Oh god. Rory.
Did she get out? Did I save her? Why can’t I remember anything?
My sob is silent as I drop to my knees under the spray of the shower, the water hitting my spine, plastering my hair to my face. All my cuts stretch and pull as I move to sit under the spray, making me wince. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my mind, try to push back the images to let in some light. Rory was safe. She got out.
Valentine did this.
He fucking did this.
I wanted to hold his heart in my hand. To watch the life drain from him and I wanted to laugh and revel in it.
Everything up until this point has been a chain of events caused by him.
I wanted him to suffer.
The first thing I needed to do was get rid of this brand. It probably gives him joy to know that even if he doesn’t have me, he still owns me in this way. His claws are in my skin and the only way to remove him is to remove this.
Sucking in a deep breath, I swipe at my face, closing my eyes to calm myself once more before I wash away the memories and turn off the shower.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I pick up the bloodied gauzes I left on the floor and shove them in the trash can just outside the bathroom door before I shut it and lock it behind myself. The mirror is steamed up, my reflection a blur of color in front of me but I don’t need to see myself to do this.
I dry myself and stand there, on the cold tile floor in nothing, staring at the V carved right there into my thigh. It’s still raw, not even knitted together properly yet, barely a scab. I close my eyes, the memory of how he did it slowly coming back to me, how he restrained me to a chair and carved into me with a knife. I remember his face, the twisted smile on his face, the look of pure joy in his eyes as that knife cut into my skin. He reveled in my pain just like I was going to revel in his.
I run my fingers over the wound, the flesh soft and easily split as my nails scratch and disturb the dermis trying to grow over the top. I won’t let it scar this way. I’d rather have a huge messy scar than the V carved into my thigh.
Lifting Lex’s razor from the holder by the sink, I begin to pry the parts apart. First the handle, and then the casing that holds the blade in place. My fingers bleed from where the edge of the razor slices against my skin but I don’t stop until the small little blade sits in my hand.
I stare at it for a while, this gleaming silver blade in the palm of my hand, used for nothing else but to shave the hair on Lex’s face. But it’s sharp and it’ll do the job I need it to do.
In the time it has taken to dismantle the blade the mirror has cleared and I can see myself. I don’t recognize the person that stares back at me. My red hair is slicked back from my face, dripping wet from the shower and leaving pools of water on the tiles beneath my feet, there are dark shadows under my eyes, even my freckles are dull and faded as if them too have simply given up. I’m too skinny, the bones of my collar and ribs protruding too far out of my skin, and my hip bones are sharp.
I lift my foot and rest the heel against the marble counter, remembering how I sat on that very counter, with Lex standing between my legs whilst I tended tohiswounds. Swallowing, I line the blade against my thigh, but I don’t intend to slice. Slicing won’t get rid of the brand, I have to peel back this entire area to get rid of it. It’ll leave me with one hell of a scar but rather that than this.
I grit my teeth and push, feeling my skin, still too sensitive, the nerves alive and exposed, peel away. I push, tears pricking my eyes with the pain as I push from the top of the V all the way down to the bottom, leaving a line of exposed flesh, bleeding and raw about ten centimeters long. Blood trickles from the new wound but I don’t stop, I move to the next section, imbed the blade and push.
My teeth grit together, grinding inside my mouth loud enough to be heard.
Vaguely I am aware of a voice sounding through the door, a deep baritone that calls to me but I can’t stop now. If I stop, I wont restart.
“Wren!”
I continue still.
“Wren!” this time my name is accompanied by a loud thud, the door to the bathroom rattling as something heavy is rammed into it.
I continue.
“Wren, I swear to fucking god! Open this fucking door!”
I don’t.
I finish this line and move onto the next just as the door to the bathroom slams open, the wood finally succumbing to the wrath of Alexander Silver.
He stands in the threshold, sweaty, out of breath and fucking angry.
And I make that push with the blade, slicing through my flesh to rid myself of the brand.