Tears barge into my eyes as I strip from my soaked clothes and step into the bathroom.
My hand itches. The need to scrub the filth off it fills me with an obsessiveness.
I stop at the sink and wash, scrub and rub my hands together until they become bright red.
When I lift my eyes to the mirror, my lips part.
It’s me. The witchy, white-blonde hair. The baby blue eyes. But at the same time, it isn’t.
There’s a void in there.
A… numbness.
I’m about to move to the shower when something else stops me.
My scar.
Several angry red marks surround it. Did the psycho leave freaking hickeys around my scar?
What in the ever living hell was going on in his defective brain?
I rip my gaze away from the mirror and take the longest, most scalding shower in history.
When I step back into the room, the song has changed to Good Grief by Bastille. I let the music drift around me as I climb into bed, still in a towel, and close my eyes.
I fight the tears and lose.
I startle awake.
My hair sticks to the side of my face with sweat.
Heat smothers my body and my breasts tighten against the towel.
That’s not all.