As Your Skin Gives
ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist
Chapter Fourteen: two
cw: now is a good time to re-read the warnings about omitting tags on the masterlist before proceeding with this story. you are free to stop reading this chapter at any time.
Caged birds can't fly.
They can't run, either. Don't run. Won't run. Maybe you could have before the bars got thicker and Simon's grip grew colder, but now the chains go deeper than your wrists and ankles. It's inside of you. A weight heavy enough to bring you to your knees grows as you stumble to the floor, hand slapping against the counter to prevent you from collapsing completely.
You've seen what happens to songbirds who can't leave. Half bald, skin raw and bleeding, their once beautiful feathers stuck at their feet as their shrill cries pierce through the air. You forget that their bones are hollow until they begin to bash their skulls against the bars. Everything shatters. Marrow then matter squelching into one another until the crying stops.
Your fingers wrap around the first thing you can scramble to find on the counter—your pregnancy test. It's still positive no matter how many times you blink, or how many tears attempt to wash your vision clean. The thought crosses your mind to break it into pieces small enough to flush it down the toilet, but its destruction would be an obvious cover for the results that wouldn't fool Simon in the slightest. Yelling out about the results would have the same effect. You place it back on the counter and fight the urge to slam your forehead against the corner; little chained up songbird with a hole in her head who no longer wants to sing.
Outside the bathroom door you can hear Simon cleaning up your mess in the dining room. Johnny's mumbling something. It makes your skin crawl. You think of what they might say. What they might do to you. Your stomach churns again and you fear you might lose the remaining amount of food inside of you.
Each decision you make is out of your control. Your body moves before your mind even knows what's happening. A quiet click comes from the door as you lock it then scamper away from it as if hands might reach out from underneath it to grab you. Then, your search begins.
There is nothing underneath the sink. No bleach, shower cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner—you tell yourself that's for the best. A chemical death would be too slow. Too painful. There's so much that could be done to you before you'd die. That means shampoo and shower gel is off limits, too.
For a split moment, your eyes flicker to the bathtub. Filling it with water would take too long, though you've heard it doesn't take more than an inch or two to drown. Still, it would be too loud, and any attention from Simon right now is bad attention.
When you look at yourself in the mirror, you don't recognize the woman staring back at you. She's mangy. Red-eyed and rabid, you think of smashing it to pieces so you never have to look at the wretched collar around your throat ever again. Something clicks in your brain. You think of those pieces, beautiful shining shards scattered all over the counter and the floor like icy snow. The sound would be loud, but it wouldn't take you long to get the job done. A shard into your stomach or throat would have you gone before either of them would notice the blood seeping out from underneath the door.
Better yet, you could carve up your womb. Rip the problem out straight from the source, slice up whatever clump of cells resides in you—you refuse to bring anything into this world that might suffer the same fate as you. Locked up, woman turned dog, a bitch meant for fucking and nothing more.
The door shakes.
"Bonnie? Why's the fuckin' door locked?"
Your movements become more drastic. Wings flapping, hitting the bars, feathers flying as you look for anything sturdy enough to shatter the mirror. You could use your hand, but with one already broken you don't want to rob yourself of the ability to carry out your plan because your body is too weak. For countless weeks and months, you've been out of control, spiraling down in burning flames on a ship you have no governance over. You'll ensure your death is in your own hands.
"Open this fuckin' door."
You don't respond. Head whipping around the room, you search for anything heavy enough to throw against the mirror to shatter it but the only thing that catches your eyes are plastic bottles that would break before the glass would. Desperate, you lean against the counter with your elbow pointed out like a battering ram. You tell yourself it's better than using your hands. It'll be quick. It'll be over soon.
Simon's grumbling grows louder the moment your elbow first makes contact with the mirror. You ricochet right off, hand flying back towards your chest to the point of piercing your own heart. Whatever pain you expected doesn't come. There's only a numbness that settles over your arm, tingling, TV static soaking into your muscles and bones.
The bathroom door shakes with a violence that makes you squeak. Though you know you shouldn't, you look at it anyway. The frame is cracking. Hinges bending, as if there's a bull right outside waiting to pummel you the instant it gets a chance to.
Your elbow smashes against the mirror again. And again. Again. Between you and Simon, it sounds as if the world is crashing down around you. The sky falls on top of you. It mocks you. Little bird who never learned to fly now never will. Simon has stolen the one thing you thought could never be taken from anyone, yet as the door caves in, wood flying in a long arc, you realize gods usually do as they please.
Rigid leather collides against your throat as Simon yanks you back by your collar, sending you falling onto the floor. Cold tile smashes into your rear. The strangled yelp you let out is loud enough to hurt even your own ears. Simon stands over you with heavy brows and palms out in question. Behind him, you see the mirror. Cracks travel throughout the glass like untamed roads and trails in a forest, but it's not enough to shatter. Not enough for you to pick up the pieces.
"The fuck're you doing?" he demands.
You can't speak. You can only hold your throat and cough as the tears well up in your eyes, blurring the image of him turning around to look at the damage you've done. There's a change in his posture. Shoulders straighten, back goes rigid like a board, fingers curl as if there's iron between them and his palm. Your stomach drops. You think you might be sick.
"Get up, Bonnie," he says, voice terrifyingly tepid.
"Please," you choke out.
Simon doesn't give you enough time to beg. While his tone feels kind, his hands do not. Fingers curling into your wrist, he yanks you off of the floor and onto your feet. You keep your broken hand close to your chest as he drags you out of the bathroom and into the living room where he dumps you on the floor again.
A confused Johnny sits on the couch, eyes still glassy—a half-man still stuck in creation, body here but mind fractured beyond repair. You refuse to find comfort in him as Simon marches off somewhere into the house. Pain shoots through your hip when you attempt to stand, keeping you chained to the floor as you ignore Johnny's questions.
You're not sure what to do. What he'll do. You think back to how adamant he was that Johnny not do anything with you until you were on birth control, and how carefully he made sure you took your pills each night at the same time. No mistakes. Uncannily paying attention to detail. What will happen now that your very existence is a mistake?
When Simon returns, he has his hunting rifle in hand. You're not sure how to describe the feeling that overwhelms you at the sight of him towering in the doorway with that gun resting peacefully in his palm. Panic doesn't seem strong enough. It rips you from each limb, searing you from the inside out, crawling up your stomach and out your mouth until you're choking on it. Grief. For your own death. For the life you never got to live. For everything you always wanted to do but never could.
You think of where he might dump you. Alone in the forest, flesh left to feed the creatures. Bugs in your skin, skeleton becoming a home for a creature too small to know or care about such violence. Would anyone ever find you? Would your mom be able to hold you one last time?
"What's going on?" It's the first question Johnny asks that actually makes sense in your mind. He doesn't move from the couch. There's something about the tone of his voice that's still too faded—like he still hasn't found his way back home.
"Gonna take care of Bonnie," Simon explains. He's talking about a dog. A cat. Some sort of pet worth nothing more than flippant conversation.
"Take… care of her?" Johnny sounds so innocent. Almost as if he believes Simon at face value. But there is something more behind his words that leave Simon's muscles twitching and the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end.
In a desperate attempt to buy yourself some time, you twist around, body dragging across the floor until you've reached Johnny's legs. "I'm pregnant."
All he can do is stare and blink at you. Disbelief clouds his eyes as he glances back and forth between you and Simon, like he's not sure who to believe.
"C'mon, Bonnie," Simon urges. He's trying to take you away. Away from Johnny. Away from this house. Away from everything.
That's what you wanted, isn't it? Who cares what hand it's by?
It's impossible not to recoil when Simon begins to march toward you. You're not sure where his temper is at yet, but his eyes only seem to darken as he stares down at you.
"I'll take the pills," you plead. "The other ones. To get rid of it. I'll take them and I won't fuss, I promise."
"I'm gonna be a dad?"
It's like he's not even listening to you. Johnny slides off the couch onto the floor next to you, knees bumping against you as he takes your hands into his. He's kissing the tips of your fingers and your sore, broken knuckles. This news is shock therapy to him, throwing him into more of a lucid state than you've seen him since that incident by the stream.
"I-I can't." You want to rip your hands away from him but you can't find the strength.
"Don't say that. You'll make such a good mum, I know you will," Johnny attempts to rationalize. He looks up at Simon, eyes glimmering. "I can't believe I'm gonna be a dad."
As Johnny pulls you into his chest, you follow his gaze up to Simon who continues to look down at the two of you curled up on the floor together like lovers caught in the midst of night. You pray he takes your offer. Your adamant plea to not let nature take its course and for him to finally show you mercy for once.
Though his lips grow more firm, Simon's grip on the rifle grows limp until he's dropping it to lean it against the wall. Relief floods through you until he nods.
"Congrats, Johnny."
The earth splits open beneath you but it doesn't consume you. It leaves you dangling in Johnny's arms, feet swinging helplessly in the air as you're confronted with your only two choices—hang or plummet.
Your face contorts. Fractures spread across your skin until you're bleeding nothing but brine. Everything stings. You are an open wound.
"No. No, no, no. I can't. I can't! I can't!"
Your voice builds with each syllable you spew out, spit flying out of your mouth and into Johnny's chest until you gather the strength to wiggle away from him.
"I can't! I won't! I can't! I can't!"
It's your new mantra. The only phrase you can speak. You repeat it like a broken record that no one bothers to fix. They just listen to the record skip until the scratch is permanent—damage irreversible.
Simon grabs you by your arm and drags you to your feet when your wailing starts to trouble Johnny. Even then you don't stop. You sob. You scream until your throat hurts. He drags you out of the room, down the hallway, and into the bedroom where you're put where all bad girls go. Soft pillows, cold blankets, and a cage padlocked so you can't leave.
With the door shut behind him, Simon leaves you to throw your tantrum in solitude. Legs kicking, limbs flailing, heels digging into the base of the kennel until you're covered in sweat and your voice has no more strength to scream. The tears don't stop for some time after that. A broken faucet. A laceration that cannot be mended.
For what feels like years you lay in that kennel; unmoving. You're not sure what your body does. You don't know what you think or what you feel, or even if you manage to sleep the pain away. All you know is that you do not have the energy to lift your head when Simon opens the bedroom door some time later.
He crosses into your field of view with a plate in his hands. It's impossible to read his expression even as he kneels to unlock the kennel door to set what looks like another attempt at getting you to eat dinner down on the ground.
"Please. Just give me the pills," you beg, voice raw.
Simon locks the door again. "No."
"We both know you don't want this," you rationalize. "Another mouth to feed. Another pet to take care of. We can just pretend it's a miscarriage and Johnny won't know the difference."
As Simon stands to leave, he looks down at you as if he's considering your proposal. In an attempt to meet him halfway you sit up, eyes intense and red as you await his answer.
The only response you get is a curt shake of his head and a gesture towards your dinner plate. "Don't wait for it to get cold. You're eating for two now, Bonnie."
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