Does he know not to talk about your dad?
Does he know when you're sad?
You don't like to be touched, let alone kissed
Does he know where your lips begin?
But now, things were different. She took baths more often now, but she never enjoyed them. There were no bubbles, or boats, or singing or laughing. There was nothing but the eerie sound of the dripping faucet and the emptiness she felt inside. Even now, all of the happy memories she seemed to have disappeared from her mind completely.
Instead, she sat in silence, curled up into a ball with her knees against her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her head was leaned down, resting her chin atop her red knees. Somehow, sitting there hugging herself gave her a sense of security. And maybe for a moment, she could fool herself into thinking she was safe this way. But only for a moment.
All sense of time was lost on nights like this. It was dark out when she first locked herself in the bathroom, but already she could see the sky outside was beginning to lighten. She'd been sitting there for hours, most likely. The water that was once scolding hot had now gone cold, but Violet didn't seem to notice.
Every inch of her skin was bright red and raw. She'd spent what seemed like forever frantically scrubbing at her skin but no matter how hard she tried, she still felt dirty. So she scrubbed harder, and harder, and harder, hoping that maybe, if she worked at it longer, and rougher, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach would go away.
Nothing helped. She could still feel her father's rough, clammy hands against her innocent flesh. She could still feel his hot, heavy breath against her neck. She could still feel his tight grip on her thin arms, thighs, hips...Even if she didn't have the fresh, red bruises as proof, she would still feel it. She would always feel it. It was a permanent part of her now, left to forever weigh heavily on her soul.
Yet somehow, after everything that had happened, she still didn't blame her father. She didn't hate him for what he did to her. She had convinced herself that the man who she lived with wasn't her father. He wasn't the man she once knew. He was someone else. Someone who was hurting and just needed to take out his anger and frustrations and pain the only way he knew how. And when it really came down to it, it wasn't his fault for what happened. It was hers. It was Violet's fault. That's what he had told her, anyway. And that was what she believed.
But the fact that she didn't blame him didn't mean she wasn't afraid of him. Every day she lived in fear of what would happen. Every night was nearly the same. She would be alone, sitting in silence and suddenly, she would hear the sound of heavy, stumbling footsteps through the house, followed by a stream of loud curses. And every night she curled up under the covers of her bed and shut her eyes tightly, hoping that maybe it would be different, and instead of her drunken father stumbling into her room, he'd go on to his own and let her be. But that was never the case. Not all nights were bad, though. Sometimes he would just come in and yell at her for only a moment before leaving. But most of the time, it was a lot worse.
Tonight was a bad night.
After laying in bed for what felt like forever, Violet had just began to drift off into sleep. Whether it was nightmares or peaceful dreams that would await her, she was unsure. Though she always hoped for the latter. For a moment, everything was peaceful. For a moment, everything was okay.
But the loud slamming of the front door caused the girl to snap out of her false reality, her eyes snapping open. Her lips pursed together as her hands gripped tightly at her covers, pulling herself into a more compacted fetal position. She tried to block out the sound of her father's distant voice, covering her face with her pillow, her eyes shutting tightly again. She tried to imagine that she was somewhere else. Like maybe if she thought hard enough, she could open her eyes again and she would be somewhere safe. But as she did, she found she was still alone in her dark room, her father's slurred profanities growing louder. Her teeth dug into the insides of her cheek so roughly that she could taste blood in her mouth.
Within a moment, Violet could see a beam of light from the hallway land on her wall, but she didn't dare turn around. She could never look her father in the eyes when he was like this. It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger.
"Violet," She heard his husky slurred voice call her name, but she didn't dare turn away from the wall. She could hear him, feel him coming closer, until she felt his hand press against the mattress next to her, forcing it downwards with his weight. "Violet," He repeated again, his voice louder this time. He reached forward, his large hand grabbing her shoulder and pulling her onto her back so she had no choice but to face him.
There was terror in her eyes, but the man didn't seem to notice. His hand slinked down the soft skin of her arm, his eyes roaming her body. She looked away, not wanting to catch a glimpse of the cold, hungry look in his eyes. It was the kind of look that tied her stomach up in knots and made her feel nauseous. The kind of look that made her feel more vulnerable than she already was. That kind of look that made her loathe herself.
"You're not as pretty as your mother used to be," A reminiscent sigh escaped the man's lips as he brushed his thumb against her cheek, tucking her own hair behind her ear. It would be a loving gesture if it was done by anyone else at any other time, but the situation and the words he spoke made Violet want to cringe, even with the growing guilt inside of her.
Even after what he had just said to her, he still crashed her lips down on top of hers. He tasted of alcohol and cigarette ashes, and his tongue felt vile in her mouth, like a fat slug that was trying to crawl down her throat. Immediately, Violet's head turned to the side to avoid it, but her actions resulted only in further punishment. His hand collided with her face, causing a yelp to escape her lips. Her face still stung as he pulled his hand away and though she tried her best to fight it, she could still feel the tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, darling," He said, taking her face into his hands and forcing eye contact. "Don't cry, I don't want to hurt you. Don't make me hurt you." Like he was actually concerned. But he was right. Of course he was right. Violet knew that. She knew better.
Violet knew better than to say anything else. She knew better than to cry or protest or try to fight back. She'd learned the hard way what would happen if she did that. If she tried to stop him, he would strike her across the face again. And in Violet's mind, that was the worst thing that could happen. Bruises or marks on her face would be harder to cover up, and Violet would rather deal with her own father's body pinning her down than deal with anyone finding out about what went on behind closed doors in the Brooks household.
There was nothing she could do but lay there and try to think of something else until he was finished with her; to try and distract herself from the heaviness that weighed on her conscience as his rough hands roamed her body, gripping and clawing at her skin. Her head turned to the side, and her eyes landed on a stuffed giraffe that sat on top of one of her shelves. If she could just focus on that for a little while, maybe she could forget the feeling of a heavy body pressing her down against her mattress. If she could just focus all of her attention and thought on that one little giraffe, maybe she could block out the sounds of her squeaking bed and her father's low, heavy grunts. She must not have been trying hard enough, because all that came to her was a reminder of the innocence that was stolen from her; the innocence she'd never get back.
Soon enough, it was all over. It didn't last long, but to Violet it still felt like ages. It always felt like that. As soon as he had finished what he started, he rolled away from her and got to his feet, having the indecency to kiss her forehead and whisper an "I love you" before stumbling out of her room, leaving Violet alone again.
For a moment she laid still in the darkness, unable to let what had just occurred sink in fully. He had been rough with her, leaving her entire body sore and aching after he left. Slowly, she rolled back onto her side and curled up into a ball under her covers. And then, after she was sure her father was asleep in his own room or on the couch, she began to cry. Slowly, her tears built up and before long, violent sobs wracked her whole body. Every movement hurt, but it would have hurt more to keep all of her tears inside. She clasped her hand tightly over her mouth to stop herself from making any sound to possibly wake her dad up again.
It was times like this that she needed her mother the most. Or just someone. Someone to rub her head and hold her and tell her that everything was going to be okay. But how could she expect someone to care for her when her own father didn't? How could she expect someone to love her when she couldn't even love herself? She had no one. She had no more family. Her father died the day her mother did, leaving a stranger in his place.
Eventually, her tears ceased. It felt good to cry, but now that she was all cried out, she just felt empty again. This was the part she hated the most. Where she was left alone with her own thoughts and feelings of self-hatred. She didn't like to think about her feelings. She didn't like to be alone with her own thoughts. She didn't like being trapped in her own mind. Because she always found a way to blame herself for everything. And she didn't think she could ever find a way to forgive herself.
Tonight was a bad night.
After what seemed like ages longer, Violet finally pulled herself up out of the bathtub, pulling the plug to let the water drain. Her body was stiff and her movements were limited. Every move she made sent an aching pain throughout her entire body. It felt like every inch of her skin was bruised and the fact she had scrubbed nearly her entire body raw only made the pain worse. She stood for a moment on the tile floor, letting the water drip from her body to form a small puddle at her feet. Turning slowly, she faced the full-body mirror that sat on the wall despite the pounding of her heart and the fear of what she would see there.
For the first time in ages, Violet stared at her naked body in the mirror. She wanted to flinch and cry at her own reflection. She wanted to scream. But she couldn't. Instead of feeling any emotion whatsoever, it was almost like she was just a shell of a person. All hollow with nothing inside. Every bruise that decorated her body told a different story, holding a different painful memory; to be kept a secret from the rest of the world forever.
Her lips parted slightly as she stared at herself. First, her eyes scanned her own face. She looked so tired. There were dark circles under her eyes due to her lack of sleep, and her eyes were still puffy and red from her crying earlier. She looked so much older than she was. Her face seemed dull and lifeless, and a bruise had already begun to form on her cheek where her father struck her. Slowly, she brushed her fingertips against it, flinching slightly. At least it was small; something she could easily cover up with a bit of make up.
Slowly her gaze lowered and she started to examine her entire body. Both old and fresh bruises alike were scattered around her body. Her arms, her chest, her sides, her hips, her thighs, everywhere. She could remember vividly how she got each one; each one planting an old, painful memory back into her mind.
Eventually, her gaze focused on a series of old, pink scars that decorated her thighs. The ones she'd put there herself with a razor blade. The thought of what she did to herself made her sick to her stomach but it was something she felt she had no choice but to turn to some days. When things got really bad and she needed a distraction, the pain she could inflict on herself did the job. It had been nearly two months since she'd last harmed herself and for that, she was proud. The little victories like that were part of what kept her going. Still, the evidence remained.
Hideous, she thought as she looked at herself, and disgusting. She'd thought she was beautiful at one time. Her mother had always told her so. But now? What her father had done to her and what she had done to herself made her ugly and in her mind, she would never be pretty. She would never be beautiful. Her father was right about everything. She wasn't as beautiful as her mother was. And she never would be.
She had only been staring at her own reflection a short while, and already she'd had enough. No one person should ever be filled with as much self-hatred as Violet was, yet there she stood, the sight of her own body making her sick to her stomach. She clenched her eyes tightly, slowly turning away. Carefully, she wrapped a towel around her body and left the bathroom as quietly as she could, taking precaution as to not wake her father up.
Once in her room again, she struggled to dry herself without causing any extra pain for herself. She changed into her pajamas before slowly climbing back into bed. Even as she surrounded herself in her thick covers, she still felt cold. Her fingers found the soft fabric of a stuffed animal on her bed and she instinctively hugged it closer to herself. Though she curled herself up into a ball, the position didn't make her feel as safe as she thought it would. Though she had easily almost fallen asleep before, it had escaped her. It was like grasping at handfuls of sand; no matter how tightly she tried to hold onto it, it still slipped through her fingers.
Her eyes were droopy and she was exhausted, but now too many thoughts filled her head and she was unable to escape them. Her mind ran wild. Despite her greatest efforts, sleeping was impossible. Instead, she laid there motionlessly, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. But this wasn't new to her. In a couple of hours, she'd show up for work and put on a smile like she always did. She would be pleasant and cheerful, and laugh and make jokes like she did every day. And no one would suspect a thing. No one ever suspected a thing. And if she did her job right, no one ever would.
germansingergirl
stormborns
kianamaiart
2087
pixelskylines
areudirty
